Maggie Demands Equal Time

I write a lot about our camelid residents, but Maggie has informed me that I've been remiss.  I have excluded our canine residents (but really, they kept saying they weren't quite ready for their close-ups).

This is my beautiful pup, Maggie.  We met at a pet rescue.  She was originally billed as a lab/Weimaraner mix, but based on several key characteristics, the vet told us that she is a lab/greyhound mix .  As she's gotten older, the "lab" part has come to the fore, and the "greyhound" part of the mix has capitulated to gravity and middle-aged spread (kind of like me).  Ultimately, though, we'd most accurately classify her as a "goodie-hound".

Maggie is a nurse-dog.  If you're home sick, or if you're sad, or if you're just out of sorts, she will snuggle close to you with a very worried expression, as if to say, "Are you okay?  Are you okay?  Can I get you anything?  Ooh, squirrel!......Are you okay?  Can I get you anything?  Just a second....shiny thing!  So are you okay?"

Maggie is where all toys containing squeakies go to die.  She's never met a squeaker she couldn't get out of a plush toy.  With absolute focus, and single-minded purpose, she will nibble (with her front teeth) at the seams of any toy containing a squeaker until she creates a hole large enough to extract the squeaker.  She will then gnaw on the squeaker until it squeaks no more. 

Maggie also has a very keen sense of style.  When she and another of our canine residents were arguing about who was top dog, she got a couple of puncture wounds on her chest.  The vet had to shave her chest and insert drainage tubes, in order to make sure the wounds didn't get infected.  We needed to cover the tubes so that they wouldn't catch on anything, so our solution was to have her wear a T-shirt of Jerry's.  She LOVED that T-shirt.  She pranced around like a runway model, and thought she was Tyra Banks.  To this day, any time Jerry gets a T-shirt out, she gets so excited she can't sit still.  Kind of like how I feel at a DSW sale.

She sleeps on our bed, and if she thinks we've stayed up too late, she will perform what we call "doggie turn-down service".  In order to get us to come to bed, she'll drag ALL of the blankets down to the bottom of the bed, as if to say, "Look, I've got it all ready for you.  Hurry up so I can continue my nap!"

She is sitting outside my office right now, waiting for me to get done with this post, because she's decided it's bed time.  I'd better go, or I'll end up re-making the entire bed.

Bonding with the Boys

I love it when I get bonding time with the boys.  I feel that it enriches all of our lives.  I feel as though they've let me into their secretive, alpaca club when they let me get close to them.  Here's what bonding looks like at Dunwill Farm:

Hello, Atticus!

Hello, Mizzie!

Hello, Solomon!

Hello, Goldie!

Quality time is a precious thing.  Maybe someday they'll like me even when I don't shamelessly buy their affection with 'Paca Pellets.

Good Night

Good night, girls.

Good night, Harry.

Good night, Goldie.

Good night, Mizzie.

Good night, Atticus.

Good night, Solomon.

Good night, back yard.

Good night, stubborn blackberries.

Good night, pond.

Good night, fish.

See you all tomorrow.

Alpaca Pedicures

We'd put it off long enough.  Those boys needed their toenails cut.  But how would we go about it?  The way I saw it, we had three options:
1. Have the vet make a house call and do it for us ($$$).
2. Hire someone to do it for us ($$).
3. Do it ourselves ($).

Anyone who knows me, or indeed, anyone who's read a few of these posts, knows that I'm a cheapskate, AND, I don't let the fact that I've never done something before get in the way of just diving into it headfirst.  As long as there are YouTube videos and how-to websites available, I'll be game to try pretty much anything but a DIY appendix removal. 

After researching carefully (see the aforementioned YouTube and how-to website references), I knew what I needed.  I needed super-sharp trimmers, a place to restrain the alpacas, and help.  Actually, what I really needed was two Long Island Iced Teas and a nap, until the urge to do this task passed. 

You remember the scene in "Top Gun" when the fighter pilots walked out onto the flight deck in slow motion, with the theme song playing majestically in the background, and you just knew that the best and brightest our country had to offer was headed off to defend freedom and the American Way?  Yeah, well, we didn't look anything like that as we headed for the pasture.

Jerry and I clomped out to the pasture in our rubber boots, I with clippers in hand, and Jerry with lengths of PVC pipe.  It was an awesome display.  The herd was intimidated.  Not.

As an aside: when we fenced in the new pasture, the section of fence between the old and new pastures did not attach perpendicularly to the outside fence.  It veered off oddly to form a little triangular section that could easily be barricaded using two long PVC pipes stuck through the wire.  We really did leave it like this purposely, figuring that at some point, we'd need to corral the boys, and also figuring that they wouldn't fall for the old "wander innocently into the shelter" gag more than once.

We used the lengths of PVC to herd the boys toward the corner.  They move as a pack, so where Atticus went, the others followed.  Once they were all squished into the corner, we let three go and held one hostage. 

Jerry and I had developed our strategy beforehand--he would hold the alpaca, and I would clip the toenails.  Jerry was going to use a "bracelet" hold on the alpaca's neck, which would render said alpaca immobile.  I would then carefully coax the alpaca to lift one leg at a time, and swiftly clip the toenails.

Solomon was our first victim.  Jerry got him held in the bracelet hold, and I bent down to lift Solomon's back leg.  I expected active resistance, but I didn't expect passive resistance--as in, leaning his whole weight on my back as I struggled to get his foot into position.  So, Jerry had Solomon in what could only be termed at this point to be a sleeper hold (the bracelet hold flew out the window immediately) and I clipped the toenails of the alpaca, who was laying ON MY BACK.  The game, "Twister", had nothing on us.

Yes, he was laughing at us the whole time.  Doesn't he look pleased with himself?  We got three of the four feet clipped, with Jerry keeping Solomon in the head lock, and me being crushed with 150 lbs of dead-weight alpaca.  By foot #4, Solomon had turned passive resistance into active resistance, and he broke free.  I tried to coax him back with promises of foot massages (yes, there is a lady on YouTube who gives her alpacas foot massages), but he wasn't buying it.

One down, three to go.  Ashley came wandering out, and we recruited her for our mission.  Sucker.  We did the same thing, guiding (chasing) the herd around the pasture and into the corner again.  We got smart this time, and decided to halter the selected victim (Mizzie) for ease of handling.  But we made the mistake of thinking we'd save time by moving Mizzie to the halter, rather than the halter to Mizzie.  I keep trying to tell Jerry that when the alpaca breaks free, LET GO.  Jerry is a stubborn man.  Now, Jerry is a stubborn man with a Mizzie footprint on his chest.  Yes, he fell down, wouldn't let go of the alpaca, and got stomped for his troubles.  

I was a little concerned about how we were going to clip all of Mizzie's feet, since due to his bionic shoulder, his right front leg (front passenger side leg) is a little shorter than the others, and he lists to that side.  I wasn't sure how much weight he could put on the affected leg if I had one of his back legs up.  I needn't have worried.  Not only could Mizzie lift the back leg, he could KICK with the back leg.  Sorry, Ashley. 

