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.
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