Armadillos. I don't like them. Where I live they are frequent roadkill, and if there is anything uglier or more disgusting than a living armadillo, it's a dead one. In addition to that, they can carry and transmit leprosy, a freakish fact I learned only after my yard had been ruined by these pests. What was previously a pretty nice lawn (okay, it was mostly weeds, but at least we kept it maintained) is now a mine field of divots with their accompanying mounds of red clay. The entire middle section of my front yard is decimated. Apparently we have an unusually high population of whatever food source these armadillos go for. Lucky us.
But holes in the yard were just the beginning. We were upgraded from 24-hour buffet to an extended stay motel, complete with all-you-can-eat grubs, ants, and earthworms. We discovered the first burrow under the cypress trees in our side yard. Burrow is such a benign word for deep, dark, scary hole. Not a comforting sight when you have a curious outdoor-loving little boy like I do. After my husband attempted to drown the armadillo in its den, the malicious beast burrowed again, directly beneath our son's slide. Not cool.
One night I surprised our resident pest as I walked out to the mailbox. Armadillos are either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. This one didn't scuttle away until I was about 12 feet away from it. When I returned to the house and told my husband I had spotted the vermin he jumped into action, grabbing a flashlight, laundry basket, and gun. Of course, our 4 year-old son was thrilled about going night hunting with his dad. A momentary lapse of judgment put the laundry basket in our son's hands, but reason returned and instead he tromped out the door manning the flashlight. Unfortunately this exciting mission proved fruitless, as the quarry sought shelter either in the woods or a neighboring yard. But did this second attempt on it's life warn it off permanently? Oh no. The holes continued to multiply.
And then one day, sweet revenge. The armadillo met the fate of so many others before it, right across the street from our house. I've never been so happy to see roadkill. Granted, the joy over the death of the marauding animal waned quickly as the corpse lingered for days as a feast for the local carrion birds, but still I was glad that we could reclaim our yard and return it to its former weed-covered glory.
But the saga wasn't over. Soon after the death of our first invader we noticed that the number of holes in our front yard had increased again. The first armadillo dug deeply over the majority of the lawn. The successor concentrated on the middle part of the yard, completely destroying all appearance of grass (weeds) with a multitude of shallow holes. Imagine my chagrin at this new development.
One night a few weeks ago my family and I were driving home after dark when we suddenly spotted an armadillo in a yard just one street over from ours. We just knew it had to be the same one that frequented our place. Could we drive past such a perfect opportunity to deliver our vengeance? Oh no. My husband stopped the car and jumped out, to the mixed cacophony of my laughter and our children's wails. The little one was crying from sleepiness, the older, so he says, because I was laughing. Either I laugh so infrequently that he wasn't sure what was happening, or the sound of it is truly terrifying. Not flattering for me in either case.
But back to my husband and the armadillo. My husband rushed around the back of the car, but once he stepped into the yard he began to feel a little awkward. First of all, he was planning to kick the armadillo, but then what? Keep kicking? Secondly, we don't even know the people who live at this house. He decided to go for a swift kick and almost made it, but the (again, brave or stupid) animal made a get-away right before my husband connected. Too bad. I still think it is pretty epic that he almost kicked an armadillo.
And that's how things remain. We, the hapless victims of this disease-infested creature. The armadillo, growing fatter by the minute on our plethora of creepy-crawly delicacies. You just thought it was cute when Simba ate that grub in The Lion King. Not so adorable in real life. Maybe I will find a way to slip a poisoned earthworm to the armadillo. That'll show it "Slimy, yet satisfying."
-Ashley
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