Hank had known people who had driven from Houston to Las Vegas in approximately twenty-four hours. He considered such people to be fools, and just as dangerous as drunk drivers. There was no way anyone could spend that long driving and be in a fit state to operate three thousand or so pounds of animated metal.

The trip had been fairly uneventful. After about an hour on the road, once he was well out on the highway, he'd pulled over at a rest stop and let Chill Pill out of the taxi. The 'dillo had sulked, refusing to come out when offered a spoonful of the 'dillo feed Hank had stored in the mini-fridge. Hank had even warmed the mess up in the microwave, getting the mixture of minced meat, grated carrots and apples, egg, evaporated milk, and various vitamins up to just over room temperature. He made a note to himself to get a box of baking soda, because he had a feeling he was going to need to deodorize the microwave sooner rather than later.

Hank had just left the mixture in Chill Pill's monogrammed stoneware bowl and gotten back on the road. A few minutes later he smiled as he heard the scrabbling that announced the 'dillo's exit from captivity, and the thoughtful snuffling that signaled his eating. Chill was a cheerful little animal, and forgave him soon enough. Later he heard the scratching, whispery sound of Chill Pill using the litter box, and relaxed. He'd been afraid Chill might go all feline and take revenge by relieving himself all over the place, but it looked like it was going to be all right.

Since it wasn't easy to find a motel that allowed cats and dogs, much less armadillos, Hank and Chill parked in rest areas and truck stops (where Hank could also grab a quick shower). Hank would tie Chill up to a convenient picnic table or fence while he raked and cleaned the litter box, but then he'd put the 'dillo on his leash and follow him as he got some exercise and did a little rooting.

Hank learned the hard way early in the trip not to let Chill loose. At one truck stop a little boy in damp swim trunks had seen Hank walking Chill Pill, pointed, and squealed, "Look, Daddy! It's Cal Worthington and his dog--Spot!" Hank had agreed to let him walk Chill while he chatted with the parents. The little boy had returned a few moments later to inform Hank that 'your critter done ruint the kiddie pool'. It seems that the truck stop owner had set up an inflatable wading pool to keep his kids amused. Chill had been feeling over heated and had climbed right on in, sending children shrieking in every direction, which scared him into relieving himself in the pool. They didn't have to worry about the water being contaminated, since Chill Pill's claws had slashed the thin plastic as efficiently as any switchblade. Hank had to pony up over $40.00, since it had been the deluxe Tropical Play Pool, complete with water slide, palm tree sprayer, and basketball hoops. Back in the RV he'd scolded the unrepentant 'dillo, then said wistfully, "All the extras we ever had when I was a kid was a couple of blow up beach balls. I don't think the whole set cost Daddy more than seven or eight dollars." Chill Pill just twitched his nose, as if to say, 'never heard of inflation, Hank?'

The rest of the trip was uneventful--except for that incident in Las Vegas. He probably shouldn't have taken Chill out on The Strip, but darn in--he wanted to get a good look at the neon, and he was just too careful to rubberneck while he was driving. He'd been a little surprised at all the attention they'd gotten. *You'd think they'd never seen a man walking an armadillo on a leash,* he'd thought. Then he'd thought grudgingly, *Well, maybe they hadn't. But there are sure some things out there a damn sight odder than that. I don't know what all the fuss was about.*

He couldn't understand why the news crew that had been filming filler in front of The Mystique Casino had decided to start filming them. They had a nice little reporter lady with hair almost as big as Heloise's who had asked him very sweetly for a few words, and, being a gentleman, he hadn't refused. Things had been going well till that group of Japanese tourists had come along. They got so excited you'd have thought that Chill was Godzilla. Come to think of it, he did sort of look like a miniature version of something that might stomp on Tokyo. Anyway, they'd all started snapping pictures, and some of them had flashes.

Hank sighed, remembering the incident. He'd known what was going to happen the second he saw them raising the cameras, and he'd tried to prevent it. He was leaning down to grab the handle on the back of Chill Pill's harness (designed so an owner could snatch a tiny dog up to safety if a bigger one got obstreperous), but he'd been too late.

