What’s that? I ask. My husband has stopped the car to show me
a tupelo tree. He’s amused. You’ve never seen an armadillo?
I don’t answer. I can’t tell the difference between goats
and sheep in a field—why is he surprised? Hunkered by the side
of the road—a dense hump-backed bundle, black marble eyes,
it sits immobile. Frozen with fear? Or maybe it’s me
who’s frightened. I approach, drawn to this self-contained
miniature dinosaur, ancient survivor in its armored shell—if you
shoot
an armadillo, the bullet is likely to ricochet. I later learn
when surprised or threatened they leap five feet straight up
in a futile attempt to escape—another endearing trait—although
they often land under the wheels of an oncoming car.
How do they have sex? I wonder that evening, a question
I’ve been asking recently about all living creatures, especially
those of a certain age. Hard-ly, says my husband.
The online article I find, “The Sex Life of an Armadillo
Is More Depressing than Yours,” is strangely comforting.
The male sniffs and paws the female, who kicks at him
with her back feet. When ready she wags her tail, afterwards
retreats into a burrow in her private shelled container.
No double messages, no conflict about invasion
of space, an existence that, at times, seems enviable.
