Chapter Two:
First Days
[Page 3]
We were living with llamas now, and our attention was riveted on
these fascinating additions to our family. Excitement alternated
with wondering what we'd gotten into; what commitment not yet fully
understood had been made? It was, of course, much less of a commitment
than being new parents; we could always sell the llamas.
But it was the same kind of uncertainty. What did we need to do
for them? What should we allow them to do, and how to train them
to do what we wanted and not what we didn't want? There were only
a few magazine articles and the one book I'd already found to guide
us.
One afternoon, I watched Levi and Tumbleweed chase each other around
the yard, biting knees and necks and ears. I worried that they would
hurt each other, and ran to phone another llama breeder. "It's
good exercise,'' he assured me. "They won't grow fighting teeth
until they are just over two years old. Don't worry.'' Fighting
teeth, on the sides of the llamas' mouths, were very sharp. They
were removed by llama owners who kept males in the same pasture.
We staked the llamas out to graze among the rabbit brush and other
high-desert vegetation on our land. By staking Levi and Tumbleweed
at various places, we could provide them with munchies and diversion,
and they could be our roving lawn mowers. We attached them by twenty-foot
ropes to cinder blocks or to trees. I wondered if they would nibble
on their ropes, as Cider did on her leash; they didn't. We stopped
using cinder blocks, though, after Levi dragged one a third of a
mile, to where Tumbleweed and I were going for a walk without him.
Whenever we staked them near our half-completed septic tank installation,
one llama or both climbed the mound of dirt beside the tank. They
would stand there, gazing majestically at everything around them:
passing cars, forests, mountains, clouds. Alert to sound and movement,
they stood.
Now and then one would tangle a rope around a tree or some bushes;
or if we let them graze close together, they would intertwine their
ropes. Then they would just sit down, and soon one of us would notice
and straighten them out.
We checked on them frequently, leaving our ranch work, or wandering
outside if we were in the trailer. They didn't need checking--tangled
lines quickly became rare--but we had become as curious as llamas.
I would be writing, or planning a class, when I would have to find
out what they were doing. I felt as though beings as magical as
elves or unicorns had come to live with us. What did they think
about? What is thinking for a llama? What kinds of emotions did
they feel? Did they have a sense of humor? I wondered and watched.
"It's the Lee and Tee Show,'' joked Kelly as he came upon
me gazing at the llamas. Lee and Tee stuck as nicknames.
Kelly looked up from his reading one afternoon and saw Levi walking
past the trailer, unconstrained by any lead rope. The llama was
wandering slowly up toward the ridge, nibbling here and there. Kelly
followed in what he hoped was a casual manner. Levi seemed to be
enjoying his freedom, quite aware that something was different.
He leaned over to nibble, and Kelly grabbed him. Levi didn't seem
to mind. It wasn't to be our last loose llama.
|
