All That Time, I Thought a Pterosaur Was Stalking Me

Unraveling a mystery that had been plaguing me for years

When I moved to Texas in the summer of 2017, there were many things I was not adequately prepared for.

• Heat that makes the surface of the sun seem refreshing.

• Snakes. So many snakes. All the snakes.

• Ted Cruz as my actual senator, not just some goon I’d make fun of on TV.

  
  

But one thing blew these right out of the water —

The prehistoric creature that roamed the greenbelt of my suburban neighborhood, making a chilling sound that reverberated off the stucco homes, filling my eardrums with hair-raising terror.

What in Ted Cruz’s Cancun-bound suitcase am I referring to, you ask?

For years, I didn’t know.

I remember the first time I heard it. I was taking my kids to the neighborhood park and stopped dead in my tracks and grabbed their tiny arms.

What in the Texas wildlife book is that? I wondered, scared to take another step.

My kids were completely oblivious.

Was I imagining it? Was I entering the final stages of heat exhaustion? Or was it just another case of dinosaur hallucinations? Fantastic.

I whipped out my phone and googled “birds of prey, central Texas.”

We have about 30 different kinds of hawks, owls, vulture things, falcons galore, and buzzards.

None of those creatures should be capable of making a Jurassic Park call to death.

I looked around to see if anyone else noticed, but there wasn’t anyone else around because it was an August afternoon. I was the only one dumb enough to be outside.

Maybe this was all part of the grand plan to pluck off heat-ignorant fools from California.

I could picture the conversation —

“Alright, Beasly, when them damn liberal Californians come out after lunch, we’ll sick Bubba on them.”

But what the fuck is Bubba??! What creature makes that kind of sound?

For months, I’d hear the hungry roars of the mysterious creature. Every time I walked down my street, it screeched. Was it stalking me? How many of these creatures were there?

Did it hunt alone?

I dragged my husband to make sure I wasn’t crazy. He heard it too, but insisted it was just some sort of bird of prey.

A bird that could eat a semi-truck, but who’s worried?

And then, one day, the mystery came to a strange conclusion, as most mysteries do.

I was walking home from the mailbox (in Texas, mailboxes are conveniently located 1/3 of a mile from your home), and I heard a man call something to me from his garage.

I got closer: “Ma’am, do you want to come into my garage to meet my parrot, Bob?”

Smart people who’ve watched just one Dateline in their lives: “No, thank you, sir, I have to go paint my nails.”

Me, who’s seen dozens upon dozens of Datelines. “Do I ever?!”

As I approached, I saw a cage in the corner of his garage.

Inside the large contraption was a partially feathered creature pacing back and forth. The thing looked up, locked eyes with me, and let out the sound.

Son of a cockatoo! It was Bob all along!

Bob was the fearsome velociraptor I was convinced was stalking me every day. He was the pack of rabid chupacabras my neighbors were planning to release on me. He was there, terrifying Pterosaur, ready to swoop down and pluck my children from the ground.

This whole time, I was being stalked by a pathetic-looking bird who was missing 60% of his feathers. Well played, Bob, well played.

As I approached Bob on that fateful day, I’m pretty sure he called me a cunt.

I looked into his beady eyes and whispered, “Right back at you, Bob.”

His proud owner started to rattle off 50 fun facts about Bob.

Bob is 23. The man was 65. Bob will outlive him by decades. Fuck that.

Bob is a rescue Macaw. His previous owners gave him up because he was too noisy. Ya think?

Bob is afraid of children and fish. Bob prefers men to women. I see you, Bob.

Bob has a mild case of anxiety that causes him to pluck his feathers. What the hell does a parrot with severe anxiety look like?

Bob prefers to eat out of someone’s hands but gets nippy. Fuck you, Bob.

Bob doesn’t like green food. He and my kids both.

Bob once got out and attacked someone’s teacup poodle. What I’d give to have witnessed that scuffle.

Bob once ate a plate of nachos and had a case of parrot diarrhea for weeks. Vet bills for parrots are more expensive than college.

Bob likes to come out on Halloween. Dressed as a serial killer, I presume.

Bob’s favorite music is Bossanova. Shall we consider something more calming?

Bob’s favorite show is Alf. He and that alien dude both both have a taste for cats.

Bob gets ornery if he doesn’t get enough sleep or sunlight. Shall we consider moving him out of the garage?

Bob likes his meat raw. I bet he does.

I was delighted to make Bob’s acquaintance — and finally, rest easy each time I heard that fucker squawk.

And yes, I still hear him all the GD time. I hear him from my home. I hear him from the park. I hear him at the mailbox. I hear him from inside Target. I once heard him in Oklahoma.

But I am no longer afraid. Actually, I am terrified. Bob is a dick, but I could totally take him on.

See you around, Bob.