Llamas

A llama strangled me once. I’ve been spit on, neigh, actually puked on, by llamas more times then I can count. Llama feet have stomped on mine. And still, I’m obsessed. They’re like big cats. You want to pet a llama? Have them move into another pasture? Have them pose for ironic pictures? Llamas don’t care. Granted, they can be trained. Like anything, give it enough treats and tie a rope around it, and eventually, you’ll win the day. My llamas run wild – semi-controllable, but still with a mind of their own.

Independent animals make me happy. If you can offer me a little sass and then entertain yourself, I’m in heaven. Horses are needy. They must be trained. Goats are like dogs. Chickens are messy. Llamas are barnyard snobs. They would summer in the East Hamptons, have a private table at Le Cirque, wear black label alpaca knitwear, and rifle though your medicine cabinet without a second thought. And if you caught them in the act? They’d just spit on you and walk away.

But they live for a long time. And if they get sick, they can die very quickly. They’re very susceptible to a worm that crawls into the llama stomach via deer poop. If they successfully enter the llama system, they’ll mess with their brains, and voila, you’re animal will be dead. To combat this you need to worm them consistently. But like anything, you’ll get different advice about how to do it or when to do it. And then one will die. Even if they did strangle you or spit on you, you feel bad and guilty and question why you live on a farm at all.