“Llamas aren’t high jumpers, I gather,” Molly said.
“Actually, they aren’t bad,” I said. “But they’re supposed to step over this obstacle, not jump. When you’re trekking through the wilderness, you really don’t want a four-hundred-pound llama carrying a hundred pounds of gear to be bouncing up and down like a jackrabbit.”
Harpo handled the rails beautifully—he strolled over them as if on flat ground, without touching a single rail, without the slightest hint of a hop, and without appearing to look down.
Next was the fence gate, where Harpo had to stand while Michael opened it, walk through without balking, and then stand again while Michael closed it. The slalom, where they wove in and out between half a dozen artificial Christmas trees without knocking any of them over. Harpo walked delicately over a layout of old car tires, through a series of large hoops, and then through a child’s wading pool filled with stuffed animals. He followed Michael up a ramp and then down a series of rather high steps. He only flicked his ears a bit when Michael picked up and checked a front foot, and then a back foot. He allowed Michael to lead him down a path between two narrow rails and then, on command, backed up the whole length of the path. And finally he stood as if at attention while Michael tied his lead to the fence and unloaded his packs.
Toward the end of their routine, I was holding my breath, and I could tell half of the onlookers were, too. The llama-owning half. When the judge nodded for Michael to lead Harpo out of the ring, the audience broke into thunderous applause.
“I’m impressed,” Molly said. “But I guess I wasn’t cut out to be a llama owner. I can’t quite fathom the level of enthusiasm.”
“That’s because you just saw pretty darn close to a perfect performance,” I said. “It gets a lot more interesting when things don’t go as planned.”
And for the next dozen or so llamas, things definitely got interesting. Llamas refused to step on the sticks and tires, or stubbornly detoured around them. Llamas shuffled their feet into the rails, or leaped over them like steeplechasers. Llamas dug in their heels and refused to go through the gates. Llamas fell off the ramp, jumped off of it to walk beside it, or stood immobile at the top surveying their surroundings with lordly stares. The occasional llama completely ignored the course and trotted over to the stands to study interesting spectators, dragging his hapless owner behind him. One llama tried to eat the artificial Christmas trees. Another jumped over the fence rather than wait for his owner to open the gate. One very young llama became fascinated with the stuffed animals in the wading pool and refused to stop sniffing them. He finally had to be led off the course by dangling a grungy teddy bear in front of him. Even the llamas that didn’t completely blow one or more obstacles failed to execute them as quickly, cleanly, and calmly as Harpo had.
“Okay, I see what you mean,” Molly said. We were watching the volunteers trying to deal with a llama who got fed up midway through the obstacle course and was lying down just outside the tunnel, humming to himself with his eyes closed. “Harpo is a llama genius, but imperfection is a lot funnier.”
“Let’s just hope Zeppo doesn’t completely destroy Michael’s reputation as a brilliant llama trainer,” I said. “It would be fabulous to have them come in as first and second.”
“Zeppo’s not as well trained as Harpo?”
“He’s just as well trained, but more eccentric,” I said. “Some days he’ll sail through the course perfectly, but all too often on competition days his mind is elsewhere. I’m hoping he’s focused today.”
“Well, at least if he doesn’t place second, we’ll have a few more laughs.” Molly’s face suddenly grew serious. “Thank you,” she said.
“No need to thank me,” I said. “That’s one of our missions at the fair—to proclaim the joy of llamas. Michael won’t be content until every farmer has a few.”
“Not sure they’d get along with my goats and cows,” Molly said. “No, I mean thank you for everything. For recommending the lawyer. Both the lawyers, actually. I like them both a lot. And I understand that if it wasn’t for you, I’d be languishing in a jail cell in Clay County instead of out on bail in Caerphilly. Which I gather that would be a very bad thing, unless all the stories I’m hearing are just gossip.”
“Some are and some aren’t,” I said. “It’s more like Dogpatch than Deliverance, but still—you don’t want to be in jail anywhere.”