#writer philip dacey

[dabiconcordia]

Llama Days

Because today I walked a llama back home, I have a new standard for all my coming days. Just minutes with the llama made this one a poem of kindly wonders, long-necked woolly praise.

I'd been raking leaves, bent forward, head down, eyes on my country acre, so that when I raised them and saw at my driveway's end a llama standing tall there, checking me out,

I was all stammer and gawk and disbelief until I thought of Leon, my neighbor half- a-mile away, whose land was mostly zoo, menagerie, whatever, I called him Doo-

little, the animal doctor himself, though Leon was no vet, just one big heart for anything that walked on paw, web, or hoof-- goat, peacock, sheep, horse, donkey, mink, hare, hart.

But llama? I'd never noticed one before, though no doubt my surprise at seeing him was matched by his at seeing me--or more than matched, he being lost, freedom become

a burden twice as bad as any bars, so much so panic struck and he turned back, high-stepping it onto the road, two-lane, tarred, and I saw the headline, "Llama killed by truck."

Dropping the rake, I raced to rescue him, who now stood frozen, straddling the centerline, looking this way and that; oh, too much room, too little clue. I had to herd him to Leon.

With slow approach and arms a traffic cop's, I eased him into action in the lane leading to llama-chow and fell into step beside him; well, sort of, his two to my one.

I talked him down the road, an unbroken string of chatter my invisible halter and rein: “Howyadoin? Where'd you think you were going? A little farther now, big guy. You'll be just fine.”

Luckily, no car came to make him bolt, though I almost wished for one, wanting someone to see us, like old friends out for a stroll, shoulder to shoulder in the morning sun.

Once we got close enough to what he knew, he was gone, down the right driveway this time, and I was left alone to wave goodbye: “You take care now.” His thanks silent. “You're welcome.”

I don't expect the llama to escape again. Leon 's repaired a fence, no doubt, or gate. So I know tomorrow I'll have to find my own, invent one, a facsimile, and I can't wait.

Already I see him coming like a dream, disguised as odd events, encounters, small dramas worth at least a laugh. Let “He walked his llama home” be my epitaph. I wish you lots of llamas. By Philip Dacey