How an Alligator Blackmailed Me by Dale Alexander

A man on holiday in southern Georgia has an unexpected conversation with an alligator.

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Outside, on the patio behind our vacation rental, it was hot at 5am. Everything there was hot. No one took the heat in southern Georgia lightly, in August, but the views were worth it. I had driven 20 hours from Minneapolis to experience the epic slowdown of the Georgia coastline, and I intended to soak it up, even if everyone else was still sleeping, recovering from the road trip.

I lived to sit on the patio and watch the sunrise over the trees and marshland that stretched for miles before it found coastline and the Atlantic. As pink began to blush the eastern tree line my first morning there, I sipped my second cup of coffee and listened to the cicadas. Herons glided low over the reedy swamp, and occasionally I saw, or sensed, movement in the mostly dark. I wondered what was eating what.

Just off the patio was a roll-down into the marsh. A small slope that reminded me of a riverbank, arched over by trees, ending in a muddy flat where countless tracks and footprints portrayed the richness of the wildlife. That's where I first saw the alligator.

He was small, as alligators go, or at least that was my interpretation. I suppose my experience with alligators is limited enough that I'm not qualified to say. But he was not the colossal, dinosaur-reminiscent creature that pops to mind when I think of Discovery Channel documentaries. He was three or four feet long, tops. I'd guess his weight somewhere around 100 lbs: definitely a strawweight, as far as the UFC was concerned.

I stood when I saw him ease his snout out of the muddy water, and watched him crawl from the marsh, making his way methodically across the mud flat toward the slope that led up to our patio. He stopped there, looking at me, his head just topping the rise.

"I saw your dog yesterday, you know," he said.

I went numb. When my coffee mug shattered on the patio, shards flew in all directions, hot coffee splashing my bare feet.

"Do you want a minute with that?" he said.

I shook my head, never removing my gaze from him.

"Ok," he said. "It looked like maybe It hurt."

"I'm ok," I said. Then, "No. Clearly, I'm not ok. You just talked. Are talking. I really didn't sleep on the drive here, that must be what's going on. But my feet are fine."

"Good. No, your lack of sleep isn't what's going on. I'm real. Now let's get quickly past the talking alligator thing and get down to business, ok?"

I wrinkled my brow.

"Your dog," he said. "To reiterate. I saw her. She wandered near the mud flat yesterday when you arrived. She looks tasty, and blissfully unaware of what's going on around her."

"Whoa," I said. "You're not going to eat my dog. How did you know she's a 'she'?"

"Trade secret. And, no, I'd rather not," he said. "But I will if I need to. Food isn't easy to find out here. Little rodents, birds that are preoccupied. But it's a lot of work. You get the idea. Knowing that your dog is right there, well, it's tempting. And it's much easier than crawling through the muck to find a bite of rat." He paused. "But what would be easier yet, is if you just brought me some food each day while you're here. Then I wouldn't need to go through the hassle of going into the house while you're gone and eating the dog."

"Now hold on a minute," I said. "I'm supposed to believe you can get into the house while we're not home while the doors are locked? You don't even have thumbs."

He glanced toward his front feet.

"Consider this:" he said, "You're having a conversation with an alligator, and your concern is whether or not I can get into your vacation rental while you're away."

I conceded the point.

"What do you say then?" he asked. "A little food each day, and your dog is safe from the threat of the scaaaary alligator. Oooooh!" His expression mocked me.

I shook my head and walked back into the house, "This isn't... I can't... There's no way..." The sentences just wouldn't finish themselves.

That afternoon we went to the beach and visited some overpriced souvenir shops. I bought a book on alligators. My kids bought sand toys for which they were way too old, and tee shirts. My wife bought a big sun hat.

As we walked back to our beach umbrella and chairs, I realized I had forgotten my reading glasses back at our rental.

"You guys go ahead," I said. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

I drove six blocks back, and after fumbling with the door code, made my way inside. I found my glasses on the kitchen table, where I left them. And sitting in the living room, on the couch, sipping one of my beers, was the alligator.

"How..." I said.

"Yeah," he said. "So, I'll just make my way out, then? But let's say 5am tomorrow on the patio? Just bring whatever dinner leftovers you've got from tonight. And I'm keeping the beer."

The rest of the afternoon I couldn't think. I sat at the beach and watched the waves, read a bit of the alligator book, and participated in beach hole digging.

Later, my kids picked a beachfront seafood place: they both loved crab, and for much of the car ride, had debated who could eat the most on the first night. Dinner resulted in an expensive tie.

I chose fish and chips and regardless of the freshness of the catch, barely grazed my food.

After a restless night of odd dreams about wandering in a maze and finding unopenable doors, I woke, made coffee, and walked out to the patio, not sure what I'd find.

