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Llama-rama Ding Dang

The Source

She said, “The llama didn’t actually spit at you.” I said, “Of course it did!” “No,” she said. “It hissed, and spit came out its mouth.” “And landed on my shirt. I know a spit when see one.” We were visiting a farm in rural Pike County and the owners were showing us the attributes of their prized llamas. Frankly, I’ve never though llamas had much to commend themselves other that long eyelashes. They’ve always resembled a camel manufactured in North Korea with cheap parts or a sheep who’d been taking generic drugs. There were six of us on this after-supper tour and I was the only person spat upon. I asked our host if I should take this personally, if perhaps llamas only spit upon those they loathe. Mary was a very gentile lady and she put it as politely as she could, “Well, they don’t spit without a reason. And remember, it was just a moist hiss.” I took it personally. I always do. Once upon a warm Arenzville evening I was taking a stroll around town and had detoured down a side street. Okay, the town only has four through streets so any time you get off the main drag it’s a detour. One of my former students, Amanda, was sitting her front yard holding two Dachshund puppies. I stopped to chat and since the pups seemed friendly I stuck out my hand to pet one of then. The little devil leaped out and took a firm hold on my index finger with its razor-sharp teeth. I still have the scar. To this day Amanda claims that she warned me but I think she’s just making that up or trying to avoid a lawsuit. My luck with animals runs neck and neck with my lottery winnings. My horse was called Twinkle, thus named because she had one “glass” eye. She had the habit of bloating out her stomach just as I was about to cinch up her girth strap so some older relative of mine taught me the trick of giving her a sharp knee right in the gut just as she took a breath. This caused Twinkle to exhale quickly, thus allowing me to secure the saddle. One day Twinkle got one trick ahead of me and just after I’d given her the knee she reached her head around and bit off what at the time I swore was a pound of my left butt cheek. It was my turn to exhale and the horse I had a very serious talk for a few minutes. It’s an animal thing, I swear. My friend, Sylvia Burke, the queen of Franklin Lake, had a very large cat named Franklin who’d run upstairs as soon as he saw me enter her house. The creature would stand at the top of the landing staring at me until I left several hours later. On one fall afternoon I went to leave the Burke residence and Franklin followed us out to my car. I thought that perhaps the cat had a change of heart and wanted to make up by rubbing on my leg. I’d mistaken his motives. He peed on my tire. A fitting benediction to what he thought of my visit. The leash law in Cass County is like the morality code of Illinois governors. . . It’s there but no one pays any attention to it. Sometimes my late night walks resemble an old episode of Marlin Perkins’ Wild Kingdom TV show as I carefully tiptoe from one mongrel’s territory to the next. If you leave your trash bags out more than five minutes before the garbage truck arrives every Fido in the county is treated to a plastic-coated breakfast. And every UPS man knows the famous last words: “Oh don’t worry. He won’t hurt you.” I used to get on my bike when I was a boy and ride the two miles to Grandma’s house in the country. It was a pleasant ride. . . until you got to Lanier’s Curve. The Lanier family had a variety of vicious dogs that were all somehow related to one another and a few had distant relatives in the wolf family. These hounds would attack full-sized John Deere tractors so a ten-year-old on a Schwinn was doomed to be chewed alive, unless . . . unless he had a squirt gun filled with ammonia. In case you’re taking notes, dogs do not like a face full of ammonia. I’m not cruel, but over the years I’ve sort of gotten used to my ankles and I’d like very much to keep them. And older lady once told me that animals know which people don’t like them. They sense it. Heck, it would be darned stupid cat who couldn’t look at my face and know what I was thinking, and to tell you the truth, I’ve always dreamed about spitting at a llama.