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…..
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