Llama, llama. Lama.
A young llama lives with two pygmie goats by Tom’s dad’s barn. Tom’s dad found him on the sub-zero night he was born and brought him into the barn. The little guy’s ears were frostbitten, and he now has shorter than normal llama ears. Freya and I are friends with all three (llama and goats). When we walk in those woods, we stop on the way, Freya goes nose-to-nose, and I rub Dalai Lama’s neck (Yes, that really is his name) and rub the little goats between their horns.

Llamas spit. I know this, and when he starts chortling up his cud, I move out of the direct line of fire. This weekend, however, he was particularly nuzzly and cuddly and wanting rubs, so I let my guard down. Only to get PHLAT! right on the chest and chin. It’s green. It’ s mostly chewed grass, but it’s still a bit phlemy and not exactly pleasant. But still funny.

I’ve been Llamaed. Llamed Llammed. Lamaied. Phlatted. Two points for whoever can think of the best verb for this experience.

Becky Avatar

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