Mizzie 2; Dunhams 0.  Jerry has a Mizzie print on his chest, Ashley has one on her stomach.  Have I yet mentioned that sometimes, it's good to be the person doing the clipping, rather than the person doing the alpaca-holding?

Although, I had troubles of my own with MIzzie.  He really is a stubborn little thing.  I solved the troubles completely by accident, though.  I was trying to get him to hold his back foot still.  It just so happened that when I held his foot with the hand closest to his body, the angle forced my elbow into his....."man-bits".  He was suddenly very, very still.  Huh.  Works with all species, I guess.

Once Mizzie was done, we chased the alpacas around the pasture again, and once again cornered them.  Atticus was starting to look a little sheepish--I mean, getting trapped once was bad enough, but three times???

Golden was the next victim.  We had ambitious plans for Goldie.  His toenails were by far the worst of the lot, AND his front teeth needed to be trimmed (more YouTube research had been done).  The most popular method of tooth trimming was using a Dremel tool.  Some people used an OB-wire, but try finding one of THOSE at short notice.  So, we had the Dremel primed and ready.  Feet first, then the teeth.

Goldie was not amenable to either of the processes.  He was the worst of the lot when it came to his feet.  He pulled Solomon's trick of passive lounging, and Mizzie's trick of random kicks.  By then, Jerry, Ashley, and I were tired, sore, and heartily sick of alpacas.  Goldie's toenails were much worse than the others' had been, and I did the best I could, but I'm going to have to work on his gradually, due to how much they'd overgrown.  By the time we were done wrestling him to get his toenails trimmed, we knew his teeth would have to wait for another day. 

Thank goodness Atticus' toenails didn't need trimming.  I think it will take at least two weeks before our bruises fade.  Maybe then we'll try to trim Goldie's teeth.

Did They Miss Us?

It's hard to tell if the boys missed us while we were gone this weekend. 

Do these look like the faces of boys who missed us?

Does this look like the face of someone who missed us?

It's hard to tell....they're not very talkative.  And "hmmmm, hmmmm, hmmmm" can be interpreted in many ways.  I'll let you decide.

The Most Beautiful Place on Earth....and a Bird

I love the Oregon coast.  To me, there's no more beautiful place on earth.  I love everything about it--the long, sandy beaches, the funky little towns, the smell of the ocean and dead fish--it's the best. 

While Jerry and Erin are deep sea fishing, I have most of the day to myself.  This was an unusual phenomenon in my life.  Even if I'm home by myself, it's not really "by myself", and there's rarely "free" time, with nothing to do.  At home, I fidget.  I do laundry, play with the dogs, read, work, go out and annoy the alpacas, etc.  Today, however, I am in a new town, in a hotel room, and filled with the nagging sensation that I should go somewhere so that housekeeping doesn't have to work around me. 

So I did what any person would do.  I made the bed (I blame my mother for this little habit of making the bed, even though I know it will be stripped and remade in about 5 minutes), got dressed, and jumped in Velda Van to go explore. 

Garibaldi is a busy little town, and the best thing about it, I think, is that it's REAL.  There isn't a whole lot of tourist-y stuff going on.  Mostly, it's real people, earning a real living by fishing, working at the cannery, or working at the lumber mill that's located just a few steps from our hotel.

Sure, there's the requisite knick-knack shops, restaurants, and myrtlewood stores, but from what I can tell, at its essence, Garibaldi is a fishing town.  The harbor marina, literally 20 feet from the front door of our room, is constantly busy.  Boats coming in, boats going out.  There are recreational fishing boats, charters, and what appear to be commercial fishing boats going in and out of the harbor at a brisk pace.

I pointed Velda north, toward Rockaway.  We tooled along Hwy 101 for a while, and before I knew it, I was in Wheeler.  This looked like a cute little town that I'd like to explore, but I wanted to wait for Jerry, because he'd love to see the little bay front area.  Maybe we'll go up there tomorrow and rent a little boat for a few hours....

On my way back, I noticed a sign for Manhattan State Park, and it had a small accompanying sign that indicated that it had beach access.  It's been a while since I walked on the beach, so I decided to try it out.  Once I got to the beach, this is what I saw:

And this:

How amazing!  How beautiful! 

I took off walking north, and the wind was pretty strong.  It was fun to look at the footprints and imagine who had walked there, and how recently.  I turned around and looked at my footprints, wondering if a forensic scientist could examine them and guess how much I weigh.  I resisted the temptation to find a stick and run back and obliterate my footprints. Then I turned back around and looked where I was walking, because as we established yesterday, gravity is not my friend this weekend, and I didn't want to trip over seaweed and end up with a mouthful of sand.  I caught sight of my shadow, and was pleased to note that it looked somewhat svelte.  I surmised that, if I was 9 feet tall, like my shadow, I'd look pretty darned hot. 

When I was in my early twenties, I would often spend weekends at the coast by myself, just basking in the beauty of the ocean, and contemplating great, metaphysical things, like, "What is the meaning of life?" and, "Why am I here?" and, "Where do I fit into the grand scheme of the universe?" and, "Dear God, please tell me that Keanu Reeves is my soul mate..."

I think adulthood (or maybe cynicism, raising teenagers, and having just finished a book on criminal profiling of serial killers) does something to your brain.  It makes you less idealistic, less whimsical, less trusting in the innate goodness of one's fellow man.  I say this because today, even though I was by myself, closer to God than I've been in months, lost in the vastness of the empty beach, with the wind in my hair and salt water on my face, all I could think of was, "What a great day.  I don't have any chores, I don't have anything I HAVE to do.  Someone else is re-making my bed.  I hope they put another of those yummy-smelling vanilla coconut-scented soaps on the vanity.  I'm out here on the beach, no one around for miles...wait--no one around for miles--do I have my car keys?  Do I have my inhaler?  Do I have my phone?  Do I have cell service?  Does that dune look like a good place for a homicidal maniac to hide my dead body?  Okay, get over yourself and focus on the beauty around you.  Anyway, I'm here, sharing my adventure with.....a dead bird." 

Yes, out of all the places on the vast, empty beach I could have sat down, I chose to plop myself next to a dead bird.  Poor bird.  I started contemplating the fleeting nature of life and the great circle of life--dead bird, flies, parasites, more flies....  I tried to get metaphysical, but really, all I could think was, "Glad I'm not that bird." 

Jerry: 1; Me: 0

So we're over at the Oregon Coast for the weekend.  The weather is pretty nice for mid-October, with a few sprinkles here and there, but also with some occasional sun breaks.  The fog burned off, and it's a clear view into Tillamook Bay. 

