Let’s face it—he’s old.
His howl no longer carries through the forest.
His attempts at banging on tree trunks with rocks
only results in nagging injuries.
He’s losing his hair,
and it’s not a good look.
He’s tried to compensate—
a makeshift megaphone for the howl,
patches of moss to mask the hair loss—
but it’s not fooling anyone.
He can’t even shuffle out of sight fast enough
not to be seen.
It’s kind of sad, really.
The paintings on his den wall show a much younger cryptid
enjoying the private pleasures of rural life.
Tree bark makes him constipated.
His teeth are falling out.
He’s old, and he knows it.
But he’s still a Sasquatch, a Big Foot, a Bog Monster—
whatever the hell they want to call him.
He’s still something of a prize to the eye of a camera lens,
or as a lead character of a story told around the campfire.
He still has more mystery in his ingrown toenail
than any deep woods tourist or monster hunting fool.
After all, they’re still chasing after him—
hoping to catch a glimpse,
hoping for a story to tell—
while he’s long past the point of caring.
—Kurt Newton tries to find the humor in everything, even in growing old… and finding hair in places where hair ought not to be. More of his humorous pieces can be found at Intrinsick, Crooked Holster, and Empty Sink Publishing.