OK, OK, OK. Enough already. “When are you going to have pictures in your blog?” As I have tried sopatiently to explain, I’m trying to be a writer here, not a photographer. Besides, a picture being worth a thousand words and all, two snapshots uses up my word budget for a week and then you’d have nothing to read. “And the problem with that is?” Never mind. If you want pictures go visit the website of a realphotographer like my friend Jim Austin. His website is www.jimages.com and check out his awesome bird calendar at www.lulu.com/product/calendar/zen-sational-birds/11791018. Lulu will even grant you a 40% discount if you use the code CALENDARVIP305 at checkout. It’s a shameless plug on my part but those are some great pictures.
However, I am aware that my primary goal is to entertain you, my readers, and that some of the whinging photophiliacs among you are demanding photos to be entertained. So, here, here’s your damn picture. *Poof*…. There goes the setup, just like that. The surprise – the very mystery – of what the story is about is gone – ruined – all by one little snapshot. This week, in what may be turning into a disturbing trend, the story is about bizarre encounters with barnyard animals. But see, you already knew that.
One thousand words gone. In the blink of an eye.
I spent this past weekend with my sister Barb at her diminutive rancho high in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains outside of Las Vegas, New Mexico. From her micro-Ponderosa the view looks north to spectacular Hermit’s Peak – a gigantic block of cloud shrouded granite – and east towards the high plains. Closer in, the mini-meadow is dotted with her small flock of earth-toned sheep. The sound of chickens clucking in their relentless search for food and a better spot in the pecking order can be heard. Overhead the guinea fowl complain raucously about just about anything. Behind the house her pack of nationally known Borzoi dogs lounge about, waiting for the unsuspecting gopher to stick its head out of the ground. All is at peace. Because, guarding over all of it stands Mocha, the Attack Llama.
Barb decided she needed an Attack Llama because of the local population of coyotes and their fondness for mutton. I was unsure, given her pack of killer dogs, why the coyotes would even venture near the place but assume it’s because, given half a chance, the dogs would fall in with the coyotes and everybody would be dining on chops. The little wooly puffballs are all destined for sweaters and the freezer anyway but my sister wants to be the one who decides who eats what. And when.
I met Mocha on a previous visit. Barb said something like “He’ll run right up to you but don’t move. He can smell your fear.” He did. You know in the movies where the good guy escapes from the Evil Villain’s Prison and they set the dogs on his (or her) scent? The dogs rush away all snarls, teeth and drool looking for the escapee. Meeting Mocha was like that but without the snarls and teeth. Imagine a 7-foot tall Muppet who tips the scales at about 400 pounds, has the attitude of a guard dog, and the ability to spit accurately enough to knock a bottle off a fencepost from 50 feet away. This creature is rushing at you doing 20 miles-per-hour and stops – which it does quite suddenly – when its face is about an inch from yours. This is close enough to feel the little droplets of god-knows-what it is exhaling hitting your face and fogging your sunglasses. That’s what it was like to meet Mocha the first time – and every time since. Fortunately Mocha is a gentle beast at heart so once he gets to know you you’re allowed to enter the area. But never – not even once – can you lower your guard. Mocha is always looking for somebody to spit at.
Nevertheless, Mocha is very protective of his flock and his ever-watchful eyes are always scanning the distance for coyotes to chase and people to spit at. The wooly orbs are safe from the wild predators and the dogs must restrict themselves to furry subterranean morsels with an inappropriate urge to see the sun. The sheep are safe. Mocha is on patrol.
One day my sister and I drove down to Albuquerque – which sounds much less like it is spelled than you would think – to pick up a pair of sheep. The sheep had been modified from smelly, noisy – though tastefully dressed – beggars into easy to carry plastic bags filled with two-pound packs of what is most commonly called “dinner”. There was also a bag of “scraps” for the dogs and another bag with the pelt of one of the sheep in it. The latter I hope is to be this year’s birthday present if it can be processed in time.
