Possum on the Half-Shell

At that time in my life, I was recently wed and momentarily semi-wealthy. I had returned from a tour of duty in the Army and popped the question to my sweetheart. However, at the request of Laura May's parents, we were to wait till the end of the summer. Just long enough for the extravagant church wedding to be planned and prepared for.

Except for my short experience in the armed forces, I had been raised in a moderate south Georgia fashion. I often wondered how I was supposed to keep my upper-level middle-class big city Tallahassee bride satisfied on a factory worker's salary. Also, I had my own ambition to graduate from college and become a successful novelist. Swing shift at the factory made my dreams seem far out of reach.

The closer the wedding day got, the more I realized that I didn't have a clue as to what my bride and I were going to do about a place to live. In the last three months I managed to save $600, but as I priced apartments I realized that $600 wasn't going to go very far.

Although I had never enjoyed anything close to a life of luxury, I had never really wanted for anything. Throughout my life, just when I thought all was hopeless, something or someone had always provided a way. This time was no exception, even though I wish it had been.

It was a little after midnight on a Friday and I had just got home from work. Laura May was at my house as she often was on the weekends. I had just entered my room and found her sleeping on my bed. I went to put my arms around her and told her how glad I was to see her. Something was different in the way she held me. It was a little tighter than normal.

There was a knock on my door and I heard my mother ask, "Can I come in?"

"It's open," I replied. She opened the door and walked in. Something was strange about the way she looked. I had passed her in the living room when I came home but I didn't notice her expression then.

"I wanted to wait until you got to your room to tell you. I didn't think you would want to be told in front of them." As always on Friday nights, we had guests. "I still can't believe it."

Thoughts began to run though my mind: the first was that my dad must be dead. My parents had been divorced fifteen years, but even so, his death would still be accompanied by her tears.

"What happened?" I had to know.

"It's your Uncle Bobby. He died this afternoon. I would've called you at work, but there's really nothing you can do."

My Uncle Bobby was my father's brother. He lived four hours away from us, up above Atlanta. He had always been my favorite uncle. I lived with him for a month after I had graduated high school. And when I was a young boy, he had stayed with us a while. He was my dad's younger, and only, brother. Though he was an alcoholic, he was the greatest and friendliest man I had ever known.

Accepting his death was not an easy matter, and it was made even harder when I was informed that he had left me his profit sharing policy, which totaled more than $80,000. Uncle Bobby had a total of seven nieces and nephews, one brother, two sisters, and a wife. He wasn't rich by any means, but he was a hard worker. His wife received his estate, and insurance policy, while I received the profit sharing, along with two acres of family land in my hometown, Deacon's Pass - land left to my uncle by my grandfather; the only stipulation being that my dad be allowed to live on the land as long as he wished. At that time, he had a mobile home located on the land. But no other relative got anything.

My dad kept reminding me that I was the only male Hodges left to carry on the family name (he already had a vasectomy fourteen years earlier), and that's why my uncle left me what he did. Still, it didn't help me to work out my emotions on the matter. Though all of my relatives on Dad's side (except for him and my sister) lived away from Deacon's Pass, I still found it hard to accept.

It was as if he had given me a needed wedding present. However, I would have preferred his being there. But that was not an option, so I had to learn to deal with my own situation. I invested the money in a CD, quit my job, signed up for college, bought a mobile home to put on the land next to Dad's, and got married. It wasn't that easy - I spent a month of sleepless nights making these decisions, and two weeks of hell moving the mobile home, setting it up, and passing several county building inspections.

Finally, I was married, set into my new college schedule, and living a fairly normal life.

And then he came into my life, and it was never the same again.
The notorious, vile, disgusting creature some people call an armadillo.



"You see that?" My dad and I stood in the middle of our yard between our two homes. He was pointing to the ground.

"Can't you see all those holes?" Dad was a fanatic when it came to his grass. He spent most of his life keeping it neatly trimmed.

"Yeah... now I see them." I personally didn't take the time to notice the ground too much. But there was a 20-foot area that was nothing but a series of small holes and mounds of dirt.

"Not only is that ugly, it can also destroy a riding mower." Personal property and money were two other things my dad was devoted to. He definitely believed in maintaining his equipment and saving money.

"Well, what can I, small independent Wayne Hodges do?" I humbly asked.