We took a lot of detours, one of which was the Old Scenic Hwy 101, because there was an accident on Hwy 18, close to the 101 junction.  I hightly recommend the trip--beautiful rainforest views, a narrow little road, and sheer drop-offs (which, for some reason, Jerry doesn't like.  Apparently, I hug the side of the road when I drive.  Whatever.  I just like to make sure he's still awake by running over the rumble strips at the edge of the road.  In the case of our detour, there were no rumble strips, just a narrow band of soft, squishy moss that you hit just before you plunge to your death over the cliff...) 

We also took the 3 Capes Scenic Route, but unfortunately we started in Tillamook, and came back to Hwy 101 considerably south of where we started.  Jerry sees this as a navigational failure, since our ultimate destination was Garibaldi (north of Tillamook).  I see it as a beautiful drive that took us in a large circle.  And since I was driving, we will, going forward, see it MY way.

We've checked in to the Harbor View Motel, a little motel, coincidentally, on the harbor in Garibaldi.   The harbor in Garibaldi is very busy.  Lots and lots of boats coming in and out of the water.  Lots of people dressed in rain gear with rubber boots.  Jerry brought his rain gear and rubber boots, too.  He'll fit right in.  I did make him knock the 'paca poo off of the bottoms of his boots before he put them in the van.  The room is clean and homey.  It has wi-fi.  I'm set.  It has a little one-cup coffee maker.  Jerry's set.

Tomorrow, Jerry and Erin will brave the frigid waters of Tillamook Bay and the Pacific Ocean for an 8 hour deep reef fishing trip.  I will sleep in, read, and just generally have a relaxed and lovely day.  Mmmmm....sleeping in....

The charter boat they're taking is literally 300 feet from the front door of our hotel room.  Even Jerry, with his dismal sense of direction, should be able to find it in the dark. 

He is definitely primed and ready to go fishing.  He even convinced me to stop at the Barview Jetty, a little park just north of Garibaldi, so that he could "practice" fishing.  Yes, we brought ALL of Jerry's fishing tackle, two poles, and a big, greatly optimistic styrofoam cooler, so that he can store all the fish he plans to catch. 

Since I do NOT fish, I thought I'd still try to be a supportive wife by at least going out with him and reading while he fished.  We parked, and Jerry scampered out of the van to throw his line in.  Excuse me, CAST.  I've been duly corrected.  I noticed that the area we were in had large rocks that went from the parking lot to the water (I believe the technical term for this type of terrace/barrier is "rip-rap").  I saw that Jerry made it down with no problems.  I figured I'd do the same. 

What I forgot to take into account was that I was wearing my super-cute, super-comfy, brown leather, platform B.O.C. clogs.  With 3-inch heels.  I was also carrying my precious Kindle, and fighting off a way-too-curious yellowjacket.  I made it halfway down the rocks.  Jerry had already thro--CASTED, and his attention was completely absorbed on the end of his line. 

You know that sinking feeling of impending doom that you get when you realize (too late) that your plan is fatally flawed, and a trip to the emergency room may be in your immediate future?  Yeah, that one.  I had a fleeting moment to recognize that feeling before my ankle twisted and gravity took over.  As we're all aware, gravity is NOT my friend.  My right knee hit a particularly pointy rock, and the rest of me just crumpled in a blobby sort of heap. 

I did manage to save my Kindle, and I think the yellowjacket was so disgusted with my embarrassing display of clumsiness that he went to find more coordinated, and ultimately more challenging, prey. 

And what did Jerry do?  NOTHING.  He didn't even know I fell until I (very loudly) pointed it out to him. 

"Huh?" was his response.

"I fell!  Didn't you hear me, or somehow sense, with that special hyper-awareness that only happens between true soulmates, that your beloved was in distress??"  It's possible that I screeched that question.

"You what?  Just a second....I think I have a bite," he answered absentmindedly.

"I COULD HAVE DIED!!!" I calmly observed.  Or not. 

When he finally turned around, it was to find me sprawled on the rocks like a lumpy bag of dirty laundry.  He was surprised that I was still sitting there, but I figured that if this is where my nemesis, Gravity, put me, I'd better stay there.  It's safer for everyone that way.

Jerry's ahead on points so far, but the weekend is young.

Gravity, How I Hate You...Let Me Count the Ways....

It all started with the best of intentions.  I needed to use fly spray on the alpacas, because even though I have obsessively placed fly traps around the pasture, the flies still annoy them.  Atticus is going to give himself brain damage one of these days with all the head tossing he does, and don't even get me started on how weird a winking alpaca looks.

I learned early on that alpacas don't like it when you spray them with random substances.  Even if it's for their own good.  They see me pick up the bottle of fly spray, and they start running. 

Today, I was trying to be sneaky about it.  I was chatting with my mom over the fence, after feeding and watering the boys.  I had the fly spray bottle in my hand.  The boys milled about warily, because they knew I had the fly spray.  I knew they knew I had the fly spray.  My only hope of getting the fly spray from bottle to fleece was to employ the element of surprise.  This would be problematic, because, as we've established, they knew I had the bottle.

What the boys didn't know was the lengths I was willing to go to spray them.  Picture the scene: the boys wandering close to the covered shelter, because that's where the food is,  pretending to graze, but keeping one eye on that spray bottle.  I'm nonchalantly standing at the fence, about 20 feet away, pretending with every ounce of acting ability I possess that I have no intention of trying to spray them with fly repellent.

I was wearing the very latest in barn fashion, of course.  I was wearing my super-special telecommuting attire--a paint-stained, ratty,  hot pink sweatshirt and navy blue sweatpants.  The sweatpants were stylishly tucked into my shiny, black, rubber boots.  Yes, dahlings, Vogue will be featuring my ensemble in their Winter 2011 photo spread. 

This is what I envisioned that the alpacas would see: a hot pink blur, moving faster than the speed of light, spraying them down with fly spray before they could even decide to run away.  The sheer unexpectedness of the attack would render them unable to think, let alone run.

What the alpacas likely saw: a short, round, lumpy, middle-aged, hot pink blob, lurching precariously toward them in rubber boots, dodging mole holes and tree stumps.  

Gravity is a cruel mistress. 

In my mind, I was still the 17-year-old base-stealing fiend, the scourge of complacent catchers everywhere.  Fast as a bullet and as streamlined and muscular as a greyhound in full stride. 

In reality, it was probably more like watching 40-year-old Jell-o run.  A slow, jiggly, vaguely uncomfortable sight.

After the first step, when I realized what I probably looked like (let alone felt like), my strategy swiftly changed from a surprise attack to something completely different.  If I couldn't baffle them with my speed, maybe I could mesmerize them with my zombie-like shamble. 

Alas, they managed to break the spell that my shock and awe campaign created, and loped off toward the other end of the pasture.  And for some reason, which is STILL not at all clear to me, I kept running after them, flapping and flopping and dodging and tripping, waving the fly spray bottle over my head like Excalibur. 

