There’s an Armadillo in My Yard!
Hello, Texas
I’m a city girl, born and bred. Two years ago, my husband, Keith, and I moved from Southern California to Texas. I’ll admit I had preconceived notions about what living in Texas meant. Cowboy boots. Cowboy hats. Big trucks. Cows. Lots of “Ma’ams.” I got all that and a little more. Since moving here, I’ve had close encounters with animals, wild and domestic, and have heard myself saying things I never thought I would such as, “a herd of goats is loose on the road” and “is this your cow?” and “those damn deer ate my tomatoes!”
One thing I never expected to hear myself say is, “there’s an ARMADILLO in my front yard!”
Keith is extraordinarily proud of our front yard, as well he should be. He spends hours in it every day — mulching, weeding, planting, pruning, watering, trimming. He walks the perimeter each morning like a soldier on guard duty. So, at the first tell-tale sign that our yard was the new favorite foraging ground for an armadillo, Keith went to war.
First, he repaired the damage, lovingly raking disturbed soil back into place. He put wire fencing around vulnerable plants. He sprayed castor oil everywhere. I took a sniff — it smelled like canola oil to me — but apparently, it’s the human equivalent of poo-poo stench to armadillos.
Lastly, Keith scoured our property for armadillo burrows, shoveling dirt and large rocks into them to encourage the creatures to move on. Since armadillos sleep during the day, I guess that unless they clawed their way out, they went to armadillo heaven. Which made me a little sad.
I’m not sure why the thought of a decreased armadillo population saddened me. It’s not like they’re cute and cuddly. Armadillos, in case you are wondering, look like living fossils from the Jurassic age — they should be dodging Triceratops and T. rex, not messing up our planting beds. Machine-gun gray armored plates cover them from snout to long, tapered tail.
In fact, ‘Armadillo’ is Spanish for “little armored one.”
A tank on four legs. Long, pointy snout and sticky tongue, perfect for grubbing their favorite food: beetles, worms, ants, cockroaches. The occasional scorpion. Cylindrical ears, small, beady eyes. Wicked, curved claws. They are just ugly.
If you wanted to insult someone, ‘Armadillo-ugly’ would make your point.
I’ve read they’re not aggressive critters but here’s a story you could file under “Too Weird to be True.” An East Texas man, apparently miffed at an armadillo scouting his property, fired three shots at it from a .38 revolver, one of which ricocheted off the armadillo and hit the guy in the jaw. Status of armadillo: unknown.
So, fair warning if you’re thinking of moving to Texas. You may wake up one day to discover your yard filled with cone-shaped pits and tell-tale claw marks. Get out the castor oil.
What’s your tale of strange animal encounters? Would love to hear!
Susan Randolph is a nutrition coach happily writing, eating, and cooking in the beautiful Texas Hill Country.