Inktober 2022
Oct. 15: Armadillo

I opened my eyes in the dead of night, woken from my much deserved sleep by a racket outside. It kind of sounded like something stretching something? I wasn’t sure. Blinking away my bleariness, I slowly sat up, ears honing in on the noises warily. It was the sound of something scrabbling a container, which I deduced was my garbage bin by the driveway. (I had just moved to the U.S. from Canada a couple months ago, so I thought that I couldn’t be too careful if I woke up to strange noises right outside.)

I got to my feet slowly, approaching my window which overlooked the front yard. I carefully peeled open a corner of the curtains, eyes squinting at the darkness barely illuminated by the dim light-post several meters away. There was a strange shape circling my garbage bin, the size of a smaller dog or a really fat cat. It looked kind of round and had a lighter colour, to which my mind immediately reacted; raccoon, or maybe even an opossum although it was less likely.

Since I had now confirmed that it wasn’t some stranger trying to break in, I quickly looked for a jacket and headed for the front door. I couldn’t let whichever critter that was push over my garbage bin again. Speaking of last time, a whole group of raccoons had, for some reason, chosen to flip over my garbage bin specifically, which was an absolute pain to clean up. It was perhaps a bit strange that it was just a single one this time, but I didn’t think much of it.

I grabbed the broom beside the closet and a flashlight by the door as I grabbed the doorknob, preparing myself for a brawl. Just as I opened the door, I was greeted by the sight of my garbage bin falling over with a thud, its contents spilling out onto the driveway in my direction. Immediately frustrated, I quickly stomped over while muttering, since it wouldn’t be very nice to yell in a neighbourhood at 3am; « Oh, how dare you mess up my driveway again, you filthy little— »

I froze in my tracks as the culprit made its way around to the opened side of the bin, coming into full view. My mind refused to compute for a solid second as I stood and stared. That was no raccoon, nor an opossum. It was— « …An armadillo? » sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ (ꜰind)ɴʘvel.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

I had never seen an armadillo in real life yet, so I was very surprised, but the main reason for my shock was that didn’t armadillos live in South America or like Texas? What’s one doing here in Iowa? But here I was, with an armadillo, yes the round, armoured ball of a creature, on my driveway, rummaging through my trash.

« …An armadillo. » I echoed once more, running my hand through my hair and taking a picture of the animal, before finally making my move and shooing it away with my broom. I guess the armadillo migration is truly happening after all.

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