Death
of an Armadillo
Randall
Nunn
I
am probably the greatest armadillo hunter in the north Texas town
of Sherman. How I came to hold that title is not a particularly
ennobling tale but rather a sad story of a man driven to take
matters into his own hands even if the death of a poor, dumb creature
is the result.
I should say at the outset that I have a fondness for animals
and wildlife in particular. I have no animosity toward armadillos
and, in fact, have always thought they were interesting creatures
and cute symbols of the uniqueness of the Lone Star State. I remember
trying to catch one years ago in our backyard in Winter Springs,
Florida. Our flower beds were suffering at the hands of armadillos--although
not badly--and I attempted to capture one of the pesky critters
by slipping up on it and grabbing it by the tail. I achieved the
element of surprise, only to be equally surprised by the tenacity
of the hissing animal as it dug its front claws into the sod and
became immovable. Finally, the armadillo's tail slipped from my
grasp and the armored piglet scurried off into the palmetto underbrush,
without a word or even a glance backwards.
Years passed and we moved to Dallas, Texas, where we never were
bothered by the leathery skinned diggers, other than seeing them
along the Texas highways in various states and conditions, doing
a rather good job of representing themselves as the official roadkill
of the state of Texas. Once, I stopped along the roadside and
had my sister get out and pose for a picture with a defunct armadillo
reaching skyward with its little clawed feet--a pose frequently
assumed by armadillos after a run-in with a vehicle. In short,
I was a tolerant and caring person who lived happily and let live
when it came to armadillos. However, that was to come to an end
when fate threw me into close and hostile contact with as determined
a band of armadillos as civilized man ever faced.
After building a new house on the outskirts of Sherman, Texas,
and spending more than we wanted on landscaping and bermuda grass
sod, we settled into gentle suburban living on a three and a half
acre wooded lot. For a while, we were supremely happy, watching
the fiery sunsets in the west from our loggia at the back of the
house and glorying in the beauty of our thick, green lawn of luxuriant
bermuda grass. The happiness was cruelly shattered one morning
when I stepped out back and saw pock marks of fresh earth everywhere
and tufts of grass lying around as though some miniature artillery
had shelled our lawn during the night. After swearing at the destruction
of our beautiful yard, I calmed down and examined the digging
more closely in an effort to determine what had caused the damage.
Could it have been wild hogs rooting in the lawn or a neighbor's
dog gone crazy? After talking with my neighbors, they assured
me it was an armadillo and that the only sure remedy was to shoot
it.
I was reluctant at first to consider a remedy as drastic and final
as shooting. However, after several more mornings of awakening
to find the back and side yards and beds in excavation, I decided
to try to catch the culprits in the act. Consulting with my neighbors,
I was told by one not to bother looking for them before 2:00 AM
as that was their favorite time, and by another to only watch
between 11:00 PM and 4:00 AM, as that was their favorite time.
I was informed that the armadillos were searching for grub worms.
Somehow they had decided (or been told by their friends) that
our beautiful bermuda grass was the hiding place for hundreds
of delicious grub worms. In fact, I doubt if a grub worm has been
within one hundred yards of our lawn. Nevertheless, the armadillos
were convinced they were there, and since it was so much easier
to dig in our nice new sod than in the hard Texas soil farther
out, that is where they concentrated their efforts.
After deciding that I needed to do something, and do it soon,
I purchased a Ruger Mark II .22 caliber pistol that was to become
my weapon of choice. Two of my neighbors used shotguns (which
I thought was not very sporting) and seemed not to be terribly
effective, missing them more often than not. I began patrolling
the back yard at random times after dark, hoping to catch the
culprits in action. Finally, after many nights of uneventful patrols,
one night I came around the corner and heard rustling and snorting
noises coming from the flowerbed. Slowing my pace, I crept forward
slowly, shining my flashlight in the general direction of the
noise. Suddenly, my light caught a rounded, grayish hump-backed
creature working furiously in the flowerbed. My heart was pounding
and my breathing rapid as I raised the stainless steel pistol
with one hand while holding the flashlight in the other hand so
as to illuminate the sights and the target--the snorting, heavily
armored, long-clawed digging machine that was uprooting flowers
and destroying our yard. After what seemed like many seconds,
trying hard to slow and calm my breathing and line the critter
up in my sights, I fired one shot. The armadillo jumped slightly,
then fell over on his side and kicked a couple of times and breathed
his last. At that moment, I cannot describe exactly how I felt;
other than I felt flushed in the face and deeply sad at what I
had done. I had taken the life of another creature who meant me
no harm and who was simply doing what he did every day in his
pursuit of life. The little fellow would never see another Texas
sunset or feel the warm Texas breezes flowing over his smooth,
leathery body. I unloaded the pistol and went back into the house
and went to bed. For a long time, I lay awake and stared at the
ceiling, contemplating the fact that I was alive and this simple-minded
creature was dead. Why had I shot this animal? I worked myself
nearly to tears. When I told my wife that I had killed the armadillo,
I could see she was similarly affected. I had shot down a symbol
of the Lone Star State in cold blood! Would this feeling of guilt
and emptiness ever leave me? Yes, it would.