The alligator was there. He was sitting in the chair I had sat in the previous morning: the one that had felt most comfortable to me. I wanted to ask him to move, but I was afraid he'd threaten to eat my kids.

"Where did you have dinner?" he said.

"I don't remember the name," I said. "Some seafood joint down by the beach." I sat down across from him.

"Well," he said, "I'm famished. What did you bring me?"

I had forgotten the leftovers in the refrigerator. I fetched the Styrofoam box containing two battered fish fillets and a handful of fries and handed it to him. He accepted it, not ungratefully.

"Oh," he said around a mouthful of food, "this is so good. So much better than muddy rat. You really nailed it here. Thank you so much, seriously."

"You're welcome?" I'd never been thanked for complying with threats before.

He finished eating quickly and handed the box back to me, I assume because there wasn't a garbage can on the patio. He crawled down out of his chair and headed toward the marsh.

"Same time tomorrow, then, yes?" And without another word, he was gone.

This went on for the next couple days, each day with a few more words exchanged and slightly more familiarity between us.

The fifth morning, I took him my leftovers from the previous night's dinner - this time half a plate of low-country boil that I had really wanted to finish after a day of exploring civil war forts. I was afraid he'd threaten to eat my kids if I showed up empty handed though.

He again accepted graciously and made "mmmmm" noises as he chewed.

"Did you happen to catch the Braves game last night?" he said.

"The... Braves game? As in the Atlanta Braves?"

"Yes. Formerly Milwaukee and Boston, Hank Aaron, Chipper Jones... You're familiar, I'm sure."

"Yes. I mean no, I didn't catch the game. I... don't follow the Braves as a rule."

"Mind finding out how they did?" he said. "I normally try to catch the games by crawling up close to one of the bars near the swamp, but it didn't work out last night."

I thumbed through my phone until I found the info. "Lost to the Cardinals, 5-3."

"Dammit," he said. "Ok thank you."

"You're a Braves fan?" I said.

"Oh yes, been following them for years," he said. "There's not a lot to do to keep the mind occupied, other than look for food, and as you can see, I have worked out other means of accomplishing that. So I sit dockside, listen to radios, conversations, catch bits of the games on outdoor bar and restaurant TVs. Do you follow baseball?"

"Yes, some," I said. "I catch Twins games whenever I can. My son plays little league so he's starting to get into it."

"Oh, yes," the alligator said. "He's about that age, isn't he. I never played the game myself." He held up one front foot, marked by five stubby toes ending in claws. "Like you said, no thumbs."

"Right," I said. "Hard to work a baseball mitt."

He laughed.

"Thanks for the food," he said. He once again climbed out of his chair and made his way down to the swamp.

We spent the next day sightseeing, taking in local flavor, and I bought some beer at a local microbrewery. Back at our rental, I drank a couple and read a bit more of the alligator book while my kids swam in the small inground pool and my wife napped on the sofa on the screened-in porch.

We found an oceanside bar and grill for dinner - a place Jimmy Buffet would have frequented - and we ordered crab legs and shrimp for dinner. I also ordered a pub burger. I only ate a few bites of it.

Looking around, I noticed a baseball game on the TV above the bar. The Braves were losing again. I kept my eye on the game as we ate.

5am came early the next morning after the beers by the pool and a couple more at dinner. I managed to start the coffee maker and started to head out the back door to the patio when I remembered to go back for the pub burger.

The alligator was waiting for me again in my favorite patio chair. The swamp smelled particularly swampy that morning, and more gnats and other annoying insects crowded the tropical air than on previous mornings. I sat down and handed him the burger. I sipped coffee while he ate.

"This," he said, "is really going the extra mile, man. Thank you."

"Don't mention it," I said. "Did you catch the game last night? I watched part of it while we were at dinner."

"No," he said, licking his claws. "What happened?"

"Lost again to St. Louis, 6-5 in 10. Pretty good game really. Lots of hits."

"Damn!" he said. "Today's the getaway game at noon. It's much harder for me to watch day games because it's harder to hide in the swamp when it's light out."

"Why don't you watch it here with me?" The words were out before I realized I was going to say them: before I even recognized them as a coherent thought. And as soon as I did, I cringed. What had I done?

"That's a great idea. I'd lov..."

"No, wait," I said, interrupting. "I don't know if that's going to work. I mean, my wife and kids are here, and, well, you're tempted to eat my dog."

We both paused.

"Yes," he said, "I understand. It would be sort of, well odd, wouldn't it? For you to invite me in voluntarily? I mean, given the nature of our acquaintance." His eyes dropped and he slouched in his chair. "Just, let me know how it turns out, would you?"

He began to crawl to the mud flat and the swamp beyond. Perhaps a little slower than I'd seen him crawl before.

"Wait," I said.

He stopped and looked back over his shoulder.

"My wife is taking my kids shopping today. I'm staying here to get some work done by the pool. If you come back around noon, we'll flip the game on for a few innings. OK?"

