The End of the Armadillo

There are moments in life when time slows down just enough for you to realize two things simultaneously:

Something terrible is about to happen.

You are not fast enough to stop it.

Several months ago, we had one of those moments.

Clover was standing on the couch in the family room — all 155 pounds of gangly wolfhound enthusiasm — when something in her brain apparently fired like a starting pistol.

Before I even understood what was happening, she launched.

Not stepped.

Not hopped.

Launched.

Four paws left the couch at the same time and she came flying at me like a furry cruise missile.

I screamed.

Not a dignified scream either. A full, startled “OH MY GOD” scream as I dove sideways out of the way, convinced that if she made contact I would immediately become a cautionary tale about large dogs and poor life choices.

She sailed past me

Then came the sound.

THUD.

Followed by the saddest, sickest little squeak.

Clover had landed directly on the armadillo toy.

Now, this was not just any toy.

This armadillo had history.

It had been purchased in December 2008 at the Shell Bizarre in Port St. Lucie, Florida. I had carefully selected it from the display to give to Lucy, our first dog, as one of her Santa Paws presents.

From there it passed through generations of dogs like some kind of squeaky family heirloom:

Lucy → Buddy → Copper → Raven → Shamrock → and finally Clover.

For years that little armadillo had survived teeth, paws, tosses, and the general chaos of dog life.

Until last night.

After Clover body-slammed it, the poor thing made one weak, wheezing squeak… and then fell silent.

Moments later she began chewing its head off.

When the stuffing started coming out of its mostly decapitated skull, I stepped in and confiscated the remains.

Clover reacted the way only a spoiled wolfhound brat can.

You would have thought I had personally murdered the armadillo myself.

There was outrage.

There was whining.

There was dramatic suffering.

And when that failed to produce results, she hopped back onto the couch and grabbed the couch cover in her mouth.

That’s when we had the standoff.

Clover on the couch.

Me standing in front of her holding the other end of the couch cover.

Eye to eye.

She refused to let go.

I refused to move.

For five straight minutes I calmly repeated the same sentence:

“Make good choices.”

Behind me, Justin sat on the couch watching the entire scene unfold like it was a wildlife documentary. I suspect he was waiting to see which one of us would win. If he’d had time, he probably would have taken bets from the rest of the animals.

Eventually Clover sighed, released the couch cover, and flopped down dramatically.

Victory was mine.

But the armadillo did not survive the night.

Rest in peace, little dillo.

You served this family with honor for sixteen years.