The Llama Drama

It was just me in the office that spring, working at the county fairgrounds. My manager, Rick, was a retired carnival performer—knew every trick in the book, from juggling to guessing your weight, and everything in between.

One morning, he comes in waving a clipboard around, eyes sparkling like a kid in a candy store.

“Big news!” he says. “We’re getting a llama exhibit.”

“A llama exhibit?”

He nods, looking way too excited. “And we get to pick them up ourselves.”

Next thing I know, I’m in the passenger seat of a rented van with Rick at the wheel, grinning like he’s just won the lottery. We’re on our way to a llama farm, which is apparently just a guy named Chuck with a backyard full of llamas.

We pull up, and there they are—a dozen llamas, staring at us with what can only be described as “mild disapproval.” Chuck waves us over and explains that we’re taking the calmest one. So he walks up to a particularly grumpy-looking llama named Rusty and opens the gate.

Rick’s thrilled. “How hard can it be?” he says.

Turns out, very hard. The minute Rusty sees us, he takes off. For the next half-hour, Rick and I are chasing this llama around Chuck’s yard, dodging spit and tripping over hay bales. By the end, we’re exhausted, covered in mud, and questioning all our life choices.

Finally, Chuck comes over with a bucket of carrots, and Rusty, like it was his plan all along, calmly walks into the trailer.

On the drive back, we’re quiet, the van filled with the sounds of Rusty chewing and Rick grumbling. When we finally get to the fairgrounds, Rick turns to me and says, “Next time, remind me never to trust a llama.”

The next day, Rick walks into the office, looking even more frazzled than usual. “Guess what?” he says, sighing. “Rusty got loose.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Should I get the carrots?”

He groans, “I’d rather get a transfer.”

Moral: Sometimes, the simplest things can be the most complicated—and if you ever have to pick up a llama, bring snacks and lower your expectations.