The family of my Highway Patrol partner (Carlos) lived in Karnes County. They had a few acres with an occasional deer and I was invited for an early morning hunt.
We arrived before daylight and I was taken to an ancient single horse trailer sitting in a corner of the pasture. It was pitch black inside, but I was assured I would find a chair if I felt around (no flashlight?).
Sure enough, among some moldy hay, old lumber, and feed sacks I found a rickety chair to sit on. I settled in with resolve to be still and quiet until shooting light.
Unfortunately the "still and quiet" part of me didn't know that when I sat down field mice would begin to crawl on me from head to toe.
Now picture this, I am in a small metal trailer that has solid walls and ceiling. If I put my arm out a bit I will touch the walls of the trailer. Now picture me periodically FLAILING my arms like a windmill in a hurricane while trying to dislodge mice that are crawling down my collar and up my britches leg?
Obviously no self-respecting deer appeared on this day. Well, every path has a few puddles, but the day brightened when Carlos invited me to share lunch with his hispanic family.
In family tradition, his mom stood to one side of the table and served freshly made flour tortillas that were so good I thought I was ridin' a gravy train on biscuit wheels. We had awesome pinto beans, rice, and a tender and tasty meat from a clear plastic cooking bag that had come from the oven.
About halfway thru the meal while putting a second helping of the "meat" on my plate, Carlos' father asked me in Spanish how I liked the little armored one?
This is the part where my brain said, "OK, you know a bit of Spanish, but no way you heard that that right????"
"Scuse me Sir, what did you say?"
Carlos grinned and repeated, "How do you like the armadillo?"
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