In the past I have mentioned my almost stalker obsession with the llamas across the street. Actually, they are right across from my driveway. Everyday when I go get the mail, I am just an arms length away from “my” llamas. I gaze at them lovingly. Of course, they couldn’t care less. Really. They are only curious about me in a “sniff…sniff…she smells funny” sort of a way. I take no offense. After all, in llama land, body wash and citrus shampoo probably DO smell funny. But they have no room to talk, “essence of llama” on a hot summer day is not exactly appealing either. So there.
There are some new babies. They are precious. They look like chocolate cotton balls with legs. Really. That cute. Watching them run is so hilarious. They sort of bounce along, and chase each other. I would be tempted to coax chocolate fluff over to the fence so I could pet him, but his llama mama probably would have none of that. Unless I bribed her with a handful of grass. Then maybe…..either she’d let me, or she’d bite my hand off. Depends on her mood.
On the other end of the field are the males. At least I’m pretty sure they are the males. There is no definite confirmation of that fact aside from them acting like they own the place–kings of the pen so to speak. They are the noisy ones. The other night I heard them again. A high pitched screechy noise coming from the far side of the field. Sure enough the boys were at it again. Screech….Screech….. Chest butting each other…neck wrestling. Obviously, the male dominance “dance” was going on. I’m telling you, it is more interesting than watching Animal Planet around here.
I’m waiting for one of them to get loose again. The last time a mama llama got out and grazed in our front yard. I didn’t mind. I just watched from my kitchen window. When her owners appeared and tried to catch her, she zigged and zagged and ran around until SHE decided it was time to go back to the other side of the fence. Where the grass is not nearly as green as my front yard.
Oh, on a side note: In yesterday’s blog I mentioned the poopy birds. This morning my oldest son came running in from the deck. “Mom! Mom! I got pecked!” After some sorting out of the story I found out that the bird had not actually pecked him, but dove at him like she was getting ready to peck. An obvious strategy. A tactical maneuver on her part. I told my son that I got dive bombed yesterday. Mama bird needs to retreat—-or else. This means war!!! I’m most definitely going to need therapy.