Days later, thinking that this dark episode was over and that
our yard would return to normal, I was shocked upon walking out
into the back yard to see fresh diggings--even worse than before!
There were more of them! This is not over, I thought. Then I remembered
the words of Yul Brynner in The Magnificent Seven to the
effect that once you started a battle against your enemies, there
would be killing and more killing until the reason for it became
lost. And I knew for a fact that, just like Steve McQueen, my
palms sweated before the confrontation. There is much wisdom to
be derived from watching The Magnificent Seven.
The next armadillo that I caught in the yard was larger than any
I had ever seen. I centered him in the glare of the flashlight
and outlined the sights on the quarry and the Ruger spoke again.
This time the armadillo leapt into the air about three feet, coming
down with a loud thud. He continued to leap into the air several
times more, as though he had springs on his feet that propelled
him straight upwards. Finally, one last leap and a thud, a quiver
of the legs and then stillness. The armadillo lay in the midst
of his devastation, with the fresh dirt still clinging to his
claws--and probably not a single grub worm to show for it. What
a terrible waste!
As the days went by, I hoped in vain that the digging would cease
and that this was the last of the destructive pests. But it was
not to be. Periodically, other armadillos would come and dig in
the soft bermuda turf, finding nothing, but wreaking havoc nevertheless.
The scene would be replayed with the flashlight and stainless
steel Ruger pistol. Each one became easier and less troubling
than the one before. I even began to take pride in "one shot,
one armadillo." I did not want them to suffer but wanted
to dispatch them quickly and with a minimum of leaping in the
air and gruesome death throes.
As the summer went on, I continued my battle. Six armadillos and
six shots. And still the destruction continued. I had become a
skilled hunter by this time and adept at slipping up on the raiders,
sometimes catching them just as they reared up on their hind legs
to listen. Poor devils--they probably didn't know that you never
hear the bullet that gets you! But then, animals that specialize
in becoming road kill probably never read All Quiet on the
Western Front.
As the summer wound down, I had become quite the expert armadillo
hunter. I had learned, contrary to my neighbors' advice, that
armadillos come out at all hours, from dusk to dawn. I learned
that they have a keen sense of hearing and smell, but poor eyesight.
I learned about stealth in approach, good sight alignment and
quiet operation of the safety. Unlike my neighbors who missed
armadillos with their shotguns or even worse, wounded them and
allowed them to get away, I didn't miss with the Ruger. Finally,
one night near the end of summer, I came out onto the loggia to
find a small armadillo digging feverishly in the yard. I raised
the Ruger into the beam of light from the flashlight as the armadillo
sat up on its hindquarters and twisted around toward me. As I
prepared to push the safety off, the armadillo heard the click
and bolted off in the direction of the woods, running at a speed
more rapid than one would think such an animal capable of doing.
I didn't have time to get off a well-aimed shot and did not want
to risk leaving a wounded armadillo in the privet bushes, glaring
at me with venom in his eye and vengeance in his heart, waiting
for an opportune moment to spring, hissing and galloping with
claws fully extended, as he bore down on me. No, this one would
live another day and maybe even move on to other yards. I always
knew that one day there would be one faster than me, looking to
make a name for himself.
For now, I have hung up my gun and will take time during the winter
months to ponder whether shooting armadillos is truly evil or
whether I am only evening the score for hundreds of grub worms
that have met horrible deaths at the snouts of these armored kings
of the roadkill. I feel badly for the little fellows, but somehow
I don't think I am any worse than the African big-game hunters
who write and philosophize about death in the long grass. For
in my heart, I know that the only thing preventing the armadillos
from becoming man-eaters is that they can't open their mouths
any wider than the width of a fat grub worm. When next spring
rolls around, I will be renewed and ready to defend my property
against a fresh onslaught. I may not be as brave and fearless
as the hunters who face the man-eaters on the Serengeti Plain
or Cape Buffalo in some dark thicket, but, believe me, if ever
a Cape Buffalo shows up in my yard in Sherman, Texas, causing
anywhere near the damage of the armadillos, my Ruger and flashlight
will be pressed into service. I only hope that Cape Buffalo don't
leap into the air when hit, because my yard couldn't take that.
***
Randall
Nunn is a practicing attorney in Sherman, Texas, as well as
a writer of op-eds and essays. His story "Death of an Armadillo"
was a finalist in the Faulkner competition and got 7th place in
the Writer's Digest competition in 2005.
©
Randall Nunn