Someone once said, “Good judgment comes from experience, and a lot of that comes from bad judgment.” Combining this truth with the certainty that there is no fool like an old fool, and with the common sense admonishment that a fellow ought not to mess with something that is not messing with him, explains why I will never again pester an armadillo.
Fossil finds indicate that Mother Nature tinkered with countless hard-shelled animals of all shapes and sizes, from one-celled organisms to Brobdingnagian Brontosauruses. Apparently, she favored smaller creatures like Homo sapiens and relegated most armor-laden animals to the “good idea at the time” evolutionary junk pile.
But not armadillos. They have almost no natural enemies. During the Great Depression, when the political promise of “a chicken in every pot” proved to be a lie, as most political promises do, armadillos were called “Hoover hogs” by impoverished Americans who ate them to survive. However, while hungry Homo sapiens no longer prey upon these creatures, armadillos will, if angered, prey upon not-so-sapient Homo sapiens.
A few years ago, I bought a new pair of cowboy boots, western-style khakis with snap buttons, a big belt buckle, and a ten-gallon hat.
To help break in the new boots, I walked to church one Sunday morning. When I cut through an alley, I saw an armadillo … minding his own business. Exercising zero good judgment, I stepped on his tail, expecting him to scurry away in fright.
Indeed he scurried — straight toward me! Remembering that armadillos can carry leprosy, I put one un-broken-in boot in front of the other, with the mini-Megalosaurus hissing in hot pursuit. I heard its disease-bearing claws clack-clack-clacking on the pavement and was terrified they would soon rake my retreating rear end.
Just when I thought my blistered feet could stand no more, I saw a garbage dumpster. Leaping with all my might, I heard my buckle clang against the big box’s rim and my boots bang its side.
Gasping for breath, I glanced down and saw my armored adversary hissing, salivating, baring needle-sharp fangs, and clawing the box just inches from my boots.
Then I heard someone say, “What in the…!” Looking up, I saw several churchgoers staring in disbelief at a beady-eyed beast treeing a cringing cowboy.
Finally, the armadillo left, exulting in victory. As I slid down, the folks asked if I was all right. “Yes,” I lied, and then lied again. “I was minding my own business when that varmint attacked.”
My buckle was scratched, my boots were scuffed, and garbage goo stained my khakis from knee to waist.
Later, one of my daughters called. “I saved you a seat, Dad. Why didn’t you show up like you promised?” Her question necessitated a third Lord’s Day lie.
I wasn’t about to tell the truth: I exercised bad judgment by messing with something that wasn’t messing with me, resulting in a bad experience that proved there’s no fool like an old fool.
That’s why I missed church.
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