We did a quick stop at Kasha-Katuwe Tent Rocks National Monument on the way back to Las Vegas for a hike in the snow. Kasha-Katuwe – which means, like so many other native names, “let’s see what stupid name the white guys come up with for this” in the local tribal dialect – is one of those places straight out of the Old West. Dozens of Westerns have been filmed at the location which is a spooky mix of conical volcanic/erosive features formed due to the differential resistance of pyroclastic and hydroclastic sediments – oops, just let my inner geologist take control for a second there – and slot canyons where you just knowthe robbers are hiding out. It’s a nice place for a hike and the scenery is moving and spectacular. At the top my sister looked out over the awe inspiring view spreading from horizon to horizon and said, in typical understated rancher fashion, “You know, we’re going to have to look at that gate when we get back.”
The subject gate spanned the drive at the bottom of the hill back at the ranch. It was operated, in typical ranch fashion, by driving up to it, getting out of the truck, unchaining and opening it by hand, driving through, getting out again and closing it up. But it was not always thus. In the recent past it could be opened with the mere press of a button. The gate would swing open and then thoughtfully close behind you as you drove up the hill. Barb was hoping to resurrect the automatic mode. So the next morning we drove down the hill to have a look at the recalcitrant opener. After carefully looking over the electrical components and whacking the thing with a hammer a couple of times – to no avail – we found a burned out fuse. Replacing that fuse just caused a different one to pop. There was something wrong with the system beyond our ability to repair so we sealed it back up and hit it with the hammer again – just in case. Barb said “C’mon, let’s go meet Horace and Billy.”
Horace and Billy, brothers they, live in a small cabin at the foot of the hill. They are, by any measure, local characters who might be best envisioned as something along the lines of “Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure” meets “The Beverly Hillbillies”. They live nearly off-the-grid in a two room cabin. The first room was built by their grandfather in 1935. The small footprint was doubled by a recent addition, in 1955, of a kitchen and eating area. The new addition is dominated by a beautiful cast-iron cook stove that probably dates back to the first settlers. It is a work of art. Which explains why the robbers tried to steal it. The problem was that following the break-in, which is something of a misnomer as the doors have no locks, the burglars realized that the addition was basically constructed around the stove and, short of dismantling the house, there was no way it could be moved. They left empty-handed.
Horace and Billy live disconnected from most modern conveniences. They have no car. They did once but it was “stolen” – nobody is sure if it was stolen from them or by them. In any event it broke down at the bottom of the mountain and somehow just disappeared. They have neither running water nor indoor plumbing. Water is carried from the well to the house in a bucket. Their sole concession to modern life is electricity to power their well pump and run the satellite-fed, Big Screen TV. Just like our pioneer forebears.
Horace and Billy, being characters, know absolutely everything about everybody in the area. They are watchful – a great thing for a neighbor to be – and will call you if anything is amiss on your property. With all this local knowledge and their keen skills of observation they are the ones that assure “What goes on in Las Vegas everybody finds out about it.”
They are also Mocha’s best friends.
Mocha, from time-to-time, just enjoys wandering down the hill and paying the boys a visit. He likes playing with “Scraps”, Horace and Billy’s dog, running back and forth through the fields. He’ll stick his head in the window, a la Mr. Ed, and chit-chat with the brothers and eat a full can of Billy’s salted cashews. Horace also tells of the time he was sitting in the “Library” which is the euphemism they use for where one goes when one does not have indoor plumbing. It was a fine summer’s day and the door was open to the verdant forest. Suddenly Mocha’s head swung through the open door and stopped an inch away from Horace’s face. Apparently Attack Llamas have a stealth mode too. To hear Horace tell it he was just damned glad to be already sitting down when Mocha made his move. So to speak.
So it was when we were visiting. Mocha rambled down the hill to see what was up. Played a bit with the dog and said Hi to everybody. Barb and I said our farewells and wandered back to the truck. We stopped once more at the gate and hit the opener with the hammer again just for good luck. Mocha wandered over and stared at me then stared at the opener.
I heard muted laughter and a small voice with a vaguely Spanish accent. “You’ll never get it working, Gringo.” I looked at Mocha and saw him wink.
“Why not?” I asked the sniggering ungulate.
“Because I spit on it.” Mocha turned and walked up the hill to check on his flock.