Armadillos on the March

On our trek north from the Rio Grande Valley of Texas to visit family in St. Louis, Missouri we took a swing through Hot Springs, Arkansas and then north on Interstate 55.  On the second morning out I started counting the dead armadillos we were passing.  These poor creatures were all belly up and in various states of decomposition, looking like a vulture’s version of oysters on the half shell.  Observing only my side of the shoulder, and counting only the bodies that were clearly identifiable at 65 mph, I got to 16 dead ‘dillos in 30 minutes. 

            I can remember the first time I saw an armadillo, a family of them actually, roaming the verge at the side of the road in deep southern Louisiana.  That was fifteen years ago and it was such an unusual sight that Tom and I talked about the event for several miles down the highway.  Now, dead or alive, an armadillo barely moves the excitement needle off zero. 

            This is an animal, cousin to both anteaters and sloths, that originated in South America when that continent was separated from North America during the Cenozoic Era.  When the Panamanian isthmus emerged from the oceans the armadillo started its plodding journey north.  Lacking natural predators and producing four monozygotic babies at a time the nine-banded armadillo thrived.  These ugly (yes, they are, get over it) creatures were formerly found only far south in Texas.  Now they are commonly seen well into Missouri, Kansas Nebraska and farther north.  This is a reflection of global warming.  [Yes, global warming is real; no, it is not anthropogenic in origin.  The world is very large, people are very small, and we don’t get to take credit or blame for everything that happens on this celestial orb.] 

            Armadillos are scientifically useful because, due to their low body temperature (similar to the surface temperature of human skin) they are the only animal capable of systemically contracting leprosy (Hansen’s Disease).  Humans can contract leprosy from handling armadillos or eating their meat.  Though, in all honesty, who would look at an armadillo and think “well, that looks tasty.” 

            While armadillos have no natural predators, they are, as any motorist knows, their own worst enemy. Add poor eyesight to a small brain and you have Donald Trump—no, sorry, couldn’t resist that—you have an animal who does not play well with automobiles.  They also have a hard wired instinct to jump 18 inches vertically in the air when startled.  All of this combines to make an animal designed to catch it right on the bumper of most cars.  The result is 16 dead armadillos in 30 minutes on one stretch of road. 

            That leads me to my husband’s moment of genius (he has many, but this is his latest).  Collectives are the names given to groups of animals.  You can have a herd of bison, a flock of geese, a school of fish, or a swarm of wasps.  The lists of collectives can actually become quite whimsical.  But there is no collective for armadillos.  Tom and I started trying to think of one.  How do you capture the real essence of armadillos, as people have in so many other collectives?

            A wisdom of wombats; a fever of stingrays; an ostentation of peacocks; a bloat of hippos; an army of frogs, a business of ferrets and (my personal favorite) an exaltation of skylarks. 

            That is when Tom came up with the perfect answer.  From this time forward a group of these animals will be known as a thump of armadillos. 

            Invent a collective and keep the faith with a smile.