“I like both,” I said.
“I was rather tempted by the Rumpless Araucana.” He showed me a picture of a chicken that was a bit nondescript except for peculiar tufts of feathers on either side of the head, looking rather like Victorian muttonchop sideburns. And unless he’d taken the picture at a particularly odd angle, the bird didn’t have a tail at all.
“Yuck,” I said. “Let’s stick to either the Sumatrans or the Welsummers.”
“The Araucanas lay pale blue eggs.” Michael sounded rather wistful, as if suddenly realizing a long-felt yearning to own chickens that laid pastel eggs.
“The others just lay white eggs?” I asked.
“Well, no,” he said. “The Sumatrans do. But the Welsummers lay bronze eggs. Sometimes speckled.”
“Get both,” Molly suggested. “Sumatrans and Welsummers. You can keep one kind at your place and the other at your parents’ farm.”
“I like her style,” Michael said. “Speaking of style, I think Zeppo is ready, and just in time. Let’s lead them over to the show ring.”
“I should go.” Molly sounded disappointed. Evidently she hadn’t come entirely for distraction. She’d probably been hoping to talk to me when Michael and the twins and the llamas weren’t underfoot.
“No, stay,” I said. “You can lead one of the llamas. It’s always an absolute goat rope when we try to travel with more than three children or animals. And we can find a quiet corner of the stands where the boys won’t annoy anyone, and you and I can talk.”
“Well, if I can help,” she said.
Michael handed her Zeppo’s lead.
We set out with Michael proudly escorting Harpo.
“Let me go in the middle,” I said, when Molly was about to fall in line behind them. “It’s never a good idea to let one llama follow another too closely. The one who isn’t in front will try to goose the other.”
“You’re joking,” Molly said.
“I wish,” I said. “As a species, the llama has a very pronounced sense of humor, but unfortunately it’s about as subtle and refined as that of the average second-grade boy. If you could wave a magic wand and make them human, they’d look elegant, but they’d drive you crazy holding burping contests and telling fart jokes. Come on, boys; let’s follow Daddy.”
We marched in stately procession toward the show ring. Harpo and Zeppo seemed to know that they were about to have their moment in the spotlight and stepped even more proudly and elegantly than usual. Michael basked in all the attention Harpo was getting. The boys waved at everyone we passed. Molly hid her face behind Zeppo’s now dramatically fluffy wool but seemed to be enjoying herself. And around us, threading through the crowds singly or in well-spaced pairs, other llamas were also making their way to the show ring.
“We’re going to kill them.” Michael gave me a quick peck on the cheek before taking Zeppo’s lead from Molly and leading the two into the backstage area. I glanced quickly at Molly, but she didn’t seem upset by the phrase.
We found a seat in the front row. The llama trials, I noted with disapproval, were not nearly as well attended as some of the livestock events—one of the things Michael and his fellow llama fanciers were hoping to change. And the front rows were empty, possibly because many of the spectators were afraid of being spat upon. Which I could have told them wasn’t likely to happen. A well-socialized llama never spat except at other llamas, and very few people wasted their time entering badly socialized llamas in the obedience trials.
“So what’s this contest about, anyway?” Molly asked. It had taken a few minutes to get Josh and Jamie properly penned in between us, and I gathered she’d only just now caught a glimpse of the obstacle course the llamas would be tackling.
“Apart from their wool, llamas are also pack animals,” I said. “And getting more popular all the time for wilderness trekking. The obedience trial challenges them with obstacles that are similar to things they’d encounter in a typical hike. Oh, look, there are Michael and Harpo. They must have drawn number one.”
“Happy!” both boys shouted. “Go, Happy, go!”
We all watched as Michael brought Harpo up to the first obstacle—a tangled pile of branches that both handler and llama had to walk across. Michael stomped vigorously as if to show Harpo there was nothing to fear underfoot. Harpo picked his way as delicately as a cat, but without hesitation. Scattered applause greeted their success.
Next they approached a series of white-painted rails, four to six inches off the ground.