Kudzu Queen

By Tamara Ducote

Sometimes you just know, deep in the core of your soul, what you need to make your life complete. I need an armadillo. Not the ‘dillo statues and figurines my friends bring me back from their travels to the Southwest, although I do appreciate those. I’m talking a living, breathing, burrowing, crapping armadillo.

Its name will be Twinkle. Twinkle will wear a pink harness studded with rhinestones. Twinkle’s claws will be painted a tasteful shade of fuchsia.

“Where will you keep the thing?” my daughter asked.

“In my room, of course,” I said.

“The iguana won’t like that,” Veronica noted.

” Dang, you’re right. Twinkle will have to sleep in your room,” I tell her.

“No way, Mom. No freaking way.” I can tell that she is about to unleash the old “I’ll tell Dad” business, so I head her off.

“You can find another place to live,” I tell her. “You’re a smart, resourceful girl. You’ll be fine.”

I have researched this armadillo business. A common nine-banded armadillo, which is what we have splattered all over the roads in the American South, starts at $725. This is within reach, if I let the bank foreclose on my house, let the repo man have the blazer and learn to live without electricity. The only problem is that one is required to send the money first, relying upon the armadillo merchant’s honesty. I’ve read accounts of armadillo-lovers getting burned, so this is out.

It is NOT true that one can contract Hansen’s disease (also known as leprosy) from casual contact with armadillos. Eating undercooked armadillo meat is the culprit. This mainly happens in Third World countries. As I do not plan on eating my armadillo, I am safe.

There is a delightfully petite pink armadillo native to South America called the fairy armadillo. They are outrageously expensive. I am not a high maintenance broad. I would be perfectly happy with a local ‘dillo.

Folks who traffic in armadillos refer to the creatures as “piggies,” due to the sounds the animals make, and 100 percent of an armadillo’s nutritional requirements can be met with canned cat food and occasional grub-catching forays in the backyard.

Scientific studies indicate that armadillos do not experience stress while in captivity. The prevailing thought is that they are too stupid to get upset, provided their basic needs are met.

Armadillos are the only animals in the world that give birth to identical quadruplets every single time they reproduce.

Armadillos are the only armored mammal.

Armadillos are rear-toothed, making it nearly impossible for them to bite you. They are capable of inflicting scratches with their long claws, but I am not worried about this. Being a battle-scarred veteran of the Leash Wars with the iguana (the ig’ won, by the way), I doubt that ‘dillo scratches would faze me.

I had an armadillo, briefly. She was beautiful. I was coming home from a party on the river and spotted a heavily gravid ‘dillo waddling across the road. I leapt from the blazer and gave chase. I suspect the tequila I’d been imbibing all evening gave me super powers, because I was successful in my pursuit. I brought the ‘dillo home, made a nest of sleeping bags on the floor and my ‘dillo spent the night snoring in my hair. My live-in boyfriend was less than thrilled with our new household member.

“That thing’s breathing is labored,” he said. “It’s sick. You’ve got to turn it loose.”

“She’s not sick,” I argued. “Look how pregnant she is. She’s doing Lamaze.”

“It’s sick with some nasty wild animal disease. Let it go.” As if he had just graduated from veterinary school, or something, instead of being a high school dropout.

Our romance was new enough that the boyfriend won, and I released the ‘dillo where I had captured her.

I got over losing the house in my first divorce. I accepted sacrificing my credit rating in divorce number two. And I didn’t much mind giving my third ex the furniture (anything to get him gone). But I still resent the ex-live-in for coming between me and my armadillo. The 20/20 vision that hindsight provides tells me I should have released the boyfriend where I had caught him, and kept the ‘dillo.

So recently I put up signs in blighted, drug-infested parts of town. The signs said, ”$50 for live, uninjured armadillo. Call Tamara.” I discovered the adage about how a crackhead will do anything for money is a damned lie. Sure, a crackhead will pawn his grandma’s jewelry or sell his little sister’s ass, but he can’t be bothered to catch a ‘dillo.

Now that school is out for the summer, I can devote more time to procuring a ‘dillo. Veronica calls these all-night excursions “idiot missions.” Luckily, I have found a friend who will accompany me on my nocturnal jaunts. Hiram is new in town and so bored he doesn’t mind tramping through the woods at midnight, baiting likely ‘dillo sites with canned cat food. We make a temporary headquarters and check the sites every 30 minutes until dawn. We pass the nighttime hours talking. It is rather like those college bull sessions of long ago, except that instead of passing a joint, Hiram and I share a thermos of coffee.

Last week, we very nearly had a ‘dillo. I blame Hiram entirely for hesitating at the last moment, thus letting my ‘dillo escape into impenetrable underbrush. I hope Hiram improves, or else I’m going to have to cut him out of the Mobile Armadillo Society, which would reduce its membership by 50 percent, but might improve my chances of bringing Twinkle home.

Contact Tamara Ducote at TDDucote6@aol.com.

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