Gelding was said to make a male llama more tractable, and since large Levi didn’t have a place in our breeding plans, we thought about it. But he was such a fine fellow that we decided we might change our minds about breeding. He was to remain intact.

Our vet was Howdy Miller, a man with a natural warmth toward both humans and animals. I wanted a vet who was comfortable with emotion–if he was there when our old dog Martha died, I wanted to be able to cry without embarrassment. With Howdy, I knew I could.

Kelly held Levi while Howdy put the worming medicine, a paste, in Levi’s mouth. I kept the other llamas from crowding around. Levi struggled, and as I watched, I felt my physical uncertainty. What good was Phi Beta Kappa now? If Levi were really carrying on, I’d be scared of being hurt. I was embarrassed about it, but I had to admit I was intimidated.

Tumbleweed’s curiosity brought him closer. Since they were almost finished with Levi, I nabbed Tumble. Usually I could hold on, but this time he really didn’t want to be caught. He bolted. I kept my arms around his neck until he darted out the door, but I wasn’t dedicated enough to let myself be scraped against the side of the doorway.

So my physical skills had again been inadequate. But, paradoxically, I felt better. I knew that I could think of other ways to do things. We could build or buy a restraining chute. Sure, there might be an emergency sometime where I would be less skilled than I would want to be, but the number of times that would happen would probably be small. And I would learn from each one. I didn’t have to be Superwoman. I’d just be myself, and that would be good enough.

Whiskers came up near me, and I caught him. He didn’t resist. When Howdy called for Whiskers, I had him ready.

Howdy demonstrated giving shots, but I didn’t absorb much. Many llama breeders did their own worming and inoculating. Later for all that. I was learning step by step, and if the steps were small, so be it. They were steps.