I cornered them, but everyone except Solomon managed to escape.  The sheer panic in his eyes (you could tell that his one regret would be that this hot pink horror would be the last thing he would see in life) was both gratifying and pitiful.  He was frozen in place.  His options were completely exhausted.  What do I do?  Where do I go?  How did I get into this?  Why are you PICKING ON ME?

I quickly sprayed him and he scampered off, and spent the next few minutes fluffing his fleece, as if to get the Human Cooties off of him once and for all.  One down....three to go. 

As for me, I've decided that after years of holding down the couch, I should probably work my way back up to running gradually.  I'm going to have to be in better shape before I decide to try that again.

In Which I Think I Deserve a Medal

Sleep apnea.  That's the diagnosis for Jerry.  And not just sleep apnea, but SEVERE sleep apnea.  When his doctor mentioned that he'd seen the results of the test, his words were, "Wow, scary results."  Scary?  What does that mean?

Me: "What does that mean, doctor?"
Doctor: "Well, your husband stops breathing approximately 51 times per hour."
Me: "51?  Yikes, now I feel a little bad for complaining about his snoring."
Doctor: "That's not snoring, it's gasping for oxygen."
Me: "Okay, I'm feeling a little worse, now.  I guess I'll have to stop smacking him in the arm and screeching, 'ROLL OVER!'"
Doctor: "What kind of wife are you?  The man is struggling to stay alive all night, and you're smacking him in the arm?!"
Me: "Ummm, I'm the kind of wife who NEEDS SOME SLEEP.  Do you have any idea what it's like, sleeping next to someone who snores no matter if he's on his back, his side, or his stomach?  It's torture, I tell you--torture!  In fact, I think I deserve some credit for surviving 11 years of this.  Yeah, he should be thanking me!  How many wives do you know of who would put up with that?  And technically, I think I should get credit for keeping him alive for the last 11 years--if not for me, he could have died in his sleep from a heart attack or stroke.  And this is the thanks I get?? "
Jerry: "I've OFFERED to go to the couch."
Me: "Sure, like that would even help.  You remember Idaho, don't you?"

Idaho:
Several years ago, our kids spent the summer with Jerry's mom and step dad in Montana.  The plan for child retrieval was simple.  Meet in Coeur d'Alene, which was about halfway between our place and Belgrade, MT.  We'd spend the weekend at a KOA campground in a "Deluxe Kamping Kabin", which is about as much as I'm ever willing to rough it, and have some quality family time to close out the summer.

We all converged on the KOA.  It will likely never be the same.  Our "Deluxe Kamping Kabin" consisted of a two-room log cabin--two sets of bunk beds and a double bed in the back room, and a double bed in the front room.  Our niece, who is a month younger than the oldest boy, accompanied her cousins for the trip. 

At bedtime, the three kids, Jerry, and I took the back room.  Jerry's parents took the front room. 

Soon, the snoring started.  Jerry was in fine form that night.  The stillness of the midnight campground amplified the sounds of snoring, causing the sound to reverberate throughout the little Kabin.  As a seasoned veteran of the ear-splitting sounds, I clamped my pillow around my ears and tried to relax. 

Then, an unfamiliar sound joined the cacophony of Jerry's snores.  Duke, Jerry's step dad, is ALSO a snorer.  It was as if the two of them, and their stuffed up nasal passages, had channeled all of the sound in the world, and were blowing it out their nostrils (I love that word--nostrils--it sounds funny.  Kind of like "pudding" and "trousers".  The more times you say them, the funnier they are...). 

I had been prepared to combat the dulcet tones of Jerry's snoring, but when Duke's were added, it was if the decibel level increased exponentially.  I had no defense for it.  I squeezed my eyes tight, prayed that the kids would stay asleep, and practiced every relaxation exercise I knew.

Just as I was finally dropping off to sleep, I heard two sharp sounds--first, the slamming of the Kabin door, and then, the slamming of a car door.  I didn't know what was going on, and at that point, I didn't even care.  I needed some sleep.

The next morning, Jerry's mom looked exhausted.  She glared at Jerry and Duke all morning, until one of them finally noticed and asked her what was wrong.  "You two were so loud, I had to sleep in the car!  You probably kept the entire campground up all night!"  The car--why didn't I think of that?  I could have slept like a baby in the quiet cocoon of the minivan.....

Obviously, Jerry's doctor has never lived with a snorer, or he'd understand that I do, in fact, deserve a medal.

How to Make Sure No One EVER Expects You to Cook

Cooking is one of my least-favorite activities on the planet.  When I was single, I was the Queen of the Microwave Meals.  The kitchen in my apartment was pristine, because it was rarely used.  The stove looked brand-new. 

I'm not sure when my aversion to cooking started.  After all, I like to eat, so you'd think I'd like the process of making things to eat.  Not so much. 

I dutifully plodded through several years of 4-H.  I was allergic to all the animals, so I couldn't raise livestock for 4-H, but did you know that there is a thriving culinary component to 4-H?  Also, there is a booming horticulture contingent, as well.  One year, I won First Prize at the Oregon Sate Fair for my fantastic onions.  Really, it's  a true story.  Onions.  First Prize.  I'm not making this up.

Anyway, after my friend's mom tried diligently to teach 8 giggly pre-teens how to properly measure, stir, mix, bake, and cook all manner of things, I learned some decent skills.  The summer between my junior and senior year of college, I was the head cook at a church camp over on the Oregon Coast.  That was the hardest summer of my life, but I learned how to cook for large groups.  For years afterward, I couldn't cook for myself, but if you asked me to put together a four-course dinner for 250, I was all over it.

When I met Jerry, he lived in Kentucky, and I lived in Oregon.  Yes, we were one of the first internet romances.  11 years later, and I haven't killed him.  And dumped his body in a shallow grave.  Under the miles of blackberry bushes on our property.  Not that I've ever thought about it.

The first time we met in person, he flew out to Oregon over Memorial Day weekend.  I was still in that "wanting to impress" stage of the relationship, so I thought I would blow him away with a spectacular home-cooked meal.  My menu was simple--a chicken and vegetable teriyaki stir fry. 

It was an unmitigated disaster.  My rice cooker broke, so I had to cook rice the old-fashioned way, on the stove top.  The vegetables were limp and uninteresting.  The chicken was overcooked and hard as a rock.  But, I gamely served the meal, and Jerry, the poor unsuspecting guy, ate it.

Afterward, we were laughing about how truly awful dinner was.  And since we were still in that goofy, romantic phase of our relationship, he took me into his arms, looked deeply into my eyes, and said, "If you love me, please don't EVER cook for me again."

Yesss!  I was free of the oppressive yoke of chauvinistic tyranny!  I would never be chained to the stove, my worth measured only by my ability with a frying pan and child-rearing capabilities!  THIS was the man I was going to marry, for sure.  The best bonus was, he COULD cook! 

And so I did (marry him).  And now I don't (have to cook).  Now, I only cook if the mood strikes me.  Which is rare.  But it does happen occasionally.  Whenever it does, I'll share the recipes that were either so intriguing, or so easy, that it prompted me to try them.