"For starters, get the wheelbarrow out of the shed and fill these holes."

I knew I should have kept my mouth shut. "What caused these holes?"

"An armadillo."

"Are you sure?" I really didn't know much about the creature except that I saw a lot of them splattered on the highway.

"Yeah. I saw him one night when I got home from seeing your Uncle Bobby before he died. I should have shot him then."

I didn't feel quite up to talking about Uncle Bobby, so I started on something else. "We didn't have armadillos in Georgia when I was a kid, did we?"

"No. Your Uncle Bobby wanted me to bring one up to him, but I told him they would be there soon enough."

"I didn't know they dug in people's yards."

"They dig for insects. I want you to kill him for me."

"I don't have a gun."

"What happened to all those guns I gave you?"

"They're at Mama's house. I don't think I could kill anything." When I was younger, I was into hunting, but after my time in the Army I decided killing was something I didn't care to do.

"Don't be silly," Dad said. I knew he wouldn't understand.

"God must have made the armadillo for something." I didn't mind people killing an animal for food, but killing for the sake of killing was something else.

"Wayne, they're like cockroaches. Look, if you don't wanna kill him, let one of them dogs of yours out of the pen at night."

"I can't, they might get run over." Laura May and I had gotten in the habit of keeping every stray dog that wandered by.

"Next time you're at your mama's, pick up your shotgun, okay?"

"Sure."

Later, while in bed, I heard the dogs bark all night. They probably had been doing that before, but now, visions of the armadillo began to fill my head. I couldn't sleep that night, or any night in the months to follow.

Next day, I went to the college library and looked up "armadillo" in an encyclopedia. I learned that they were nocturnal creatures that lived off insects. Most don't have teeth, and if they do, they're in the back of their mouths. If a predator attacks them, they first try to run; if they can't, they dig themselves into the ground; and as a last resort, they curl up into a ball of armor. Then I saw the answer to my dilemma - in some South American countries, armadillo meat is considered a delicacy. That meant that I could kill him, as long as I ate him.

I then saw the illustration of the armadillo and lost my appetite. The little beady eyes, long snout, icky tail, and devilish claws not only disgusted me, but if the truth be known, it downright scared me.



"I read that some people eat them," I told my dad. The sun had just set and he was standing on his deck. I was leaning against the deck dressed in my Army camouflage, holding my .12-gauge pump shotgun, and I had a flashlight hanging on my belt. I was ready for battle.

"I suppose you could. They ain't nothin' but a possum on the half-shell. All they eat is insects. I don't think I've ever heard of 'em eating on a dead cow like a possum or coon. And people eat them."

My stomach churned as I pictured an albino-faced possum eating the insides of a dead cow.

After a while, my dad went into his trailer and I headed back toward mine. I was about ready to call it a night of hunting. I didn't like standing out there in the dark with God knows what kind of creatures surrounding me.

I wasn't two feet away from Dad's deck when I heard the dogs start to bark. I hoped it was at me they were barking. I flipped on my flashlight. It was hauntingly dim. The batteries needed to be replaced. As I approached my mobile home, the flashlight was shining on the dog pen. I saw three pairs of terrifying green eyes, all brightly glowing. My friendly mutts looked like barking demon dogs.

My heart was double-timing. I was ready to get back to the house. I moved the light away from the dogs and then I saw him. Straight down the fence line from me, the armadillo was moving steadily toward the field full of weeds behind the dog pen. I guess I scared him, but not half as much as he did me.

The dim light made a ghostly shadow, and I forgot what I had read about armadillos not being able to hide. I could see that guy gnawing my leg off. It was then that I knew that I could kill this thing without a second thought. Hell, I knew I would not rest until I saw him dead.

I raised my shotgun. In doing so, I dropped the flashlight and night surrounded me. The thought of being in total darkness with that beast from hell gave me the chills. I left the flashlight where it lay and bolted for my trailer.

"Did you get him?" Laura May asked as I shut the door behind me.

"No, I didn't see him," I lied.

The dogs didn't bark anymore that night.

----

I began to get into a nightly routine: whenever I heard the dogs bark, I would grab my gun and head out the door to patrol the yard. After blowing my first chance, I kicked myself for a few days. Then I bought a $60 flashlight and tied it to my shotgun.

