by Baby Llama Bean
Since we’ve never officially
met, please allow me to introduce myself.
My full name is Baby Llama Bean, but you can just call me “Bean” for
short. That’s what most folks do here on
the NeSmith farm.
If
I sound a little like a braggadocio, please forgive me. First-time fathers can get that way, and I’m
about to pop with pride. My barnyard
sweetheart, Georgette, delivered a surprise in between all those spring gully-washers
last week.
The little one
is a beauty. It has fluffy white fur,
with a brown patch on its back, just like me. I overheard my neighbor, Maggie
the Mule, tell her spotted-donkey boyfriend, Spanky, “Why, it’s all legs, ears and
long eyelashes.” I’ll take that as a
compliment.
Across the
barbed-wire fence, Otis is pouting. He’s
the man among his harem of three miniature donkeys. He and I had a bet about whose offspring
would get here first. Jenny is really showing, and Otis was just sure
that he’d be braying and passing out the hay-rolled cigars first.
He’ll get over
it, maybe.
Everybody is
asking, “Well, what is it? What is it …
a boy or a girl?”
That’s a good
question.
I’m a little
embarrassed to say, “I don’t know, either.”
Why?
Don’t you know
about llamas? When riled, we could-be cousins
of a camel can spit a city block. And
when a llama aims its ears backwards, watch out. A big old wad of nasty is about to get hurled
at you. I’ve launched a few yucky
missiles myself.
I know
Georgette loves me, but she ain’t letting me near her or our baby … yet.
But I don’t
feel too bad. She won’t let the farmer
close, either. I’ve watched him try, but
Georgette’s ears just flatten against her pretty head.
Let me
digress. Normally, Georgette is a
sweetie. She’s famous on the farm for
leaning over the fence to give visitors a smooch. Now, that girl will plant her velvet lips in a
flash.
But things
aren’t “normal” right now.
That’s why the
farmer started walking backwards, watching Georgette, with every step. She had started pawing the fescue like an
angry bull. Once—on a full moon—I saw
her rear up and flash those spear-like hooves at a night-marauding coyote. That bad boy tucked his hairy tail and skittered
back under the fence.
No, sir, I’m not making her mad.
Neither is our
farmer.
But he did ask
me, “What are y’all going to name it?”
“That’s easy,”
I said.
“If it’s a
girl, we’ll call her Dolly Llama.”
“If it’s a boy,
his name will be our Dalai Llama.”
I wish you
could see Otis.
He can almost
walk to the pond on his poked-out lips.
(Since I don’t have internet connection at the barn, you can reach me
at dnesmith@cninewspapers.com)
