The Babyhood of Wild Beasts/Chapter 17
CHAPTER XVII
baby llamas
I HAVE enjoyed the friendship of but one baby Llama. It was an experience worth while and one I love to dwell on. She was a little beauty dressed in a white silky coat with a couple of smart dark splotches on her neck for adornment. I called them beauty spots, and because of them I christened her "Beauty."
Nearly all baby wild animals have no sense of fear and "Beauty" was no exception to the rule. She must have been a month old before she took it into her pretty head to become shy and distrustful of strangers. Up to that time everybody was a "good fellow" in her estimation; but after she entertained fear thoughts, she became timid in the presence of unfamiliar faces and was more difficult to get acquainted with. I was glad that I got to know her from the very first day of her mortal existence.
The first time I saw her she lay weakly on a pile of straw, her long clumsy legs—shaped like those of a lamb—folded beneath her. They were too weak to support her little body. Her pretty hazel eyes were expressive and questioning, her long pointed ears were sharply upright, and eager to catch the sounds that were new and strange to her.
I wondered what her impressions were of our world in which she found herself, and hoped she thought us pleasant and agreeable.
On the second day, she stood on her wabbly legs and walked a few steps. She looked like a toy rather than a living, breathing little animal. Her movements were jerky and funny, but she persevered. Finally she reached her little pile of straw and sank down in a heap. She had made her first effort to accomplish something and had succeeded. No wonder she looked satisfied. Her mother showed her appreciation by gently licking her. A kiss is a noble expression of appreciation, and the animals realise it quite as much as we do.
So "Beauty's" mother praised her in her dear, dumb way, and no doubt it helped her make another effort. "Beauty" grew with amazing rapidity. It wasn't many months before she was the plumpest and daintiest creature it has been my pleasure to meet. And with her physical growth developed some of the most remarkable mental traits I have ever witnessed in the animal world.
"Beauty" was a born coquette. If she couldn't flirt with any one else, she would "make eyes" at Toby the zebra, and toss her pretty head and strut and prance and give herself the airs of a fine young lady.
She was just as gracious to Mike, the elephant, and Caliph, the fat old hippo, as she was to Toby; so you can see that the zebra wasn't especially favoured. "Beauty" was particularly vain about her tail. It was a wonderful tail. But what puzzled me about the whole matter was how "Beauty" found it out. She had never glimpsed her reflection in the water, nor to my knowledge had any one told her of that fluffy bit of beauty she possessed. But she was conscious of it every minute of the day. She would walk back and forth, using her legs rather gingerly (young llamas have that apparent stiffness in the knees that lambs have), with her dainty white tail held proudly, her pretty neck arched and little head held coquettishly on one side, her bright eyes flashing right and left, lavishing Toby, Mike and Caliph with her flirtatious glances. She was the darling of her "set" and she knew it.
One day her mother decided not to contribute to "Beauty's" diet any longer. In place of a warm drink of milk she got a cuff and a bite on the neck. The little creature was stunned with disappointment. She tried later to make friends with her mother, but each attempt was frustrated, so Beauty went back to her hay with a heavy heart in her breast.
It seems to be a law in Llama land that mothers must be "cruel only to be kind"; so that the children will be strong, self-reliant and able to fend for themselves. "Beauty" was an aristocrat in Llama land. She was pure white which—is a rare thing. She was daintily made and carried herself like a young princess.
A "belle" has a great deal to be proud of and the right to expect much. She demanded a lot
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| Photo by A. W. Schaad |
| I wouldn't like to tease this old Llama, for all the Llama family have a dreadful habit of expectorating at anyone who happens to offend them. |
South America is the home of the Llama. They became domesticated beasts of burden by the natives of Peru, centuries before the Spanish conquest. Only the males carry the burdens. The females are kept for their milk, and to care for the young.
When loading the animals, the weight must not be more than they can carry, else the Llama will lie down and refuse to rise until the weight is lightened. The load is rarely more than 100 pounds.
In the mountains of Peru large herds still exist. Long trains, guided by Indians, carry ore from the mines, feeding as they travel. They will not graze if turned out after the day is done. A large flock of these animals is a handsome sight. When resting, they make a singing sound peculiar to the species.
Llamas are not noted for their sweet tempers. They are easily irritated, and when angry, have a nasty habit of spitting in the face of any one with whom they happen to be offended. The Indians of South America understand them better than any one else.
They fondle and pet them and adorn their necks and ears with tinkling bells and bright coloured ribbons. Before loading, they caress and play with them, getting them into excellent humour before departing on a long journey.
If while travelling the Llama lies down, the arriero kneels beside him and coaxes the animal with expressions of endearment. The warm climate is hard on them, because of their heavy coats and many die before they can return to the mountains.
The average Llama is three feet three inches high at the shoulder, and four and one-half to five feet to the top of the head. They are brown and white, brown, black and yellow, variegated, but seldom all white or all black. The wool is inferior to that of their cousin, the alpaca, and the flesh is stringy.