I remember going on a canoe trip on the Peace River in high school. We were seniors and seventeen. It was one of those deals where you rented the boats and they dropped you up stream and you floated back to the outfitters three days later. Anyway, we were indulging in a bit of Jack and extra fine Swisher Sweet Cigars and talking of old Florida around the campfire. At this point we noticed an armadillo doing its thing about ten yards away and totally ignoring us. Someone one mentions that they were called Hoover Hogs during the Depression. At which point Rach, all five foot nothing of her says, with a Brooklyn accent, "Wait, lets try that, it would be totally authentic, and daddy bought me a new toy cause he was afraid this would be like deliverance or something". She then digs in her daypack, produces a Smith .357, and fires twice without warning.
Lessons learned
1) .357 is really, really loud at 1 am out in the boondocks, and the fire ball is kind of pretty too.

2) .357 hollow points are waaay too much gun for armadillo, nothing left but fur and shell
3) Never mess with short jewish girls with Israeli fathers, it will not end well.