"Thank you," he said. "I'll be here. I really appreciate it. And I won't eat your dog."

I sat by the pool after my wife and kids left, and I worked on some reports for the office. Noon slid around to 1pm. I finished working, grabbed a beer, and walked out to the patio. I checked my watch: 1:30pm. And just then, the alligator came crawling up from the mud flat.

"A little late, aren't you?" I said.

He rolled his eyes. "You try telling time by the sun while you're submerged in a swamp."

I conceded the point.

We went inside and turned on the Braves game. They led St. Louis 4-1 in the 5th. Other than the occasional comment on umpiring, we watched in relative silence for several batters. As the 5th turned into the 6th he grew restless.

"Do you have anything to eat?" he said.

At first, I was shocked. After the burger I had given him, he asked for more. But then I considered, I don't only eat once per day. Why should I assume he does?

"Hang on a second." I walked to the kitchen cabinet where we had stored some snacks. I poured a bag of Doritos original nacho cheese chips into a bowl and put it on the table in front of him. I grabbed a few for myself.

Happily munching away and watching Ronald Acuña Jr. pick apart Cardinals pitching, I noticed the alligator wasn't happy with the chip selection. He gingerly picked up one and tasted it. Took a bite and chewed, a pained expression on his face. Put it back down on the table next to the chip bowl.

"Don't like Doritos?" I said.

"I've never had them before," he said. "They're way too spicy for me. Most swamp creatures have little or no taste. Heck that burger was the most flavorful thing I've had in months. And the texture is, well, when you're used to ripping rats apart with sharp teeth, the crunchy little corn bits are uncomfortable." He opened his mouth. "See? No flat chewing surfaces."

I laughed. "Let me see what else I've got in the..." I said. And I was interrupted when the dog trotted into the room from wherever she'd been sleeping.

Instantly the alligator's demeanor changed. He looked at the dog sideways, then back at me. He made a small grunting noise deep in his throat and his eyes narrowed. I forgot about the baseball game.

"No," I said, "absolutely not." I stood up and attempted to shoo the dog out of the room, then walked toward the alligator. "Don't even think about it."

"You have no idea how good she smells," he said. "Not like swamp bait." He started to get out of his chair, eyeballing the dog.

"I don't care how she smells," I said. "She is off limits. I have done exactly what you asked for and more. I didn't have to invite you in for this game. Hell, I didn't need to do anything but leave out the food you demanded. But I tried to be nice. For whatever reason, I thought maybe we were becoming more than blackmailer and blackmail-ee." But there was no reasoning with a hungry alligator.

"I'm just in it for the food. The baseball, well, no one ever fell for that before."

Fully on the floor, he took methodical steps toward the dog, who sat unflinching, ignorant of the danger.

"Go! Shoo!" I yelled and stomped my foot. I positioned myself between them. "Get out of here!" I was talking to them both.

Just then the dog stood, finally reacting. A low growl came from her little throat. Her tail dropped and the fur on her back rose. The alligator made the grunting noise a few more times as he inched forward.

"Don't do this," I said. "You may get the dog, but I won't let you have her easily, and you'll crawl back to that swamp injured, or maybe not at all."

He made several quick steps forward with speed I hadn't anticipated, and now only a few feet stood between him and the dog, who was beginning to inch backward.

"Stop it!" I yelled, stomping my foot again. Then I remembered my Leatherman. I reached into my back pocket and pulled out the Leatherman Wingman I carried around most days. I thumbed the knife blade open and showed it to the alligator. He grunted and looked at me, then back at the dog.

His expression changed. I could see wheels turning in his mind. Was it worth it? He might get a good meal, or he might not. He might live another day, or he might not. With a final grunt, he turned and began walking toward the door to the patio.

"Tomorrow morning," he said. "Don't forget."

"We leave in the morning," I said. "We'll be gone by the time the sun comes up."

He made a snarling sound. "Then tonight. Leave something out when you go to bed. Or you'll wake up to no dog."

He was out the door and into the swamp with incredible speed.

I sat down on the floor, folded my knife up, and called the dog over to me, unsure what to think. She crawled into my lap and lay down.

The next morning, I was up earlier than normal: packing and rousing sleeping people so we could leave. It was an extremely long drive, and I wanted to make as much distance from the alligator as I could in one day.

We got almost to St. Louis the first day and found a hotel for the night. As the kids splashed in the pool, I took a long hot shower and tried to relax. Steam filled the bathroom as I let the water run. It all seemed like a waking nightmare, looking back. But now I could put it behind me.

I dried mostly off and opened my travel bag to pull out my razor and shaving cream. There on the top was a small, folded piece of paper. I unfolded it and written in sharpie, with very juvenile penmanship (no thumbs), were six words: "I have cousins in the sewers."