Branching Out

 I was told, by my oh-so-sophisticated blogger-husband, Jerry, that the secret to his success is diversification.  His blog, www.jackwagonswithfishingpoles.com, has apparently taken off, and is now being viewed all around the world.  I'm trying not to be bitter.  I'm trying to be the bigger person. 

So, because I have other interests besides the farm, I will be branching out in some new directions.  I will, of course, still be posting about the farm, because our animals are weird and are a constant source of funny stories. 

Jerry suggested posting recipes.  I have no idea why he recommended doing that, when he knows darned well that I don't cook. 

I do, however, like books, movies, arts and crafts, and I'm determined to learn to like spinning, because we have mountains of alpaca fleece that we need to process.  In fact, my mom is at the spinning shop as I'm writing this, learning how to use her spinning wheel.  Updates should be coming shortly.

So, this blog is going to expand a bit.  Come along for the ride!

OUCH!!

Poor, poor Atticus.  Though he is the Alpha 'Paca, and is demonstrating wise, amiable leadership, he still has his bad days.  Take last Saturday, for example. 

All was quiet in the pasture in the afternoon.  Jerry was in his office, hiding from the rest of the family, who had threatened him with torches and pitchforks because he was being a total tyrant during a brief, scary logging event (more about that another time).  I was in the house, trying to figure out my new "smart" phone.  The girls were hiding, wherever it is that they hide when they think they might be press-ganged into working.  And that's when I heard the scream. 

It was unmistakably an alpaca, and it was also unmistakably Atticus.  He has a warning screech that sounds like Goodyears squealing on the road.  I sighed.  What now?  I'd had it with cranky men for the day.  I didn't need to referee another one of the boys' spats. 

I stomped out to the pasture to see what the ruckus was about, and noticed Atticus and Solomon panting, as if they'd done a few laps around the field.  Great, I thought, that's all we need.  Stupid boys getting heat stressed because of some sort of testosterone overload. 

As I looked closer, I saw that Atticus' right eye was shut.  What was going on??  I walked slowly into the pasture, because the last thing I wanted was for the boys to start running again--it was way too hot for that kind of exercise. 

Of course, Atticus wouldn't let me get close enough to him to see what was going on.  I did notice, however, that there were an inordinate number of wasps in the area, and I put two and two together and realized what had happened.  Atticus got stung in the eye by a wasp.  Poor baby.

My mind raced, as I calmly tried to get close enough to Atticus to see what was going on.  Are alpacas allergic to bee stings?  What happens if he goes into anaphylactic shock?  Benedryl works for the dogs--would it work for alpacas?  What if he stops breathing?  How do you do CPR on an alpaca???

Kayla wandered out to see what was going on.  She stood at the fence, and once Atticus' attention was focused on her, I was able to come up behind him and do a light bracelet hold on his neck.  He stood still and let me examine his eye.  It was swollen, but I couldn't see that there were any foreign objects in the eye.  I think his eyelid was stung.  I patted his neck and spoke softly to him for a few minutes, and he seemed to settle down.  Pretty soon, he laid his head on my chest. 

We stood there for a little while.  The other boys came up behind us, humming in support, as I double-checked Atticus to make sure nothing else was wrong with his eye.  Once I released him, he wandered back into the herd. 

His eye has become less swollen in the last couple of days.  I think he's almost back to normal.  I put up a wasp trap, and was surprised at how many we've caught so far.  We've worked hard to get a handle on the fly population, but until this weekend, we hadn't seen many wasps.  Now, it's war.  I don't ever want that to happen again.

A Cry for Help

Harry the Rooster has always had trouble figuring out what time to crow.  At first, I thought it was because he was young, and new at the whole crowing thing.  Then, I thought that his refusal to crow only in the morning was due to an ever-expanding ego--that he thought he was just TOO fabulous to be limited to crowing one measly time per day.

Over the past few days, however, I have begun to wonder if his constant crowing is more of a cry for help.

You see, over the last few days, I've noticed something about Harry, or specifically, Harry's neck feathers.  They're missing.  It would be one thing if they were missing as a normal part of molting--after all, the girls are losing quite a few feathers now that the weather is warming up.  But no, the skin that has been revealed due to the missing feathers appears to be sort of an angry, red color.  Like the feathers have been yanked out.  Like maybe, just maybe, Harry is being picked on. 

Granted, Harry is the only rooster amongst 11 other chickens, but he's always seemed so self-confident and strong, I was mostly worried about him picking on the girls.  Now, though, I'm starting to wonder. 

Maybe the girls got together, and decided that they're tired of being in constant fear for their virtue.  Maybe all 11 hens have formed the We Hate Loud Roosters Club, or have created some sort of Thelma and Louise pact that embraces violence against roosters. 

Maybe one of the other males on our property should be a little more careful about being a cranky tyrant, or the same thing will happen to him.....just saying. 

Anyway, I'm wondering if the girls have banded together to beat Harry up, and his constant crowing is a desperate attempt to get assistance. 

 More research will need to be done in order to determine which hypothesis is correct.

SUCCESS!!!!!

After weeks of plotting and scheming and planning and failing and wondering why an alpaca kept outsmarting us, we finally have Solomon's halter OFF!!!  It was a proud moment, made even better by the fact that it was a team effort.

While someone, who shall remain nameless, is lounging on the lake today, pretending to catch fish, the girls and I took charge of Solomon's destiny and got that ragged halter off his face. 

It took all three of us to corner the beast, using long lengths of PVC pipe (left over from one wretched pond project or another) as "fences" to restrain him in an ever-shrinking web.  We're SO redneck. 

After weeks of chasing him around the pasture, luring him unsuccessfully with food, and ending up frustrated, dirty, and bitter, the final result was almost anti-climatic.  Once Solomon realized he was caught, he was fairly docile, and we were able to do our task with a minimum of fuss.

Now, he looks like the rest of the 'paca pack.  Except he's brown.  And they're white.  I don't even want to think about the psychological damage he's enduring as an alpaca of color.  The good news is, the other ones don't treat him any differently, just because he's brown.  If they treat him any differently, it's purely because CRAZY transcends color, racial, and gender boundaries.  He may be free of the tyrannical yoke of the halter, but he's still as nuts as he ever was.

He's a little camera-shy, so I don't have a picture of his new makeover sans halter, but I'll find a way to sneak up on him soon.

Golden Update

Our boy, Golden, has had a couple of weeks to settle in.  He's doing well.  He isn't humming as much--in fact, the only time he hums is when he sees me coming with food.  He likes to eat.  A lot.  He and Mizzie prefer a relaxed approach to eating--once the initial hay frenzy is over, they lounge next to the leftovers and nosh the rest of the day. 

Golden also likes to nibble on the fir trees.  Poor tree:

He's making friends, too:

He and Rosie, the Great Dane, have developed a friendship, of sorts.  They sniff at each other through the fence, and they seem to get along.  Except....well, except for when Rosie's dog friends are around. 

