Little armored one

Our dog saw something.

She was standing stock still, left foot raised in classic pointer pose. She was positioned where our lawn ends and becomes heavy brush. She was tightly sprung, fixed. I thought it must be a squirrel, or a rabbit, her favorite pursuits. I walked toward her. As I did, she released her stance, moved toward the brush and gingerly inserted her head into the undergrowth. Then she jumped back. I thought then it might be a snake she’d found.

I walked up to her.

“What do you see, girl? What is it?”

She looked up at me, seeming to say, “Can’t you see?!??”

I peered into the brush and saw grass and branches moving. Something was there. I carefully moved branches aside, peering. Then I saw it. An animal, unmistakable. Moving slowly through the underbrush, not big, pausing to forage and probe, seemingly oblivious to the two creatures looking down at it.

An armadillo.

Armadillo, just under our porch

What a strange animal! It looks like it hasn’t read Darwin. When you see an armadillo, you immediately think, well, no evolution here. This creature seems like it stepped out of a time machine. I think partly this is because it uses armor as a defense, and no other mammal on earth does. In any case, the armadillo looks like it belongs to another time—a four-legged Sir Lancelot.

The name, armadillo, from the Spanish, means “little armored one.”

Its range—we’re speaking of the nine-banded armadillo, Dasypus novemcinctus, the only species in North America—is the South, from Texas to Florida and as far north as Oklahoma and Kansas. That range is increasing. Thank you, climate change. As it gets warmer, the armadillo’s range will increase. Cold is not its friend. It eats worms, grubs, and other insects it finds with its sharp claws.

So, yes, armadillos are here, in rural Louisiana. You just don’t see them that often, because they’re nocturnal. Why this one was rummaging about in stark daylight, I have no idea.

I peered at the armadillo as it went about its search. Its head looks like a giant mouse head. Large, rodent-like ears. Later, I learned it has poor eyesight, sharp sense of smell. It’s actually quick; it can scurry surprisingly fast. It grows to be a maximum of about 15 pounds—not that big. Its closest relatives are the anteater and the sloth. Makes sense.

Odd fact: armadillos are among the few species other than humans capable of catching leprosy. It seems they originally contracted the disease from humans. (Heard that before?) Speaking of that, the only hospital that uniquely treated patients with leprosy in America is in Louisiana, in Carville, about an hour from where we live. It’s now a museum.

From the The National Hansen's Disease—i.e., leprosy—Museum website.

Our dog wanted to go in after the armadillo. Gaywynn called her back, and reluctantly our dog complied. I kept my eye on the armadillo, watched it as it inserted its head under leaves and probed with its snout and claws. The armadillo didn’t notice me, even as I edged closer to it. Or maybe it just ignored me. It seemed too busy to care. Eventually, it wandered away into the deeper brush and disappeared.

When you see a creature like that, a holdover from a far distant era, it lifts you into the realm of awe. It’s tiring to be human, to maintain that sense of superiority we have. Until we encounter something in nature that overwhelms our pretension. It may be a gigantic thunderstorm, an osprey, a sequoia—or an armadillo.

I’m appreciative when wonder makes me lose myself.