The Pink Fairy Armadillo Army

By Ronnell Kay Gibson

You give one pink fairy armadillo a belly rub, and now look what’s gone an’ happened—I’ve got an army of the little buggers.

The first armadillo showed up a week ago. My dog, Brewser, plum scared the bajeezers outta me when he started barking at the butt-crack of dawn. The border collie had trapped somethin’ under a scraggly bush near the barn.

When I inched closer, two tiny eyes, no bigger than a mouse’s, blinked back at me. But with its hard, pink backside, claw-like feet, and spatula-shaped tail, I knew it weren’t no mouse. “Hey, Brewser, I reckon you caught a pink fairy armadillo.”

Brewser growled.

“Nah, he ain’t dangerous. Grandpappy told me stories about them creatures. Said if you catch one, it’ll bring you good luck.”

Brewser nudged up against my leg.

“I agree. ’Bout time we had some good luck around here. With this nasty dry spell, ground’s drier than Momma’s cornbread biscuits, God rest her soul. Our soybean crop’s plum ready to shrivel, along with any hope of saving the ranch.” I stroked the top of Brewser’s head, but that darn dog wasn’t satisfied. He rolled over on his back and stuck his feet in the air, waiting for me to give his tummy a scratch too.

That’s when Chuck—what I named the little armadillo fella—turned over on his back with those clawed feet pointing straight up.

I chuckled. “You want a belly rub too?” When I tickled his soft and silky midsection, he made the faintest purring sound.

For the rest of the morning, Chuck followed me around the ranch like a pup, his little legs trying to keep up with all my chores. Couldn’t help but take a shine to ’im.

As we walked the fields, my boots kicked up dust with each step. The soybean’s fuzzy oval leaves hung limp, looking thirstier than Pa after Momma dumped his moonshine. “Chuck, I sure hope ya got some good luck in ya.”

The next morning when I stepped onto my porch after breakfast, Brewser and Chuck rushed up, one on the left side of my boot, the other on the right, rubbing up against my feet with affection. “Good morning, Brewser. Good morning, Chuck.” Both flopped onto their backs, waiting ’til I scratched their bellies. As soon as I did, they scurried off.

Then two new pink fairy armadillos waddled toward me.

“Where’d you guys come from?”

They peered up at me with beady eyes, then rolled over.

“Not you, too.” What could I do but oblige?

Mighta been fine had it stopped there, but the next morning five more appeared on my doorstep. All wanting belly rubs.

Brewser took it upon himself to be their herder. If one of the creatures wandered off, Brewser’d be right there, ready to bring the pup back into the pack. Not that they went far. Never seen any of the little guys go past our property line.

The next day, six more armadillos showed up.

The next day another eight appeared, all wanting belly rubs. This was getting downright ridiculous.

“Nope, not today,” I announced to the crowd.

Brewser looked up at me and barked, then the whole lot barked too. Sounded almost like the chickadees’ mating season.

“Traitor,” I told Brewser.

I sighed, plopped my tuchus on the stoop, and one by one rubbed everybody’s belly, feeling more and more foolish with every stroke.

With the count now at twenty-four, I decided to build an enclosure for them. Enough room to roam, shade to relax in, and to keep them out of mischeif at night.

The following day, my fondness for the army of pets hardened like poop-turds in the summer heat. Little imps had dug twenty-four little holes underneath their pen.

My insides boiled as I stomped off to get a shovel, ignoring the pink creatures—now over fifty—and my own mutinous dog as they followed me, all barking.

“Naughty pups. No belly rubs. Like I don’t got enough work to do. Now I gotta go an’ fix your messes.”

Chuck rubbed up against my boot, then turned back to the crowd, squawking at the bunch. The rest of his armadillo friends squawked back, then they all ran over to the holes. Using their back tails, they filled in every one of those holes.

The horde gathered around me, anxiously wagging their tails—Brewser’s side to side, the rest up and down. “Fine.” In unison, all fifty of them flopped over, and I spent the next half hour rubbing bellies.

Which leads me to today. I’m afraid to step outside, not sure how much more I can handle.

I’m just putting a cup of steamin’ joe to my lips when the barking starts. Louder. There’s definitely more of them.

I can’t look.

The barking intensifies, like a posse of galloping horses. I can feel it in my chest.

When I open the door, there’s over a hundred pink fairy armadillos, all woofing and wagging their tails.

The rest of my life flashes before my eyes—me endlessly belly-rubbing millions of little, pink creatures.

I’m just about to break when I see storm clouds brewing. Bad ones. Though I’ve been praying for rain, moisture coming down that brutal will cause the water to run straight off the hard soil rather than soaking in.

But there’s nothing I can do.

I shoo the armadillos into the barn, and we wait. The storm’s beating lasts about an hour, then the skies clear.

When I go to inspect my fields, I don’t believe my eyes. The rainwater is flowing in channels through the rows of beans.

The pups dance around my feet, splashing in the mud.

Then it dawns on me. The armadillos must’ve been digging out here. Their holes and tunnels have caught the water, allowing it to soak in.

My crops will survive.

“Belly rubs for everyone!”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ronnell Kay Gibson surrounds herself with words and teenagers. She specializes in young adult contemporary with a sprinkling of the mysterious. She also writes youth and adult devotions and is one of the editors for Havok Publishing. Self-proclaimed coffee snob and Marvel movie addict, Ronnell has also titled herself a macaron padawan and a cupcake Jedi. High on her bucket list is to attend San Diego Comic Con. Ronnell lives in central Wisconsin, with her husband, two teenagers, and two Pomeranian puppies.

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