Golden is learning the hard facts of life when it comes to friendships--if someone is only your friend when no one else is around, chances are, they're not really your friend.  It's sad, really, kind of like high school.  I think we all had that one friend who was really fun to be around when it was just the two of you, but when their other friends were around, they acted completely different.

I hate to say it, but that's Rosie.  When it's just her and Golden, they're very companionable.  But, the nasty truth comes out when the other dogs come around.  They bark at Golden, and she just has to join in.  Golden says he feels a little betrayed. 

Are you hearing this, Rosie?

I think this is a teachable moment.  Doesn't she look like she feels sad for her inconsistent behavior?

In Which Satan's Alpaca Knocks Jerry Unconscious.....

..............the first time.

Yes, it's true.  This has happened more than once.  Slow learner, or stubborn?  That is the question that haunts me.

The first time it happened, we'd just gotten Atticus and Solomon, and we were trying to get their halters off, because at Dunwill Farm, all creatures deserve to run free and wild.  Within limits.  MY limits.  And people say I'm a control freak...weird.

So anyway, Jerry was trying to be helpful, but recent health issues have interfered with Jerry's formerly cat-like reflexes.  Now, his reflexes are...NOT cat-like.  And that's all I'm going to say on that subject, because he's reading over my shoulder.

Jerry managed to get a hand on Solomon's neck, and found out the hard way that alpacas have very strong necks.  They're not just there for looks, folks.  With one flick of Solomon's head, Jerry went flying--OVER Solomon's back, and onto the ground.  I've never seen someone do a full twist in the air, outside of the Olympics, or an episode of "World's Dumbest..." 

I witnessed the event with a clinical detachment.  I blame the media for my nonchalant attitude toward violence.  Or I blame the sixth grade.  Or something like that.  When I saw Jerry fly over Solomon's back and land on the ground, I didn't have much time to think about it, because with Jerry down, that meant we were one person short in the mob that was going to subdue the alpacas.  And by mob, I mean four people--Jerry, me, and two screaming teenage girls. 

As Solomon and Atticus were thundering around the pasture, I spared a quick glance to confirm that Jerry was showing uncommon sense by staying down and out of the way.  In the back of my mind, it occurred to me that this was unusual for Jerry, to stay out of the fray.  Usually, he's the first one to storm the battlements.  That must come from his Army training in Advanced Party, or, as he likes to call it, Cannon Fodder (no offense to the brave men and women who serve our country selflessly day after day, but in Jerry's case, it was either stay miserable being a mechanic, or be in Advanced Party.  He is the first to admit he's no mechanic, and by that point in his military career, he and his commanding officer had come to a divergence of philosophies, thus making the decision to send Jerry to the front lines that much easier on his commanding officer's conscience and upward career mobility.).  As Jerry tells it, his sergeant's version of their mission in Germany was to: "go forward and find a place for the company to hold off the Russians until the "real" Army can get here from America".  Confidence AND loyalty-inspiring.  And Jerry thought they were just there for the beer....

We managed to subdue the rampaging alpacas, and to remove Solomon's halter.  Atticus was thundering along with Solomon in alpaca solidarity--his halter was already off, and he apparently had nothing better to do.  It was at that point that I saw that Jerry wasn't moving.  I cautioned him in calm (not) tones to JUST STAY DOWN.  A closer look revealed that Jerry was beyond hearing anything.  Solomon had cleaned his clock. 

Jerry would like it noted that when he fell, his head slammed into a wooden fence post.  Solomon did NOT clean his clock, or anything else.  So noted.

I was trying to make Solomon feel sad about his role in Jerry's meeting with the fence post.  I was trying to ascertain whether or not he had a conscience and coud feel remorse.  "See, now you've killed him.   Don't you feel bad now?  Who's a bad alpaca?"  And that's just about when Jerry came to.  He states that it is very disconcerting to hear those words, just as one is trying to regain his senses. 

And you'd think he'd have learned his lesson.....

Satan's Alpaca

That's what Jerry calls Solomon.  Unfortunately, it's true.  He is a wily one. 

You will notice that he still has a halter on.  He is the ONLY one of the boys who still has a halter on his head.  This is because he's a complete and total brat.  You can tell by the set of his ears, and the squint to his eye, that he's plotting hate crimes against all of us. 

Oh, sure, I thought, when he first came to live with us, he's a sweet boy.  He's just misunderstood.  Yeah, he's "misunderstood", in the same way that Ted Bundy was "misunderstood".  Folks, Beelzebub is alive and here on earth, and he is an alpaca. 

At first, I thought I should leave the halters on the boys, so that we could catch them if we needed to trim toenails or give shots.  Then, I learned that alpacas are obligate nasal breathers, which means that they must be able to get air through their nasal passages in order to breathe.  Their noses, like human noses, contain both bone (at the bridge) and cartilage (at the end).  If a halter is placed incorrectly, it can squish down the cartilage, causing the nasal passages to close.

Once I learned this little fact, the halters immediately came off the other boys.  But Solomon's remained on. 

Try as we might, we can't catch Satan's Alpaca.  He hides behind Atticus so that we can't reach him.  He has bat-like hearing, so we can't sneak up on him.  He has more moves and fakes than an NBA basketball player.  Just when you think you've got him cornered, he zigs one way, you zag the other way, and it's GAME ON again.  'Round and 'round the pasture we go.  Through the trees, around the chicken coop, and over (darn it) the poo pile. 

Satan's Alpaca has tossed Jerry around like a rag doll--twice.  He's spit slimy, green goo all over Tabor.  He's screamed every time we corner him, and I'm expecting a visit from the ASCPA any day now, because his screams of rage sound like a massacre.

If he weren't so doggone cute....

Frustration

So the next step in this alpaca adventure is to learn to spin.  Mom bought a new spinning wheel, and I, being a dutiful daughter, assembled it.  The assembly of the wheel was a lot easier than learning to spin.  45 minutes into it, and I'm ready to thorw in the towel, or the roving, as it were. 

I researched the history of spinning, and learned that the art is an ancient one.  It is humbling to know that people thousands of years ago were able to master this, and I can't even get the yarn to go around the bobbin.  Maybe I'm not giving it much of a chance, but right now, it's too hot and I'm too tired to mess with it.   The yarn store owner who hooked us up with this spinning wheel told us that she knows lots of people who use spinning as stress relief.  Riiiight.  We'll see. 

I refuse to become obsessed with it.  I refuse to become obsessed with it.  I refuse to become obsessed with it.....

Hum's the Word

Poor, poor, Golden.  He is so homesick he can hardly stand to be in his own skin.  He stands at the pasture fence, staring sorrowfully off toward the driveway, and humming. 

