By: Jefferson Weaver
The possum rubbed his eyes as he crawled out of the trashcan. He wondered if there was something wrong with his day-old half of a cheeseburger. Coming toward him was something that looked like a cross between his Cousin George and a turtle. “Who the heck are you?” the possum demanded, wiping cheese from his whiskers. “You lost or something?”
“Buenos dias,” the odd creature said. “You ain’t from around here, are you?” the possum said. The armadillo shook his head. “Sadly, no. I am new to the area. Would you have a grub?” “I’m sure there’s one around here somewhere,” the possum replied. “You don’t actually eat those things, do you?”
“Ah, yes,” the armadillo said. “I would so love a tasty grub.”
The possum flipped his tail. “You can have all you want. Wait a minute—there were some in that garden. The good stuff is all gone, but the grubs are still there. Follow me.” The possum led the way to the garden, stopping to examine a watermelon. “You lost?” “I come here from South Carolina. I have been, how do you say, wandering.” “You talk funny,” the possum said.
The armadillo shrugged, not an easy gesture due to his shell. He carefully sniffed along the furrow. He truly wanted a grub. “I am still learning to speak the Possum. My people are from Mexico.” The possum smiled wistfully. “I could go for a burrito about now–wait a minute,” the possum said. “I read something in the newspaper about you. You’re an armor-dillio.”
The armadillo cocked his head, puzzled. “Read? What is this?” “You know. Reading. How do you know what’s in the trashcans if you don’t read the grocery store receipts?” The armadillo drew himself up, offended. “I do not eat garbage.” “No,” the possum said, “but you do eat grubs. I mean, yuck. The whole squirting thing.” “That is what makes them good, yes?”
“Grubs ain’t good for nothing. Now a grasshopper, that’s a tasty bug.” “I like the grasshopper, yes, but oh so fast. Have to sneak up on’em at night. Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but I was eating some chicken scraps when I saw a newspaper that said y’all were, ahh, an invasive species. No offense, you understand.”
“Yes? So? The invasive—this is bad?” “It’s not a big deal to me, but we have problems with some invasive species, namely coyotes…..” “Coyotes!? Where?” The armadillo jumped vertically about two feet, ran in a circle and rolled into a ball. One eye peeked out of the armor. “Are they gone?” “Are who gone?” “The coyotes.”
The possum sniffed deeply. He smelled housecats, the big dumb dog, watermelons, and cat food.
“Ain’t no coyotes right now,” the possum said. “Why are you so scared of them? You owe a coyote some money or something?” “No,” the armadillo said. “What is money?”
“You got a lot to learn,” the possum said. “Coyotes are tough, but all you have to do is stink some”—the possum raised his tail, showing the glands that smelled like week-old summer roadkill—“and they leave you alone. I was thrown around once when I played dead, but it got bored.”
The armadillo unrolled. “I do not have the—what did you call it?” “Musk.” “That. It smells unpleasant, no offense intended.” “None taken. Now, a skunk—he stinks. We don’t cater to their kind around here. Still, I do wish I could shoot my stuff like they do.”
The possum sniffed the armadillo’s shell, eyed it curiously. “If I may ask—that shell thingy? It any good against cars?” “Cars?!? Where?” The armadillo bounced into the air again, spun in a circle and turned into an armored ball. The possum shook his head. After a moment, the armadillo peeked out once more. “Are the cars gone?”
“You need to switch to decaffeinated. I think you’ve been licking too many latte cups. At least I don’t have to teach you about cars. Ought to be banned, if you ask me.” “On that we would agree, yes.” The possum sniffed. He knew he’d seen a human drop a candy bar out there in the afternoon, and here it was, most of a Snickers. The possum’s hopes were dashed—it was covered in ants. Then he remembered the newspaper article.
“Hey, Armor-feller—you like ants?” For a moment, he feared the armadillo would again leap into the air. Instead, the armadillo waddled over and began happily licking.
“You are very kind, Senor Possum,” he said. “Gracias.” “I don’t know what that means,” the possum said, “but you’re welcome. You must be hungry. I mean, anyone who wants to eat a grub.” The armadillo straightened up, chocolate-covered ants covering his snout. “Ahh, a grub. Where can I find one?”
The possum shook his head. “Listen, you have some problems paying attention, don’t you?”
“Well,” the armadillo said, “my people are not the smartest animals on the planet.” “I reckon not,” the possum agreed. “Save me some of that candy bar, and I’ll show you around. There are some flower beds across the road.” “I do not like crossing roads,” the armadillo said.
“It’s easy,” the possum said, “but I’ll be happy to show you. A chicken taught me.”
Share this article using the shortlink:
About Author
