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Armadillos are the miniature knights of the underworld. Their strange armored bodies are usually seen early in the morning or at dusk; a scurrying blur in front of headlights or as road kill the day after.
When I finally get to see one wrapped in bony layers of silver, pushing a tapered snout into the ground to sniff out ants and grubs, I stare in disbelief. Whether to laugh at such a creature, run away in fear, or praise God for small miracles are all up for grabs.
I watch in silence from only three feet away. The silvery armored tail is pointed in my direction like a sharp, menacing spear. I hear a “swish” and I’m off like a shot, my forgotten camera still dangling from my wrist. Who wants a painting of an armadillo anyway?