Maybe that's his normal facial expression.  Maybe he's just trying to see through his bangs.  Maybe he doesn't think Ginger should be digging a hole in the middle of the yard (yeah, sure, YOU tell her).  It's hard to tell, but the one constant is the humming.  It's omnipresent and ominous, like the "Jaws" theme, only with one note: "Hmmmmm.....hmmmmmm....hmmmmmm....."

He is inconsolable.  He stands.  He hums.  He stands some more.  And then Mizzy comes up and tries to bite his ear off.  And they chase each other for a while, screeching and spitting, but eventually, Golden wanders off.....and hums.

He willingly comes to the fence when a human approaches, but there's always a faint look of disappointment when he realizes that the human is unfamiliar.  And ALWAYS with the sad, sad humming. 

I hope that one day, he will come to terms with his new fate, and try to make some friends.  I think Atticus and Solomon (well, maybe not Solomon) would like to be his friend.  I'm not sure if Mizzy wants to be anyone's friend right now.  He's too busy asserting his dominance over the herd to get too friendly. 

At first, I panicked over Golden's constant humming.  The books tell you that humming sometimes means they're happy, sometimes means they're sad, sometimes means they're sick, and even sometimes means they're mad. 

It's kind of like the first time I took my nephew, Tabor, for the weekend.  He was about a month old at that point, and my parents needed a break.  No problem, I thought.  I'm a rational adult.  I can care for an infant for two measly days.  And everything was fine.

Until the crying started.

He cried.  And cried.  And cried.  He wasn't wet.  He wasn't hungry.  He wasn't in pain.  I couldn't figure out why he was STILL CRYING.  After a couple of hours, I was crying, too.  I'd exhausted everything I could think of to get him to stop.  I couldn't understand why he persisted, and I wasn't about to call my parents, because they would get that TONE in their voices.  You know the tone.  The one that says, "See, and you thought it would be EASY.  Not so easy after all, is it, smarty pants?".

So when Golden persisted in humming, I went through a mental checklist.  Food?  Check.  Water?  Check.  No visible bleeding?  Check. 

What it comes down to, I think, is that although he is healthy, well-fed, and uninjured, his soul has been just a little bit squished. 

So I stand, and when he hums, I hum, just so he knows he's not alone.  Someday, I hope he can be a happy and fulfilled alpaca.  Until then, I'll stand by the fence, and wait him out.

In Which No One Likes Anyone

Today has been an adjustment for all four boys.  One minute, they're all hanging out as a herd, and everyone's getting along.  The next minute, someone takes offense at having his tail sniffed, and the clicking and spitting commences.

The loyalties are fairly well-defined--Solomon and Atticus, and Golden and Mizzie.  However, in the heat of the moment, when the spit flies, all bets are off.

Today, Golden and Mizzie were scrapping a bit.  I keep worrying about Mizzie's shoulder, but he doesn't seem to be bothered by it.  He goes after Golden and Solomon, mostly.  I was initially convinced that Solomon would be the alpha-'paca, if for no other reason than his Charles Manson-like craziness, but he seems to be trying to stay out of the fray as much as possible.

Right now, I would say Mizzie is ahead in points.  He's the only one so far who's strutted away from a round with wisps of fleece hanging from his mouth.  Sorry, Golden.  It looks like he caught some of Golden's topknot.  Those two tussle much more aggressively than Atticus and Solomon--they aren't afraid to chomp down wherever they can get a good hold.  Atticus and Solomon play fairly roughly, but they don't bite each other. 

It seems like they only argue when we're out there.  Otherwise, they all coexist peacefully.  They're learning each others' personal boundaries, and as a result, everyone's been sprayed with green, gooey spit.  There haven't been any injuries, and as long as nobody's hurt and nobody's being picked on, I'm going to let them work it out on their own.

Me, You, and Scrappy-Doo

I would like to introduce two new family members, Golden and Mizrahi.  The come to us from Mahart Farms (thank you, Marci!  They're sweet boys!), and are beautiful light colored  Suri boys.  Golden is fawn-colored, and Mizzie is white.  I am interested in experimenting with natural dyes, and we wanted to acquire a couple more lighter-colored fiber males. 

This is Golden:

Golden is about the same size as Atticus.  He is very vocal, and hums a LOT.  I think that will settle down once they all settle in to a routine.  He is a Suri, so his fiber will grow in "dreadlocks", whereas the Huacayas (Solomon and Atticus) will have fiber that makes them look like big puffballs.  We're going to call the vet and have them come out and do some dental work on this little dude.

Here is Mizrahi, or "Mizzie":



Mizzie is the smallest of the group, but he's sure scrappy!  He has a bit of a limp--his right shoulder required surgery early on in life, and so he's got some metal hardware embedded.  He's our bionic alpaca.  Being the smallest and having a limp doesn't slow him down AT ALL.  He kind of reminds me of Jerry in temperament and stature--small but mighty. 

We introduced them slowly to Atticus and Solomon, letting them sniff each other over the fence.  Marci recommended taking Atticus and Solomon out, and letting Golden and Mizzie in, so that they could get the lay of the land without being completely dominated.  We tried that.  I was a little worried that the older boys would pick on the newcomers.  That was not the case. 

Golden decided to take an aggressive stance right off the bat and went after Atticus.  Soon, the herd was thundering around the pasture, like cars zipping around a track.  It wasn't particularly warm outside, but I was afraid everybody would overheat, so we got the hose out.

We'd heard that spraying down chests and bellies would cool them down if they were overheated.  It hasn't been that warm a summer, and there is ample shade in the pasture, so it hadn't been an issue.  But, since the boys were all heated up from their run, and it was a tense situation for everyone anyway, we erred on the side of caution.

They LOVED the hose.  In fact, Solomon loved it so much, that he came close enough to me that I could practically touch him.  He kushed down and basked in the coolness.  Everyone finally settled down, and were soon calmly grazing. 

Golden and Mizzie were eager to explore their new home, and were soon nose-to-beak with chickens.  The hens were mildly curious, but were too busy avoiding Harry and his insatiable amorous advances to really care one way or the other.

Eventually, all was quiet, and a good nights' sleep was had by everyone.

Grover Arms

People who have been married for a while develop their own language, based on a lifetime of silly conversations and in-jokes.  Jerry and I are no exception.  Comments like, "I went all Grover Arms over the whole thing", or if one of us isn't understanding the other, saying, "Chicken?" are surefire ways to crack us up.

Today, I'll reveal the origin of "Grover Arms".

When I was in college, aerobics classes were all the rage--I'm talking full-on, Jane-Fonda- leotards-and-leg-warmers aerobics.  And, to my eternal shame, I'm compelled to confess that I, too, wore a full-body leotard and leg warmers.  I had all of Jane Fonda's workout videos, and I was still slim enough to enjoy group classes without worrying that I was the flabbiest person there.

Don't judge me.  It was the 80's.

