“Are you serious?” I said. “And do you really think the chief wants a llama?”
“Absolutely,” Vern winked at me when he said it, and glanced over at Plunkett. Who couldn’t exactly swivel his ears like Jim Bob the donkey, but was definitely paying attention. “And Minerva won’t let him spend the money. Says it’s an extravagance. But she can’t exactly object if his loyal staff give him one, can she?”
I had a sudden vision of how the chief would react if anyone actually gave him a llama and had trouble fighting back an attack of the giggles.
“There’s Michael now,” Vern said.
“Daddy!” Josh cried.
“Zippy!” Jamie shouted.
While the twins waved and shrieked, the rest of us watched in breathless silence as Michael led Zeppo over the course Harpo had completed so brilliantly. To my astonishment, Zeppo was alert and focused. He breezed through the obstacles as well as Harpo had—maybe better.
“This one’s not as funny as some of the others,” Plunkett remarked.
“That’s because this one is doing it right,” I said.
Maybe I jinxed things by saying that. Michael and Zeppo had reached the point where Zeppo was supposed to stand in the little circle while Michael picked up one of his hooves. Zeppo stood. Michael bent down and carefully picked up the hoof.
Zeppo squealed and fell over as if pole-axed. Then, he began flailing around, scratching his back on the ground, raising great clouds of dust and waving all four legs in the air in his delight. It took Michael a good five minutes to get him on his feet again.
“So much for our hopes of a one-two victory in the obedience trials,” I said, shaking my head.
“Funniest things I’ve ever seen,” Plunkett said. “Maybe I should get me some llamas. They good for anything apart from the entertainment value? Can’t say as I’ve ever eaten roast llama, but I’d be willing to give it a try. What’s it taste like?”
“We’ve never eaten any of our pet llamas,” I said in my coldest voice. “So I have no idea what they would taste like. We don’t grill the dogs, either.”
“Llamas look as if they’d be tough and stringy anyway,” Vern said.
I was opening my mouth to say that while older llamas probably were tough and stringy, the young ones were considered quite a delicacy in the Andes. But then I realized that Vern was probably feeling as protective about the llamas as I was.
“They expensive, these llamas?” Plunkett asked.
“I have no idea,” I said. “Michael buys them. I just say, ‘Oh, goody, another llama.’”
I was relieved when Plunkett left. Until I saw him at the other end of the stands, chatting with one of the county board members. Looking for allies in his job campaign, most likely. I found him obnoxious, but he could probably turn on a smarmy kind of good ol’ boy charm when he wanted. He and the board member seemed to be getting along just fine. Not something I could do anything about now, so I did my best to shove it out of my mind.
“He’s job hunting, all right.” Vern was also frowning at Plunkett and the board member.
“And what if he really tries to butter up the chief by giving him a llama?” I asked.
“No idea,” Vern said. “But it should be fun to watch. Meanwhile, I need to run.”
I stayed through the award ceremony. Harpo, to no one’s surprise, won first place. Zeppo actually came in fifth, which shows how unruly most of the other llamas had been. We led Happy and Zippy, as the boys insisted on calling them, back to the sheep barn in triumph.
“I have to run over to the Caerphilly Inn,” I told Michael. “Fair business.”
“Can you stop off at the chicken tent on your way?” he asked. “To see the Sumatrans and Welsummers in person?”
He seemed so keen that I agreed. So we all four trooped over to the chicken tent. Some of the farmers had set up an incubator, and we arrived just in time for the boys to watch some Leghorn chicks hatching.
“Mommy, can we have them?” Josh asked.
“No, I want big chickens,” Jamie said, pointing at an enormous Brahma rooster.
Michael disappeared while the boys and I were watching the chicks, and then reappeared with two farmers, each carrying a chicken. One was a soft, fluffy black-and-copper Welsummer hen, the other a glossy black Sumatran rooster.
“Mine,” Jamie said, pointing to the Sumatran.
“Good taste,” the Sumatran’s owner said, with a laugh.
“Want that one,” Josh said. For once, they weren’t fighting for the same thing—he was pointing to the Welsummer.
“Either one’s a pretty good choice for a hobby farmer,” the Welsummer’s owner said.