Llama Inspections

In my job at a vet clinic, I normally deal with cats and dogs. I'll occasionally see ferrets or rabbits or other small pets, and since starting work in Wyoming, I have handled the odd horse or two. Today, however, I got to play the part of Certified Llama Inspector.

Two llamas--both alike in dignity--needed health certificates to travel to a fair. Current on all appropriate vaccinations and not having any health problems, they ended up a low priority in a busy hospital. The doctors were involved with more crucial cases, and the technicians who normally dealt with large animals were out in the field assisting with the neutering of donkeys and the vaccinating of cattle. So I got the job.

Before today, I'd had very limited experience with llamas. I had passed them once or twice in the mountains carrying equipment for lazy picnickers or campers. I had seen them in fields being raised for their wool. I had once even laughed with glee as a llama at the zoo spit on a detested high school classmate.

Don’t chastise me; I’ve never claimed to be very nice. I did help her clean the goo out of her hair, so you can't say that I’m all bad. Granted, it was my fault that the llama got peeved (I was really bored because my Biology field trip was about at the fourth-grade level, so I danced around in front of the llama and sang to it a bit and pointed at it and taunted it-—I didn’t think it would really spit, but I learned a valuable Biology lesson that day after all). I did laugh the whole time we were attempting to remove the foul-smelling gunk from her clothes, but I didn’t just leave her, which was saying a lot because she had always been a nasty, catty girl to me.

As soon as I heard that the llama business was my responsibility today, I was a bit nervous that Karma might be planning to pay me back for my former wickedness. I, therefore, approached the llamas very slowly and respectfully. I became even more cautious and courteous when the young girl who owned the llamas brought the first one up to me saying, “Be careful around his hind end. He doesn’t really like people.”

I crooned reassuringly and scratched a fuzzy llama neck as I checked for eye infections and nasal discharge. Superficially, he looked quite good to my untrained eye. As I moved to check inside the his mouth, he snorted and stomped. Undeterred--after all, I figured that if I got spit on, I cosmically deserved it--I lifted his lip and opened his mouth anyway, which showed pink gums, grass-stained teeth and no ulcers.

“Nice creatures you’ve got here,” was my official, professional opinion, although I knew that that spotted one would have kicked me if I’d given him the chance.