Alpaca Lunch

Actually, the smarter thing would’ve been to ‘paca piece. Then I might have staved off yesterday’s assault on my person. Who knew that photographing alpacas could be so fraught with danger?

My assailant? Black Ice. Mitigating factor? Head full of turbo-charged Andean testosterone.

Now, it’s not like I wasn’t warned, but even so. I had spent about 90 delightful minutes wandering among the females and their babies (called “crias”) at Dogwood Hill Alpacary in Barnestown, MD, snapping shots to be used on their website. When the lady alpacas get anxious, about all you get out of them is some humming that sounds like a high-pitched version of the noise Marge Simpson makes when she’s feeling doubtful. I suppose if you put on a coyote costume (anything canine makes camelids kookoo) and cornered them they might kick at you, but that’s about what it would take.

The ladies enjoy the company of two “guardian llamas”. The llamas are about half again as big as the alpacas and I was told they were capable of “stomping a fox”. The female, Maybelline, is hyper-vigilant to the point, I think, of irritating the alpaca mommies. When I first visited, Maybelline walked straight for me and got right in my face. It looked like this:

She grudgingly decided I was OK, and has since developed one of those melancholy spinster fantasies that I’m her secret admirer. Anyway, she’s allowed the curious crias to nose right up to me like this…

…and get in among her ladies’ club to get shots like this:

Now, who’s gonna be nervous among critters like that?

I should mention the other “guardian” llama. It’s a dude named Jolteon. Now, can any of my women readers relate to this? This guy’s given a lofty title, struts around with affected dignity, and basically does nothing. In fact, worse than nothing. Dogwood Hills’ owner, Susie, told me that one time she saw all of the alpacas at the far side of their pasture issuing frantic alarm calls about a fox or some such. Jolteon? He had slipped into the barn and was eating all their food. Here’s the big, loveable lug:

So afterward Susie leads me down the hill for the holding pen with the two males, Black Ice and, um, Peachy Keene. Guess who’s the dominant one? Actually, it's Peachy, trying to rise above his name. On the way, Susie picks up a plastic bucket.

“What’s that for?” I ask.

“Protection.”

“What do you mean?”

“In case I have to throw it at the big black one. He’s tackled me before.”

Ah.

These two are so hormonally addled, it verges on the comic. Black Ice roars around the pen and hurls his front legs onto the top of the fence, with his upthrust teeth looking for all the world like Disney’s Goofy, right down to the grass in his mouth. Here’s Meester Macho. A game we can play in the comments is to write a caption for what Susie’s thinking just then.

Peachy has literally worn a groove by incessantly pacing in the grass on the side of the pen where he can catch an occasional glimpse of the female herd. He’s clearly a lover, not a fighter, isn’t he?

So I cautiously enter the pen, telling Susie I’ll be done and out in a moment. “Oh, I’d never let you go in there alone,” she says. Double Ah.

Once we’re in, we cautiously move around, whispering sweet nothings to the beasts and…nothing. Black Ice checks me out and I pet him, astounding Susie. But he’s so active I can’t get a good photo. I decide to try later.

A mother and daughter from another alpaca ranch come to visit, and while they’re all occupied, I think well, I might as well go down and try to get this last photo. This time as I approach the males’ pen, they’re just placidly grazing. Oh, I think, what could be the harm if I just slip in to snap a couple of shots?

I enter the gate and walk slowly toward the center of the pen. Black Ice keeps nibbling grass, Peaches keeps pacing and yearning. Then, just as I get to the middle, Black Ice jerks his head up as though he’d just become aware of my presence. If faced with a jury, I would swear at this point that acrid clouds of brimstone huff out of his nostrils and his eyes burn red. He charges me. You know, you can think a lot of thoughts in a split second. I think, why doesn’t my shout stop him in his tracks? Do I charge back or run away? Don’t I realize there’s no time for either of these two options? How much damage can an animal with soft hooves and teeth in just one jaw do? Why didn’t I bring in the bucket? If this situation isn’t interesting enough to stop Peachy’s randy pacing, what would be? You know, if you didn’t want bull animals to charge you, why did you enter their pen completely clothed in red capes? Considering how little I own, would it have been at all useful to have made out a will? Will my family make up a heroic story for others to conceal the truly silly way in which I died? Will this result somehow in my coming back as an alpaca? If so, can I at least be a female one?

Now, go back to the photo I posted of Black Ice. Notice in particular how tall he is once he’s up on his hind legs. This is the last view I had before I decided I should at least cover my head and push back some. But he knew what he was doing. Staying aloft, he shoved me back and shoved me back until I crumpled into the manger of hay. Standing over me, you could almost hear him mutter, “This is my yard, punk,” before he calmly went back to grazing.

From my side, I took a moment to check for breaks and tears and was astonished that I escaped with just a couple of scrapes, my glasses and camera unscathed. I then determined that the only way I could salvage any self-esteem would be to get the photo I came for. And dang if I didn’t. Here’s Supreme MC Black Ice pretending that he didn’t assault a monk with intent to cause grievous bodily harm.

As a bonus bit of entertainment for the weekend, Glenn Mullin writes in to tell me that they have completed the website for the Zanabazar Museum of Fine Arts in Ulaan Baatar. It’s now online and you can marvel at its treasures here. Take some time to click around. That place contains some of the most exquisite examples of Buddhist devotional art in the world.

Comments

[Ryan]

I am SO linking to this on the blog!

[The Mysterious K]

CT: You made me snort my coffee! And the dog thinks I've lost my mind because I'm sitting in a room alone, laughing out loud!

(Glad you survived!)

TMK

[Judy]

Glad you got out all right, no need for reincarnation just yet!

[Aarlene]

Oh come ON! Nobody said, "Llama! LLAMA!! DUCK!!!" ???

Love the museum, I need to see more pictures and a visitor counter.

[Rachael]

YAY!!!!! Love me them alpaci.

[Patti]

He's TOTALLY pretending innocence. Typical male.

What is up with the white faced one??!! I have never seen an alpaca with such a shocked expression - what on earth did you say to her just before you snapped that pic??!!! Her hair's standing on end and everything.

[Christian]

Reminds me a similar experience. This $%**!^ animal spitted all its last week meals on me...

But, would it happen again in France, you could pretend to be a lama, because "lama" and "llama" (actually a Spanish word) are the same word in French:-)

[Palzang]

Careful picking on those poor lamas, er, llamas! Bad karma, you know. Great article on the missionaries, really well researched. The saddest part is in their obsessive blindness they believe they are doing the right thing for the Mongolians. What's really sad is that it is the pseudo-Christian sects who are the biggest offenders while the more traditional ones, like the Catholics, are far less egregious, imho.

[Janine]

Looking at these pictures of the adorable and/or noble animals, I can only conclude that you fabricated this entire story!!!

Or else Black Ice is a rabid Rick Santorum-type politico who has a thing against men in skirts.

[Anne]

Not to be be disrespectful, but was it Black Ice or Peaches who made you want to come back as a female alpaca?

[Rabbitch]

Oh dude, you made me spit on my screen. And yes, going into a pen with dominant male type animals swathed in red drapery might not be the best choice.