It was somewhere between 10:30 and 10:45 p.m. when my dog Daisy and I exited the front door of the parsonage for some relief—hers, not mine—before retiring for the evening. Had I known what awaited us, I would have checked the time more precisely, and I certainly would have brought my cell phone, but, alas, one does not expect a terrifying near-death experience when making a routine evening visit to one’s front lawn on Clifton Road.
Everything seemed normal enough. A helicopter hovered above the hospital; a siren wailed nearby; Daisy sniffed the air. Then it happened.
A horrible inhuman screeching noise arose from the trees and bushes that stand between our home and the Bryants next door. Daisy stiffened; a chill ran down my spine. Then, again, the guttural wailing, followed by a rustling in the bushes. Daisy barked and heroically stepped forward. Another cry, and Daisy retreated to what she foolishly thought was safety between my feet. Kathy stepped outside; she had heard it, too (Ask her!). Then the bushes rattled intensely, and Daisy and I came to the simultaneous conclusion (When you live together for a long time, it’s remarkable how yourself sharing thoughts, a topic for a separate essay, perhaps) that the unknown creature was about to charge from the bushes. And that’s when the two of us decided, again simultaneously interestingly, to shove Kathy out of our way (for her sake) and go inside.
I never saw it, the thing that wailed. In the safety of our home, Daisy and I panted and discussed the horror we had escaped. She suggested I do some research.
We’ve heard screech owls near our house before, and the sound we heard that night, I learned, was similar to the noise a screech owl makes when agitated, say, by a small dachshund-mix canine and her clearly fit and intimidating human companion. Later, I talked to my neighbor Mike Bryant about the encounter, and he agreed an owl might make sense.
But, honestly, Mike agreed a bit TOO quickly, if you ask me. Maybe he was being polite toward his preacher, who clearly knows nothing about owls … or maybe they had gotten to him. You know, “They.”
Because, by then, the truth was coming clear. That sound was too terrifying to be an owl, and its charge through the bushes too threatening (Daisy still has nightmares). Whatever it was moved and screeched like an angry cat, but it had to weigh 40 pounds if an ounce; and the dragging sound (did I mention the dragging sound?) implied a very heavy tail, more serpentine than feline.
That’s when it all came together for me.
Daisy and I had narrowly escaped a mutant Lizard-Cat. Of course.
Think about it. We live a block from a major research university. There was a helicopter and sirens—remember? The powers-that-be were in a panic because a 47-pound mutant lizard-cat had escaped from an Emory University lab and was on the loose in Druid Hills.
And it still is.
But don’t take my word for it. Call Emory yourself. If you ask for the Department of Cloning and Mutation, they’ll pause suspiciously, then say, “What?” Call back and ask directly about the Lizard-Cat Project, and they’ll chuckle(!) and conveniently ask if you’re joking. Call 17 times, and they’ll threaten a restraining order and encourage a psychological evaluation, which is exactly what you’d expect a major wealthy established institution to do, especially concerning their secret project that was obviously funded by the government and/or Microsoft.
So, when one of these furry-scaled hisspurring things decides to nest in your storage shed, or the squirrels start disappearing from your backyard, or your dog sprints into your house with a terrified look on his face, remember you heard this from me, not the mainstream media. Lizard-Cats are real. Trust me; I’m ordained.*
Courageously speaking truth as I consider a run for office,
Mark Westmoreland,
Senior Pastor
*A disclaimer necessary in 2021: This is satirical fiction, except for the truly terrifying encounter Daisy and I had in our front yard. And it really did sound like what I imagine a mutant lizard-cat would sound like.