Anyway, my aerobics instructor was a math professor who did the aerobics gig on the side, because he liked to work out.  He was a tall, gangly, swarthy man with black Einstein-esque hair, who typically wore a black, long-sleeved, full-leg body suit.  He wore electric blue accessories--terrycloth headband, wrist bands, running shorts over his leotard, and yes, leg warmers.  He had the longest and skinniest arms and legs I've ever seen on an actual human being.

He was so exuberant, you felt happy just being in the same room with him.  He didn't care if you were hopping on the correct leg, or skipping in the correct direction.  He just wanted you to MOVE.  "Your heart doesn't care what foot you're on, just keep GOING!!" he'd holler, as we took him at his word and bumped into each other and ran over one another in reckless abandon.  Who knew aerobics was a full-contact sport?

Whenever the routine called for us to wave our arms above our heads, his would flop from side to side, independent of each other, just like Grover from Sesame Street:

http://youtu.be/JOF5s9k-cLA

I wonder sometimes if he deliberately hopped on the wrong foot and moved out of sync to the beat to make us feel better about our clumsiness--no one could be THAT awkward naturally.

To this day, whenever I think of someone getting really freaked out over something, I think of them running around with "Grover Arms". 

A large portion of my job in the real world involves perusing medical records.  One diagnosis that always makes me giggle to myself (not out loud, I'm not CRAZY, after all) is "internal derangement".  This is often used as a diagnosis for knee injuries, if the doctor thinks someone might have a meniscus tear or ACL disruption, but doesn't yet have the MRI to confirm it.  Whenever I see that diagnosis, I think of Grover arms, waving toward the sky.

Whenever my teenagers get on my last nerve, I picture myself running out to the pasture, screaming unintelligibly, waving my Grover Arms, freak flag flying high.  It soothes me.  And it's so much better than dusting off the old Jane Fonda videos and trying to figure out where in the heck my waist went when I wasn't looking.

Reinforcement

There comes a time in every person's life when they need to learn the difference between "in" and "out".  Most often, if things are designated as "in" things, they need to stay "in".  "Out" things frequently need to remain "out".  Walls and fences are a good way to keep "in" in, and "out" out.  But what happens when "in" things need to stay in, and "out" things need to stay out, and SOMEthing needs to be able to move fluidly between the two realms?  This is the express purpose for such inventions as doors, gates, and the like--to make said transfers smooth and seamless.

And therein lies the problem--that transition stage between "in" and "out", and the possibility of "in" things becoming "out" things and vice versa.  "In" things like air-conditioning, parakeets, cats, and dogs do not mix well with "out" things like hot summer weather, hawks, coyotes, and cars.  And "out" things like flies, dogs, and mice do not mesh well with food, alpacas, and MY SHOES.

Just such a conflict has arisen in my peaceful household.  My niece, Kayla, does not understand her fundamental responsibility to participate in keeping "in" things in, and "out" things out.  Reinforcement of these vital principles was necessary.  Her grasp of the concept--guarding "in" from "out" and "out" from "in"--was in jeopardy.  Drastic measures needed to be taken. 

Observe:

We can only hope and pray that the lesson has taken hold, and the fine balance between "in" and "out" will continue to be maintained....

The Boys--Adventures in Alpacas

Once upon a time, our worldview included such livestock as chickens, goats, and cows. Then, my mother received the fateful phone call from our pastor’s wife, who is very involved in a local animal rescue.

You have to understand that my mother is well-known as a softy when it comes to animals in need. Over the course of my childhood, our property played host to a cow, chickens, rabbits, pheasants, dogs, cats, hamsters, parakeets, and two refugee goats. Many of these animals wandered onto the property, and decided to set up housekeeping. Our first cat, Betty, decided to make her home with us when my sister hand-fed her Oreos. She repaid the kindness by promptly having a litter of kittens in our chimney (in the middle of winter), making it impossible to use the wood stove for heat.

So it was no surprise when Mom told us we were acquiring two alpacas. Once we became reconciled to two new residents, it was time to do frantic internet research. What are alpacas? What do they eat? What kind of environment do they need? How much are the vet bills going to be?

For the next two weeks, all I did was internet research. I refuse to admit that I might possess a smidgen of OCD, but it’s possible that someone who didn’t know me very well might just think I’m a little obsessive. I learned enough about alpacas and their physical, medical, emotional, and spiritual needs to be very trepidatious about our new venture. Emotional and spiritual needs, you ask? Don’t get me started.

The arrival of the boys was looming. We needed to re-home them by the end of June. I quickly let go of the idea that we’d have their shelter completed, and satisfied myself with having the fencing done. The pasture they were going to inhabit came complete with a dense stand of evergreen trees, and the area stays dry, even during the winter in Oregon. This would have to do until we could get the new alpaca Taj Mahal done.

The boys were owned by a very nice woman who, due to medical reasons, had to find them a new home. They are 8 years old, and have lived together since birth. Neither of the boys had been gelded, and I began to have daydreams of founding a great alpaca empire, one which would change the direction of our lives forever. Oh, yes, they’ve changed the direction of our lives, all right. But not in the direction of creating a dominating alpaca empire.

So, at the end of June, Mom and I hopped into the minivan to bring the boys home. Yes, I said minivan. My exhaustive internet research revealed that alpacas can be transported in such a way. Ideally, they “kush”, or kneel on front and back legs, and are content to look out the window at the scenery.

Since it was late June, the boys were due for shearing. Alpacas in this area need to be sheared once a year, and the deal was that the owner would call her shearers and do the deed before we took them home. Ostensibly, the shearers would help us get the boys into the van, as well.

What I didn’t realize was, alpacas don’t LIKE to be sheared. And these boys weren’t very socalized, either, so for those of you who have calm, well-behaved alpacas, you probably wouldn’t understand how truly horrifying it was to hear them SCREAM as they were being sheared. It was like someone was killing them. The shearers, bless their hearts, were very efficient and professional, but the boys didn’t make it easy. That whole myth that alpacas don’t spit on humans? Not true. If you make them mad enough, they’ll spit on anyone.

The shearing massacre finally came to an end, and then it was time for the alpacas to get into the back of the minivan. We’d taken the seats out, and the back was completely open. After a lot of wrestling, screaming (some even from the alpacas), and naughty words, the boys were ensconsced in the minivan. Mom had to finalize the paperwork, so I was left to sit in the van with the boys, and try to calm them down.

“It’s okay, guys, this is the worst of it. It’s all downhill from here,” I crooned, trying to convince myself as well as them. I still had hold of their leads, because my fingers wouldn’t unclench from them. Please don’t spit on me, please don’t spit on me…I kept saying over and over to myself, along with, where is Mom? Why am I stuck here with these angry little beasts?

Eventually we hit the open road. The boys eventually got tired of not being able to stretch their necks and kushed. Atticus kept up a very worried humming for the duration of the trip, and Solomon was clearly plotting revenge.

This is Atticus, with a perpetually worried look in his eyes:






This is Solomon, with his typical, crazed-serial-killer look in his eyes:






We got the boys home, and they have managed acclimate, more or less.






But the story is far from over…..