The flashes went off, and Chill Pill stiffened for a split second, then sprang straight up in the air leaving a good foot-and-a-half of space between him and the sidewalk. His armor plated back had smacked into Hank's face. The last time Hank had felt something like that, he'd been punched in the face while arresting an ex-college linebacker for his part in a highly lucrative ticket scalping scam. Hank saw stars, and Chill Pill jerked the leash out of his hand and made his escape--right through the open doors of the casino.

Hank had been after him in a second, with one of the news cameramen right behind him. The cameraman was chortling gleefully as he caught footage of blue-haired women screaming and fleeing slot machines as the armadillo banged into purses and plastic buckets of jackpot quarters, dodging the big, boot and Stetson wearing cowboy who was yelling, but carefully avoiding swearing, with such dialogue as, "Dag nab it, Chill! You little booger. I'm going to tan your scaly hide for you, you Stone Age refugee!"

Hank had finally caught Chill under one of the blackjack tables. He'd been ready to apologize and get his wallet out to pay damages when the casino boss had told him this was the best and cheapest publicity they'd had in years, and gave him comps for a free room and meals, 'good for a year, but let us know in advance, so we can set up a proper sort of commercial.'

Hank's hopes that the incident would quietly fade away were dashed the next evening when he made his regular call to Heloise. Eloise got to the phone first and crowed, "Unca Hank, you an' Chill Pill are famous! The girls on my soccer team want your autograph!" It seemed that news had been so grim lately that the Powers That Be had decided the national news needed to end on a lighthearted note, and had requisitioned 'The Armadillo Rodeo footage' to run just before closing their six o' clock news. Hank had a feeling that even now someone was planning on winning a pot of money at the expense of his dignity by sending the tape to America's Funniest Home Videos, or The Planet's Funniest Animals, or some other on-air method of humiliation. That had, however, been the most distressing event of the vacation so far, and Hank figured that was a pretty good average for four days spent traveling across four states.

When he was about five miles past Pasadena he once again pulled over to the side of the road and consulted his map. "Logan told me that he has a nice, tall brick wall around his back yard, Chill," Hank told the 'dillo. He'd buckled the pet taxi in the passenger seat, since Chill had seemed a little nervous after Las Vegas. He'd even put on some of the light jazz Chill seemed to favor, and the little creature had settled down. Instead of shifting restlessly, he was squatted in the taxi, nose just poking through the bars, grunting companionably now and then. "And he said he has a gardener come in twice a week to keep it nice, so you can dig if you want to, and let him earn his money. He even said you might help out, if you root in the flowerbeds. You can help turn the soil and get it ready for the bulbs he's going to have put in."

Hank and Logan Berryman ("Don't call me Loganberry and I won't call you anything they can't print in the church bulletin.") were college buddies. Both had been Aggies, both had gone into a branch of law--it's just that Hank became a State Trooper, and Logan became a lawyer. They had even worked together a time or two when Logan prosecuted a case Hank was involved in. Sadly (at least to Hank's mind), Logan had gotten fed up with the politics involved in being an elected official, and had resigned about five years before, opening a private practice. He'd found he had a knack for shrewd negotiation, and had gone into entertainment law.

Since the entertainment industry had been slow in realizing what a paradise Houston was, he ended up moving to California about a year-and-a-half before. "He says he's just west of Glendale. That isn't far from Hollywood, Chill." He reached between the bars and scratched the 'dillo between the ears. "Logan says he can get us all sorts of tours, and not just the ones for the tourists. Won't that be nice?" Chill snuffled. "I'll take you when I can, Bo, but don't expect much. I suppose they'll let celebrities sometimes take one of their fancy pets into some of the restaurants and such, but I don't reckon they'll be feeling too liberal about 'dillos."

He refolded the map carefully (Heloise irritated the fire out of him. Any map she refolded ended up looking some a failed attempt at origami) and replaced it in the glove compartment, checked traffic carefully, and got back on the road. Logan had given him careful directions, and it wasn't long before Hank was driving through an upscale looking suburb, carefully checking house numbers. He grinned when he saw the black 4x4 with the flames painted along its side parked in front of the big two-story house. You could take the boy out of Texas, but you couldn't take Texas out of the boy.

