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Post details: The Orange Vermont Werewolf

The Orange Vermont Werewolf

If you ever hike in Vermont and if you are prone to luck, you may catch a glimpse of a fleeting patch of orange peeking here and there between the trees. You rub your eyes and refocus. Your nostrils bestir. Is this some sort of mirage, a visual delusion incurred by excessive peering into the woods. Well, not really, the chances are that you have just crossed the path of one of the most elusive creatures on the surface of this Earth - the Orange Vermont Werewolf.

The beast looks like a normal garden variety wolf, except for a large orange spot on its back. It is known to eat grubs, gophers, wild boars, beavers, humans and occasionally smoked oysters wrapped in bacon and lamb chops with tzatziki sauce. According to legends, it attacks its victims by howling "Frere Jacques" in a pitch so high that no human ear can withstand it. When provoked, it is also capable of precision spitting fiery razor blades up to the distance of 300 yards.

The Werewolf's DNA has never been decoded although 200 grams of prime werewolf ground meat are located on the top shelf in the Spam Pavilion of the Museum of Unopened Cans. The treasured trophy was donated by a local butcher from Montpellier whose giant meat grinder was unsuccessfully attacked by a werewolf in 1950s. The autopsy showed that the wretched animal was short-sighted and probably mistook the shaking appliance for a female werewolf in heat.

But enough of background information.

I have a friend who lives in Boston, but his in-laws have a family cottage in Stowe, VT, so when he invited me for a visit this weekend I immediately smelled the possibility of an encounter with the mythical beast. My hopes were greatly reinforced when I realized that the moon was full. In fact, it was so full I wished I had brought an illustrated copy of "Howling for Dummies" with me.

On Saturday, we went to see a place about 5 miles behind the Trapp Family Lodge where we could supposedly see live beavers. We bought a pack of lemon laced crackers and armed with two cameras set out into the woods. Well, long story short: we didn't see any beavers, they must have all been holed up in their little burrows, watching the AL Division Series. It almost looked that our hectic trek from the Lake Mansfield Trout Club all the way up to the Taylors Lodge will leave us empty handed. A trek, which didn't result in broken bones only owing to the fact that the 9th Infantry Division of Guardian Angels had a field training exercise in the northern Vermont that day.

At the end of the day though, the Gods took mercy on us. About half way between the lake and the beaver's dam, we espied a flashing orange blotch on the sloping hill above the trail. A thrilling waft of suspenseful expectation percolated down our spine. The critter noticed us. Like a sailboat criss-crossing against the wind, it slowly approached us. Its nozzle sniffed around for a bit and, realizing that we do not carry any oysters, snorted contemptuously. The rest of the body then trotted off to catch some beavers and the nozzle went with it.

wolf

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