Chapter 1:
Chasing Armadillos
“Armadillo ain’t nothing but a possum on the half shell.”
- Ethel Brackin, 1964
Crab nets were not intended to catch armadillos. But it was the best idea three twelve-year-old boys could come up with. The long handles seemed like they’d help and the net at the end was about the right size. What they didn’t account for was the tiny beast’s surprising speed. Armadillos don’t run like normal, godly animals.
They bounce like four-legged kangaroos and can scurry behind a palmetto bush faster than, well faster than a kid swinging a crab net.
The best place along Alabama’s Gulf Coast to track the wily possum with a Sherman tank overcoat was Ono Island, a hot, mosquito-infested strip of land with nothing but sand dunes, scrub oaks and malnourished pines. The island was hostile to the senses but for kids on a quest, Ono was the new world, devoid of parents or rules. And chock full of ‘dillos.
It took thirty minutes for the Johnson Seahorse, five-horse power to chug their skiff to Ono. Armed with three crab nets, potato chips and gallon of lemonade, the boys were ready for action. Will spotted the first critter burrowing under a root.
“There’s one,” he shouted as he sprinted toward the armored rat. It’s one thing when an armadillo is frozen in the headlights. They look positively clumsy, slow and stupid. Of course, when they’re dead on the side of the road with their rigor-mortis feet in the air, they’re even less imposing. Add to that a well-placed upturned Budweiser beer can in its little paws and you have an image to last a lifetime. But in the dunes with lots of scrub oaks and palmetto bushes to provide cover, the little buggers were downright agile, squatty gazelles of deep sand.
“Hot damn, they’re fast,” Will said after fifteen minutes, throwing his net on the ground in frustration. “Tell you what. Trout, you get on my left and Danny, you get on the right. When we see one, we’ll spread out, surround him and bag his gray butt.”
That was the answer: teamwork. Within minutes, Trout and Danny had cornered one by an oak tree. Will covered the rear flank. They moved in slowly, crab nets poised for the snatch. With its little head lowered, the creature stared at the boys through cold, suspecting eyes. Suddenly, like an NFL running back, the ‘dillo took off, juked left then right and bounced away in a spray of sand. Crab nets flew but missed again. For the next three hours the boys tracked and chased. By the time the chips and lemonade were gone the game was over. Score: Armadillos - 23, Boys - 0.
They were covered in sand and sweat. They were tired and angry. Nothing had gone as planned. But they were not beaten. Never underestimate the ingenuity and tenacity of a preteen. Early the next day, Will, Danny and Trout were back at Ono with a sixteen-foot shrimp trawling net. Cone-shaped for dragging behind a boat, this was, perhaps, the perfect armadillo trap. They hung it between two trees and camouflaged it with palmetto fronds. It took an hour or so to herd one into their trap but they finally wrapped one up. As it hissed viciously and wriggled wildly in the netting, the boys stepped back wide eyed.
“What are we going to do with it now?” Trout asked.
“Let’s just watch it awhile and see what it does,” Danny said.
“I say we kill it,” Will said. “I’ve heard you can eat ‘em.”
“How’er we gonna kill it?” Trout asked.
“Whack it on the head,” said Will. “With the paddle.”
“Wait a minute. We’re not really going to eat it,” Danny said. “Let’s just let it wear itself out, then untangle it and let it go.”
Will and Trout were already fetching the death paddle.
“We’ll be back,” they yelled as they disappeared around a sand dune.
Danny eased closer to the mesh, looking into the animal’s dark eyes and pointed snout. It was one of the ugliest of creatures God had ever dreamed up and just as useless as far as he knew. But not worth killing. As he began to untangle the net he realized the armadillo had already chewed a hole large enough to get its head through. His sharp claws ripped at the netting and the hole grew. With a pine branch Danny spread the opening just enough for the critter to squirm through and start to run. Danny’s father didn’t know they had taken the net. Now there would be hell to pay.
“Hurry with that paddle,” Danny yelled innocently thinking they’d never make it back in time. “It’s getting away.”
The wooden blade must have broken its neck. There was an awful squeal as its jaws clamped shut over its thin red tongue. They’d never seen anything so horrible. As they starred down at their cruel deed, sadness swept over them. The animal quivered for a few minutes before it finally died. Without talking, they buried him under the biggest oak they could find. A chunk of innocence had been chipped from the boys’ childhood that day. Quietly, they gathered their gear and loaded the boat for home. The glamour of armadillo hunting had quickly lost its luster.
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