That being said, The Boys, as we call them, startle easily, which if you think about it totally understandable. If you stood close enough to the ground to see the whites of an ant's eyes you'd be a little jumpy too. It doesn't take much to scare them: wind, branches falling on the roof, any noise that comes from what they can't see, growling farm equipment, armadillos...
Unless the night beast makes an early appearance while C&S are taking care of business before Lights Out. Which is what happened one night last week.
Colby, our neon light and the quieter of the two, barked. Not his usual single warning bark but a steady stream of stentorian woofs. Totally not like him. I step outside to see what he's so worked up about - I figure it'll be a tiny toad hopping in the grass or a roaming cicada that's attached itself too far down the trunk of a tree.
Imagine my surprise when I come foot to face with an armadillo. One that Colby is attempting to play with. He's running circles around the thing and it's turning this way and that, trying to track Colby's zippy circuitous route.
"Colby, get away from him!" (notice how I immediately labeled it a male and why, I can't tell you.)
I step between the pair and flap my hands in an absurd attempt to corral Colby back to the house. I say absurd because this dog boings around as though his legs are miniature pogo sticks and he can reach speeds that would make a cheetah cub pant.
Seriously, he's a comet disguised as a short, fluffy canine.
I squealed, I admit with no shame. Its keen sense of smell and poor eyesight must have sent a message to his wee brain that I smelled better than I looked because the leathery tank atop four legs did not slow.
I leapt onto the bottom step of the deck relieved that it, being an omnivore, wouldn't be in the least interested in nibbling my toes.
Scant inches before meeting the bottom step with its narrow skull, it veered left and scurried to the safer, darker and quieter south end of the deck.