It began as a slow incursion.
A single, brown clump of dirt standing starkly against the lush green of the lawn was the first signal that something was amiss. Closer investigation revealed a small hole, about four inches across by four inches deep with the dirt and sod piled alongside.
As the days lingered, more and more of the brown clumps appeared.
It was a sign that war had been declared. That the invasion had occurred and time for armed confrontation had arrived.
It was reminiscent of a battle fought some 30 years and 100 miles to the north and seemed simple enough … a walking, talking, thinking Homo sapien matching wits and skills with a little mammal that looks as prehistoric as its lineage corroborates.
Armadillos are small placental mammals, known for having a leathery armor shell. In Spanish, armadillo means "little armored one".
I thought back to those first wars. Those fought in the backwoods of Sullivan’s Hollow in Smith County, Miss. If there were any doubts that armadillos are prolific diggers, one only had to remember those wars.
Although it was back in the 70s, I recall them as if they were just yesterday … armadillos making their way into the lush, green yard in Smith County. In retrospect, they probably came up from around Cohay, a creek that runs through the region before emptying into the Leaf River. Then again, they could have come up from the branch that ran behind the old crib and garden. There had to be a number of burrows they could have claimed for their own without ever having to dig one bit of dirt.
The old man hated them. He didn’t care that they were looking for food, only that his yard looked as if a Case Eagle-hitch tractor pulling a 12-row plow had torn everything to pieces.
He knew all the four-letter words — and used them. He must have used every single one of them when it came to the armadillos. He tried all the old home remedies, such as mothballs and cayenne pepper. Nothing worked.
Things had reached the stage where the old man was ready to declare war. The first volley was after midnight one Saturday.
Sitting in a rocker, dressed only in his underwear, he sat with a .45 caliber pistol. He sat and waited; knowing the illumination from a yard light would let him know when the enemy arrived.
Soon, a shadowy figured appeared. It scurried for a few steps, then stopped and uprooted ground. It repeated this routine several times before the old man slowly pushed the screen door open. He did it ever so slowly so as to keep the rusty spring from squeaking and sounding an alarm.
Ever so slowly he raised his arm and pointed the pistol at the armadillo.
“BAM, BAM, BAM!!!, followed by a “Damned armadillo!!”
The noise echoed as it cleared the swamps of Cohay, waking up neighbors as the quiet of the night was shattered and the armadillo scurried away to safety.
There were more battles and at least two more times when the old man rolled out the artillery. He never got his enemy, but he finally got rid of it. Perhaps it was the noise … and perhaps it was just time for the armadillo to move on. But the time came that the old man was able to claim victory and his yard began to heal.
These days, no signs of the battles remain, but if you go out behind that old house on Fellowship Road late at night, yard illuminated by the full moon, you can almost hear the sounds … BAM, BAM, BAM!!! Damned armadillo!
All of that came back to me earlier this year.
The old man, you see, was my Dad and just as I had laughed at him when he fought his war, I know he had to be looking down at me, laughing his head off, as my own armadillo war got under way.
Every morning, it seemed, there were new spots in the front yard where my new enemy had rooted around, looking for grubs. A friend even said our front yard must be “special” because those belonging to neighbors left and right remained unscarred.
Out came the laptop as I looked for ways to get rid of our “little armored one.” There were many suggestions and I settled on trying to capture ours … and reminiscent of college days when alcohol flowed more freely, I settled on waiting one night and then sneaking up on it and quickly covering it with a No. 4 wash tub.
Go ahead, laugh. It didn’t sound that great then, but I was ready to try anything. I’m just glad that when the confrontation finally happened, there was no one around to see it.
My wife and I waited in her vehicle one Saturday night, relying on the light of the moon and a distant yard light to offer illumination. She gave up about midnight and I folded my hand about 2 and went to bed. It was about 4 when I heard the sound … the rubbing of its shell against the house as it began to root. I quickly pulled on a pair of shorts and looked out the window. There the little bastard was … rooting away. Rooting away in MY yard!
I eased outside as it moved to a side yard. Picking up the washtub, one of the handles made a noise and its head snapped up. As I started running toward it, it scurried away. I had forgotten my Texas Jaycees days and armadillo races and just how fast the little critters are!
There was no sign of it, although I could smell its musty smell. Following that, I found what looked to be a burrow under a neighbor’s tool shed. Could it be?
The next afternoon, I collected several eight-foot long boards that I had pulled up as I redid a back deck. Having read that armadillos couldn’t climb over anything, I constructed a barrier — my version of the Maginot Line from the French military — that stretched about 50 feet and bolstered by cinder blocks … an eight-inch tall wall that worked!
My wife laughed as I constructed my “armadillo wall,” even taking photos to post on Facebook, but I had the last laugh. Months later there have been no more signs of rooting in the yard … although the neighbor behind us hasn’t been so lucky!
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