Today's wonderful post comes via Richard Kirschman of Point Reyes, California. Richard modestly wishes to be known only as a llama llover. Karen, Here's a story I wrote that you might enjoy. It's about our llama Quentin. I've never been on the receiving end of an animal's resentment before, and I can assure you it's quite disconcerting. I hesitate to attribute human emotions to animals, but there seems no other way to explain our llama's change in attitude directly following a recent incident. Quentin is a 17 year-old gelding who has been with me and my wife, Doris, since he was 2. Originally, we bought him to protect our small herd of sheep and goats. Except for a short period of confinement following a mountain lion attack many years ago, all our animals have enjoyed unrestricted access to our acreage of forest and lush meadowland. We liked to think of them living free in a huge salad. A few years ago, we stopped breeding sheep and goats, and eventually all our animals died of old age. Not counting the deer that regularly graze alongside Quentin, our llama was now all alone. Every morning we found him somewhere on the property and gave him his daily medicine hidden in a banana, along with other treats. In the evening he found us for his ration of alfalfa pellets. Overall, things seemed fine. But two veterinarians and Quentin's breeder counseled against keeping a herd animal alone. "It's cruel," they all agreed. "He needs companions." And so we bought two adorable 4-week-old lambs for Quentin. We knew that he was fond of young animals, as evidenced by an old photograph of him with one of our goats, Juanita. As a kid, she used to ride on Quentin's back and he would carry her under oak trees so she could reach the leaves. A pair of baby lambs seemed a perfect idea. Not to Quentin. No sooner did our llama hear the plaintive baaing of the two barely weaned lambs than he bolted for the open gate to our property, something he has never done before. If Doris hadn't reached the gate and closed it in time, Quentin would have been passing traffic on the highway and speeding toward the national park. From that moment on, he wouldn't look at us or eat from our hands. He ignored our calls, backed away from his beloved back scratches and slept in the woods, far away from his usual bed near the house. When we tried to approach him, he bared his teeth, flared his nostrils and made a mournful, pitiful cry of distress. In Quentin's eyes, my wife and I had become chopped liver. We could only guess that bringing other animals into the family had so upset him, he had no desire to associate with those who had betrayed him. It felt like anger. Not the spitting and kicking kind of physical anger, but the emotional kind. After 48 hours, we returned the lambs to their likely destiny as lamb chops and began the slow process of regaining Quentin's trust and confidence. Time - in this case eight days - heals even llama pain.