Armadillos live in Florida. They look like walking footballs. The husband calls them armored raccoons. They sort of bounce when they run and hop when they're scared. The husband once drove over one, positioning his car so the armadillo was right between the tires and wouldn't get killed, only to have it jump right into his little Kia's undercarriage and shake the whole car.
One armadillo has been foraging for bugs in our yard and our neighbor's yard every night for weeks. Armadillos have poor eyesight, so they run the same route everyday. We pointed it out to The Boy, who loves watching all animals, and tried to get him to say armadillo. He called it a doe-doe. "Doe-doe eat!" The Boy said, stalking after it. He giggled when he scared it, and it bounced-ran away.
The whole thing was very cute.
And then we realized the armadillo was burrowing under house. The doe-doe went back to being an armored raccoon and the battle was on.
An hour after telling The Boy to watch the doe-doe eat, the husband was standing in our doorway, The Boy behind his legs, throwing a garden ornament at the armadillo.
"Doe-doe!" The Boy yelled, thinking it was a game. The armadillo burrowed into the dirt.
"The doe-doe has to go," the husband said, growling at it. (I wish I were just being creative there.) The armadillo burrowed deeper.
"I think I can still grab its tail," the husband said.
"I think it's time to come in," I said.
The husband reluctantly listened, berating the (inside) cat for not protecting the house as he closed the door. "Doe-doe eat!" The Boy said.
The husband sprinkled cayenne pepper around the burrow for the armadillo to eat (edited by The Husband: The cayenne isn't to eat, it's when it smells the pepper it burns the nostrils). He solicited advice on the Internet and in the office and came home prepared to try a new tactic. As I fixed dinner, he took The Boy outside.
"C'mon, Boy. You can help me dig," the husband said. "We're putting mothballs in the doe-doe hole and filling it in."
"Doe-doe mowing," The Boy said. (Any yard work is mowing.) "Dada mowing."
I hope the mothballs work. I don't want to know what comes next.
* And just to be clear, I don't think we'll be killing the armadillo. Trapping, it probably, but still .... The title is meant to be sung like Elmer Fudd, "Kill da wabbit, kill da wabbit."