In the Suburbs, What Happens After Dark, Stays After Dark

4:30am a while ago, our Boston and our, well, whatever he is, our smaller dog, snapped awake, barking, fur all up, jumping at the door to be let out. These are precious dogs, less than 50 pounds combined, the kind of dogs you negotiate respectfully with for who gets the best pillow, carry under your arm when getting the mail, the kind of dogs you worry your cats might hurt.

I let them out. Instantly, there was vicious snarling, scratching, panting, barking, scrambling, pursuit, attack. It was all obscured by the dark and the bushes hosting what was sounding like a small massacre. I hosed them pretty soundly - they could care less. And then there just was panting (the dogs...) Then there it was - a dead armadillo.

Anyone who ever watched Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom knows killing an armadillo is something best left to your assistant while you stay in the jeep.

Our Boston was the ring-leader and assasin; the smaller dog worked the perimeter. It took a broom and sharp voice to get the her to surrender her prey. Her goal appeared to be to kill it again, over and over, until, well, I don't know what she was aiming for, exactly. The rodent that looks like a cross between a possum and a turtle had an evident broken neck.

I had to shake my head and walk away in disgust. Could this be my baby? The puppy I carried in a sling at soccer games? The mature lady who has snuggled with both our babies?

She did look very proud and strong, almost regal, puffed up and towering over her kill.

We have never spoken of it again, me and the Boston. The children, however, continue to call her "armadillo breath."