It was a two-vehicle driveway, so Hank was a little puzzled by the yellow sports car parked at the curb. It was so tiny and bright that it looked like it should have a tab sticking out of the undercarriage, and be racing around a loop of plastic track. Still, he wasn't about to turn down a good parking space, so he pulled in. There was an elderly lady next door, as thin, brown, and wrinkled as a strip of jerky, making her way toward a BMW that cost more than most prestige college educations. She was watching him suspiciously, so he tipped his Stetson politely, and got a gimlet look in return.

The noise from the engine had barely died when the front door flew open, and Logan came out at a dead run, bellowing, "You donut snatchin' jumped up security guard!"

Hank threw himself out of the RV, headed toward Logan with equal speed, yelling, "Money grabbin' land shark!"

They came together with roughly the force of a head-on collision between a semi and a freight train. Logan was as tall as Hank, but not as broad--more a quarterback to his linebacker--but at that moment, wrestling would have been a better sports metaphor. They were grappling with each other, staggering back and forth, thumping shoulders and backs (and occasionally the back of a head). The beef jerky lady shrieked as she scrabbled in her purse, "I'm calling 911! You leave Mister Berryman alone, you hooligan!"

They stumbled to a halt, both panting and laughing, still holding on to one another, and Logan called, "It's all right, Mrs. Hochheimer. You remember I told you my good friend Hank was coming for a visit?"

The woman blinked. "This is how friends greet each other?"

Hank pulled away, smiling charmingly. "Ma'am, you've obviously never seen two redneck buddies meet after a long parting."

Mrs. Hochheimer stared at Hank for a moment, taking a good look at him. That smile took him over from ordinary into just about gorgeous. She found herself fighting down an urge to giggle. "Nu? This is a redneck? Bubbie, you should talk to someone about the press your people are getting. In the movies, they make you all look like misskayts." She wiggled her fingers in farewell, and got in her car.

Hank looked at Logan, puzzled. "Miss cats?"

He laughed. "She was complimenting you, you dog. Speaking of dogs--where's the Chihuahua with a skin problem?"

"Logan, you're going to give Chill Pill a complex." Hank went to the RV and took out the pet taxi. "Here he is, fat and sassy."

Logan bent down and peered through the bars at the armadillo. "I'll say! He wasn't any bigger than a croquet ball last time I saw him. I have to hand it to you, Hank--I never thought he'd survive. Not many people would bother with trying to raise an orphan armadillo."

Hank shrugged. "Well, it was my fault he lost his mama and siblings. It was the least I could do. And..." he shifted, "I needed something to keep me occupied back then."

Logan sobered. Hank didn't like to talk about the shootout that had ended his career as a Texas Ranger. No matter how hard he'd worked, he could never come back to more than 80% of his former physical ability, and he just thought that the Rangers deserved more than that, so he'd taken early retirement. With the trust fund left by his grandfather in addition to the partial pension, he could live comfortably without having to worry about scrambling for work. That just wasn't Hank, though, and Logan thought that his friend was probably just about restless enough to start looking into a new line of work. Still, he knew better than to bring up the subject before Hank did, so he just said, "How have you been spending your time lately? Hunting and fishing much? I miss that."

"Oh, not much. I just can't abide taking more than is going to get eaten, and there's only so much game and fish a man can eat alone."

"What about Heloise and her family?"

"Are you kidding? Every time I go to the deer lease I have to listen to Eloise sniffle about Bambi. If I hunt rabbit it's Thumper. Thank goodness she's never seen Rocky and Bullwinkle, or I wouldn't be able to hunt squirrel. And as for fish... Heloise told me that if I ever showed up with some that I wasn't prepared to fry up myself, she'd hit me with it, and that can be downright dangerous."

"Oh, come on, Hank! What's so dangerous about a dead fish?"

"I had one of those bad boys that went fourteen pounds after it was gutted. She'd have been able to beat me to death with that."

They were walking into the house. "Hank..."

"You don't believe me? How much does a baseball bat weigh? I remember one case where one fisherman got into a dispute with another about weights, and he went after him with a frozen large mouth bass. He ended up doing time for assault. Put quite a dent in that other man's head, and I hear it took the doctor an hour to tweeze all the scales out of the scalp..."