Hey, Eddie, I
Hey, Eddie,
I think I got that armadillo. If he isn’t dead, he’s seriously wounded, and
I doubt he’ll be tearing up my lawn tomorrow. Before I walked the dogs this morning, I went
out to collect the rat traps around the walkway. None had been disturbed, but there was a
freshly dug dillo hole just an inch or two from one. That got me angry and the blood pressure up,
especially since those things can’t kill him, just hurt him, maybe, but I’ve
killed a squirrel and a rabbit and that broke my heart. As I walked around to the front where I had
both cage traps set up on the lawn, the cages facing in opposite directions
with two long 2x4s each funneling in Vs toward each trap—the neighbors must be
wondering what the hell I’m doing over here—I saw “many” new dillo holes, some
large and deep enough to take a golf ball.
Man, then I really got pissed and disgusted, and it was just sunrise, a
new day. I continued around the house
where I could see the cages, and there he was, a couple feet from a cage, his
head down, just digging away. I jogged
back to the dog yard where I had that ice scraper, you know, the one I used in
Fairbanks on the driveway—it’s like a long handled hoe, but with a flat blade. Anyway, I got the ice scraper and jogged
back. He was still there, head down, ass
up, and just digging like crazy, so I tip-toed toward him. Those suckers can
hear really well. Every time I took a step, his left ear, the one facing me,
twitched, and he raised his head a couple times. He was huge, one of the
largest dillos I’ve seen around here. No wonder those hole were so big. It
would have been a squeeze for him to get into one of the cage traps. I got as close as I thought I could, raised
the ice scraper spear, threw it, and missed.
The dillo ran toward Joe’s and around the house with me
in hot pursuit, but without my weapon! I
figured he’d go for his hole under the wisteria bush, and he did, but couldn’t
get in all the way, because yesterday I put a garden hose in there trying to
drown him out—apparently, he was in another of his several holes at the time—and
it must have collapsed the hole. His
back half was poking out of the hole, and he was perfectly still—must of
thought he was hidden. I backed away,
and ran to get the ice scraper, praying that he’d still be there, and he was,
ass half sticking out and still, not digging or anything. Raising the ice scraper, I thrust as hard as
I could. Eddie, it was almost like
hitting a rock, his shell was so hard. I
quickly jabbed him again and drew blood.
He started digging like mad and disappeared into the hole. I thrust in
there a few times. Hit him once,
maybe. Then I got the light bulb: water
hose! I ran and got it, pushed it into
the hole, turned on the faucet, and waited.
Sure as shit, out he came. I
managed to jab him three good ones, again drawing blood, before he got away and
ran under the hedges and then around the front into the thick bushes
there. That’s where I lost him. Those
bastards are tough! Still, I hurt him
badly. If he doesn’t die, he’ll be holed
up somewhere licking his wounds for a few days.
You know, Eddie, I got to thinking about it, and this
whole deal with that sucker has been like a microcosm of foreign affairs,
diplomacy, war, and combat all rolled into one.
The wife and I, we tried to be good neighbors and hold to a
live-and-let-live policy, as we do with the squirrels, rabbits, snakes and
other critters around here, but that dillo was way too destructive, invasive,
and had no respect for our way of life. He’s got holes and tunnels everywhere,
tears up the flower beds, and the lawn’s near dead from his digging for grubs;
mowing the lawn is like driving the old Alaska Highway. So, we tried diplomacy, tried to kill all the
grubs in yard to the point we’re damn near about to kill ourselves with
insecticide. We spread gallons of coyote
urine granules: Hey, this ain’t your land! We tried to capture him in a cage and deport
him back to his own country. We warned
him with sticky traps and old fashioned mouse traps, warned him more seriously
with rat traps, but only managed to kill that squirrel and the rabbit.
The rabbit, though, that was really sad. I’m glad the wife didn’t see that one. And, you know, the trap was a Victor, written
in bold on there: Victor. I felt like
shit. What price victory? I think I told you about the little wren in
the sticky trap, his toothpick legs so hopelessly mired in the goo that I had
to kill him. Of course, bugs and lizards died in the goo. It’s all fucked up.
Those things were mere irritants to the armadillo. Collateral damage, brother: I think I know what a fighter pilot or
artilleryman must feel like when the bomb or shell goes astray and takes the
lives of innocents. You have to think
about that, unless you’re a terrorist or live in the political extreme, so
intent on your agenda and insulated by those of like mind as to be impermeable
and not know it. They don’t care how
many reputations or lives they destroy. That’s enough bullshit—you have things
to do.
So, anyway, all that and we threatened him with our dogs. Nothing worked. We had no choice but to declare war. As you know, he won battle after battle over
the last couple years, but, buddy, the tide turned. When it did, we—maybe I should say, I—were
full of hate and seeking vengeance. He
retreated, but we pursued him. He hid
and coward, but we found him. He begged
for mercy, and we killed him (we hope).
That dillo’s mistake: He got too confident, arrogant, and greedy—he’s
usually long gone by sunrise. But you
know, Eddie, now that the adrenaline has stopped flowing, and with the heart
rate back to normal and the blood lust gone, I somehow feel sorry for that
creature, that nasty son-of-a-bitch.
Adios,
Ketzer
