Butting Heads

(This story was written for the Writer's Cramp, April 1, 2011. PROMPT: Write a story or poem about a llama, a pickle and an old shoe.)

Carrie Thompson shifted as she sat on the top step of the porch and shaded her eyes with one hand, squinting down the long dirt driveway. “Where is he?” she muttered, frowning. Sure, she kept the milk chilled, but it wasn't pasteurized yet, and if it didn't get to the dairy down the road right quick, it would spoil. She had no intention of losing either the money she got for providing the fruits of her goats' labor or her spotless reputation for reliable delivery. No matter the weather, even if she was really too sick to work, she made sure the milk was ready promptly every day. The cheese created from her goats' milk was a prized specialty in her little Texas town, and she was proud of it. But if that truck didn't get here soon...

A plume of dust rose in the distance, and Carrie smiled and rose herself to wait for it, only a little irritated now. She waited patiently, and within a few minutes, the dairy's truck pulled up in front of the country house. Carrie waved, but the motion halted in surprise when a young man she didn't know got out of the cab.

“Where's Jake?” she called, almost blurting the words.

The dark-haired driver's wave wasn't as hesitant as hers. “Out sick, ma'am. I'm Jerry, Jerry Gonzalez. Sorry I'm late; I'm new around here. Haven't driven out this way before. You got,” he checked his clipboard, “A load of... goat's milk for me?” Confused, he peered at her.

Carrie had to chuckle. “Yeah, that's right. C'mon.” She headed for the truck. “It's way out back. I'll ride with you.”

He was amenable to that. As the truck moved slowly along the bumpy dirt road, she explained the deal she had with the dairy, concluding, “You should try some of that cheese sometime. I'm sure you get an employee's discount. Ah, here we are. Stop in front of that barn there.”

He did, and she led the way into the barn. Her animals- goats, with one exception- milled and bleated in the long stalls on either side of the corridor down the middle. The metal canisters of milk were waiting on two flatbed carts. “I'll get this one, you get that one,” Carrie suggested. “Okay?”

No answer. She turned. “Okay, Jerry?” Then she laughed. Poor Jerry. She was doing a lot to confuse him today, apparently. He was staring at one particular critter in the lefthand stall, and now he pointed, and stated the obvious. “That's not a goat.”

Carrie smiled. “No, that's Gilly, my llama. Raised him from a baby. Of course, now he thinks he's a goat, what with being raised with 'em and all. You should see him butting hands with the billys. And the crazy things he eats! You know how goats eat everything, even tin cans? Well, he does too.” She walked over to the stall, and stood on the bottom slat of the fencing to lean over and extend a hand toward the creature. It came to her, and that's when she caught its low bleating, a sound of distress. When it came within reach, she could hear Gilly's labored breathing. “Oh no. He's done it again! Look, go ahead and take the milk; I have to call the vet. He's got the sharps again.” Carrie reached down to her belt and withdrew her cell phone. Thank goodness for speed-dialing!

* * *

A day later, the veterinarian returned to check on Gilly. The llama's side was shaved, revealing a line of neat stitches, but he was eating, his eyes were bright, and he was breathing easily. Carrie and the vet leaned on the side of the smaller stall where Gilly would live by himself until he was healed.

“An old shoe.” Carrie shook her head. “I have no idea where he got his teeth on that. I'm just glad he's going to be okay.”

“And I have no idea how he managed to swallow it without choking,” her vet mused. “Still, all's well that ends well. This makes, what, the fourth time?”

Carrie sighed. “And I'm sure it won't be the last.” She looked back at the llama, relieved but exasperated. “That's Gilly, always getting himself into a pickle!”