The Great Canadian House Hippo Conspiracy

By Andrea Renae

I never cared much for Bigfoot as a kid, even though I live in his backyard. Have you seen the crazies who hunt him? No thanks.

But I was concerned with the Canadian legend of a three-inch-tall gray creature that built nests out of dryer lint. Something people like to think doesn’t exist in their own homes.

I mean the North American House Hippo, obviously.

Thanks to a Saturday morning commercial that opened kids’ imaginations to the possibility of the creatures—then crushed that wonder with cruel logic—the species was dismissed as a cautionary tale to make children think critically about what they saw on TV.

I doubted their existence until a late-night stumble into the kitchen led me to miniscule peanut butter footprints and a nasty bite on my left hand. I still have a scar.

When I told my parents, they said I was as eccentric as the Sasquatch hunters. I was crushed, but at least my brother believed me.

After working our butts off for years trying to find them, we finally have something to show for our efforts. It turns out day-old mac-n-cheese was the answer. Being a slovenly freshman has its merits.

“Watch it, Grant!” I say when my brother walks into me. “We don’t need our ankles chewed off.” I dig my phone out and check the House Hippo forum for the details of the hand-off.

9:45 p.m. Behind Tim Horton’s. Blue hat.

Pocketing the phone, I turn to Grant. “Can’t believe we’re actually meeting these guys.”

He plunks the crate down, earning a chorus of belches. It’s probably not safe to keep that many of them together, but it’s too late now.

“Yeah, maybe we can get the media to take us seriously if there’s more of us providing proof.” Grant unearths a crinkled package and dumps the reddish contents through the slats.

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t you watch TV? They like chips.”

“Ketchup chips? You do remember those ads claimed the hippos weren’t real, right?”

But when happy crunching emanates into the night, I wonder if there was some truth to the commercials after all.

Grant licks his fingers. “I still don’t understand why they didn’t choose something that doesn’t actually exist to prove their point.”

“Me neither.” House hippos are as real as, well, regular hippos. But they’re way sneakier. Clearly. Why wouldn’t they come up with something more… fake?

“Maybe the government wants people to go looking for them,” I say.

“Careful. You’re starting to sound like a conspiracy theorist.”

We go silent as a truck pulls into the parking lot. A large man with a blue baseball cap hops out and heads into the restaurant.

“I thought he’d be younger.”

“That’s gotta be him.” Grant shrugs and hefts up the crate. “Guess he wanted a coffee first. Let’s go.”

We hustle across the street, slipping into the shadows behind Tim Horton’s. Several minutes pass, and our man doesn’t show.

“D’ya think I have time to grab a donut?” Grant asks.

I elbow him. The hippo horde bellows.

A loud click makes my skin prickle. Two men emerge from around the corner, one wearing the hat, and the other holding a gun. My mouth goes dry. “Grant…”

“TinyHippolover4life?” he asks hopefully.

The blue hat man shakes his head. He’s built like a tank, and something about his serious expression screams Secret Service. “We’ve been following your little forum for a while, and when you arranged this meetup, well… We can’t have you engaging in illegal house hippo smuggling, now, can we?” He motions to the crate. “We’ll take those, now.”

“Wait.” The back of my neck grows hot. “You expect us to just give them to you?” Grant nudges me with his foot, presumably to shut me up. “D’you have any idea how many years we’ve been searching for these? What kind of trouble we’ve had catching them?” I rub the scar on my hand.

The men exchange glances. “Admirable, but irrelevant. We thank you for doing the work for us, though.”

“Why do you even want them?” The crate shudders, and Grant’s knuckles whiten.

Blue Hat shrugs. “I don’t, but the government does. I don’t ask questions. Now, hand them over.”

When we don’t comply, the other man holds the handgun higher. I think about dialing 911, but these guys probably own the police.

“And what happens to us?”

The big man’s brows lower. “You’ll come in for questioning and a cognitive readjustment, and everything will go back to normal.”

I shoot a look at Grant and put all my faith in him knowing me—and the hippos—better than anyone. When he nods subtly, I turn to the men.

“Now!” I shout. Grant shoves the crate to the sidewalk as hard as he can. The hinged top flies open, releasing a terrifying army of irate house hippos.

The men stagger back, and we seize the moment of distraction. We may be stupid, but we know not to be anywhere near a house hippo, let alone twenty, when provoked.

By the time they realize what’s happening, it’s too late. A stampede of fleshy blobs swarm them like a school of piranha, spitting, roaring, and sinking miniscule tusks into unprotected shins. Screams fill the night as my brother and I hightail it down a back alley.

“Sorry!” I yell over my shoulder.

Several blocks away, we catch our breath. Grant doubles over and wheeze-laughs. “They threatened to erase our memories, and you apologized?”

“Yeah, well, I’m Canadian.” Anguished cries ricochet between the buildings. I grimace. “There goes our chance at validation. We shouldn’t have put all the hippos in one crate.”

“We can catch more.” Grant slaps me on the back. “Although, I don’t think I want to. I might agree with the commercials on one thing.”

“Yeah?” I raise an eyebrow.

He grins like an idiot. “We’re probably better off pretending house hippos don’t exist.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Andrea Renae grew up wandering the Canadian prairies with a cat in tow. An only child, she thrilled in stories of all kinds. Writing became a way to process life’s countless beauties, hardships, and oddities. She can often be found playing piano, experimenting with watercolors, knitting sweaters, or practicing for her inevitable fame on the GBBO. Her heart will always be with her family, her friends, and her goofy goldendoodle.

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