Biblical
Job wasn’t from Georgia, but two of his descendants are likely living in White
County. If you doubt that, you missed
our llama-shearing day. But first, I
need to tell you what happened last time.
George
and Georgette were beyond shaggy. With a
good beagle, you could have jumped a rabbit in the thicket of hair on their
backs. I knew the llamas needed
haircuts, but finding someone for the task was tough. After a passel of phone calls, I found a
fellow up near North Carolina.
“Sir,”
I said, “Our llamas have never been handled by me. In a word, they are wily. I can close the gate on the feeding pen, but
that’s all.”
“Oh,”
he said, “I’ve sheared one thousand llamas.
If I can’t catch them, they can’t be caught.”
With
that assurance, I invited him to Lake Hartwell. The next Saturday, he drove 90 miles. I had the llamas corralled. The plan was to use a metal cattle panel and
squeeze the llamas—one at a time—into a small space, so he could put on a
halter and lead rope.
We
started with the alpha male, Big George.
He runs the llama show. And when we
closed in on him, the boss llama went nuts.
I don’t speak llama, but his bleating said something like, “No way, Jose!” The cousin to a camel turned into a mountain
goat. The llama kept trying to climb the
6-foot-tall corral panel. With each
lunge, I prayed George wasn’t going to hurt himself or us.
Sweat
was dripping off the nose of the I’ve-sheared-one-thousand-llamas man. I knew what he was going to say before his
mouth opened. And then he gasped, “I declare this llama can’t be caught.” I said, “It looks like our llamas may go to
heaven—one day—with bad hairdos and hot.”
One hundred and eighty miles was too far to drive on a flat wallet, so I
paid him anyway.
The
mission wasn’t a complete bust. I bought
knowledge of what not to do next time.
Spanky—our farm’s version of MacGyver—and
I got the new barn logistically ready. All I had to do was find another llama
shearer. Thanks to Mike and Carrie Russell
of Sweetcheeks Farms in Oglethorpe County, I met could-be descendants of Job,
Nicole Taylor and Amy Franklin, from Spirit Fiber Works in Cleveland.
These ladies do
speak llama. George; his pasture spouse, Georgette; and their offspring, Baby
Llama Bean and the Dalai Llama, weren’t thrilled about getting their fiber
shaved, but Nicole and Amy cooed them into a peaceful mood. Womanpower versus
manpower proved to be magic. Only George
and Bean required mild sedatives.
Llamas are infamous
for spitting. Throughout the morning,
there was plenty of nervous gurgling. Just once did Amy cover her ear for protection,
but loogies never happened.
Except for
Georgette, humans haven’t touched our llamas.
When the animals got excited, the ladies just backed away and stood
still. Using Biblical-like patience,
they did not hurry or raise their voices.
Before long, the critters and Nicole were swapping nose nuzzles.
Using soothing
tones as she snipped, Nicole piled enough fiber on the barn floor to almost
fill the short bed of a Chevy Silverado.
“Next time,” she said, “I’ll use the good, clean fiber to make some yarn
for you.” (Check out Spirit Fiber Works online.)
Thanks to these
have-to-be descendants of Job, I’m already looking forward to the next
time. The llamas are, too. Big George
bleated something that sounded like “That was easy-peasy. See y’all in April.”
dnesmith@cninewspapers.com
