“Watch out for that…” I trailed off and leaned forward, unsure of the nature of the mangled creature in the road with a long, scaly tail and a crunched, banded shell.
As a co-pilot, it was my duty to give helpful guidance like this. Of course, my husband had different ideas about how I could be useful, like looking up directions on Mapquest instead of identifying the remains of roadkill.
“There is no way that is an armadillo,” I exclaimed out loud to a sleeping baby and an uninterested driver. He was focused on the road signs as he searched for the next turn on our housing search.
“I think its right around here,” he muttered quietly. He had an uncanny sense of direction, aided by an almost flawless memory, which left me free to focus on other more pressing matters.
Meanwhile, I didn’t want to believe my eyes, but the mound in the middle of the road most certainly was a nine banded armadillo or “little armored one” as confirmed by a quick google search. Armadillos are not only in the Tennessee area; they are continuing to push north as a result of the changing climate. Watch out, Indiana, these little weirdos are coming for you.
“Still no directions?” my husband asked, noticing that I was scrolling through my phone from the corner of his eye.
“No, I’m afraid not. I am reading about the new migration pattern of armadillos. And by the way, they carry leprosy. Fortunately, they don’t bite so the risk of transmission is low, but we might as well keep driving. The dead armadillo is obviously a bad sign.”
He shook his head and drove on, exasperated from the lack of participation in the housing search, while also in acceptance that this was not the neighborhood for us. Why ignore signs from the Universe? We bought our last house based on the blooms of a beautiful magnolia tree, we knew we were going to have a son because of the whiff of pipe smoke, and we were definitely not going to live in a house on a street with the carcass of an armadillo in the middle of it.