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.