Weeks went by without seeing the armadillo. Unfortunately, the dogs still barked all night, and I spent more time roaming around the yard than I did in bed. It drove Laura May crazy. "Wayne, why don't you just forget that damn armadillo?" she asked night after night.

"I would, but the dogs are keeping me awake. I won't get any sleep until he's dead."

"How do you know it's a he?"

"Go to sleep."

I had made straight A's during the first half of the quarter, but now my grades were falling rapidly. I spent my whole day in class picturing myself sending that armadillo to an early grave. I was heading toward a psychological breakdown.

The next time I had an encounter with the beast, I managed to get a shot off, but not before my old .12-gauge jammed on me and the flashlight slipped sideways off my gun. The shotgun knocked a hole into the silence of the night. I quickly tried to pump the gun and fire again, but it jammed a second time. While trying to fix it, I heard the creature plunge into the bushes. By the time I had another round loaded, the armadillo disappeared.

I searched for blood, but found none. Laura May stuck her head out the front door asking if I had got him, but I didn't hear her. I wasn't about to let the sick beast get away this time. I had unloaded over half a box of shotgun shells into the twenty feet of bushes before I felt someone grab my shoulder.

"This isn't a war, son," Dad said.

"Yes, it is! Didn't you want me to kill this thing?"

"Yeah, but I didn't mean for you to wake the dead! Do you know that it's four in the morning? We might live outside the city limits, but we still have a few neighbors."

"I guess you're right," I admitted, and went back inside to bed.

The next day, I searched for the remains of the armadillo, but all I found was a hole where he must have buried himself. An empty hole. He survived again.


The next and last time I had a run-in with my armadillo was two weeks later. The first night in months that I actually slept solid. The dogs had been quiet. I was dreaming of burying the armadillo when the dogs started up. By their growls, I knew the fiend was out there making Swiss cheese out of my lawn.

The clock read a quarter to three. I was groggy and in desperate need of more sleep. I even tried to ignore it, but the thought that I might be blowing another chance got me out of bed.

"Where are you going?" Laura May sleepily asked.

"Don't you hear the dogs?"

"No. Come back to bed."

"In a minute." I grabbed my shotgun and was on my way.

He was there, all right. Digging up the west side of the yard. There wasn't any bushes for him to run to on this side of the lawn. He was mine. I was too excited to notice the cool wind blowing on my bare legs. In my haste I had forgotten to put on my pants. I was standing in the dark with only a pair of underwear briefs covering me.

The demon saw me and began running toward the road. I pumped my shotgun. Since that first time I missed him, I had begun to keep my gun well-lubricated and it pumped smoothly. I didn't fire, however; I was going to get as close as possible before pulling the trigger.

I began running full-tilt. To my surprise, that little sucker could move, but I was gaining ground. The moon was full and I really didn't even need my flashlight. He was almost toe the highway when I stopped, short-winded, and took aim.

That little bead on my shotgun was dead-eye right on the bastard when I heard the car. The insane part of my brain, which had really began to thrive since first seeing the armadillo, started to pull the trigger. I knew if I did, I would probably hit the car, which, by the sound of it, was approaching fast. My saner mind said to wait till the car passed.

I'm not sure what caused it. I like to think that it was the full moon, but maybe it was just that part of me that wanted nothing more than to see that dirty stinking son of a devil dead. Whatever it was, it made me pull the trigger. The armadillo was on the road and the car was right on top of it, but still I pulled the trigger.

It was the biggest injustice of my life. In my crazy haste I had forgotten to take the safety off, and the gun didn't fire. Instead the armadillo became the victim of a car tire. I was deranged. I took the shotgun off safe and ran into the road. The car stopped fifty yards after hitting the armadillo.

I stood there in my Fruit of the Looms, and fired the four shells that were in my gun into the dead armadillo. I was still pumping and dry-firing when the State Patrolman forced the gun out of my hands and slapped me a few times.

Laura May and my dad were both coming to see what all the fuss was about.

"He killed my armadillo." That was all I could manage to say while they stared at me.

I was lucky that Dad knew the trooper. He didn't haul me off to jail, but he did make me change the tire that blew when he hit the armadillo. He didn't even let me put on my clothes.


Since that time, I have managed to become a fairly normal person again. But I still feel like grabbing my shotgun every time I hear a dog bark. And I go through tires like socks, because I cannot pass a dead armadillo without driving over him.