There’s a field off Mill Lane
in which a local man keeps unusual breeds of animal. At the last count he had
sixteen huge sheep with brown fleece that are definitely not a British breed,
six American Quarter Horses, two Shetland ponies and three llamas.
These animals have always been standoffish with me. If I go
and lean on the gate that gives access from the lane, the sheep always move
away to a safe distance, the llamas sometimes go as far as the other side of
the field and regard me suspiciously, while the horses and ponies generally
ignore me.
This evening I was taken aback when the sheep made a point
of coming towards me. One even let me stroke her fleece; others came close and
regarded me with great interest. If that weren’t unusual enough, the llamas apparently
decided I was worth knowing as well. All three came across the field to check
me out. Admittedly, they did shy slightly when I made to stroke them, but one
did at least sniff my hand from a distance of inches. They’ve never come within
a hundred yards before. So I asked the question:
‘What is it about Jeffrey that’s so appealing tonight?’
And here’s the odd thing. The llama that came close kept
looking at my face and then peering either side of me, as though there were
three of us instead of one. I’m growing ever more convinced that I’m not alone
on my twilight rambles.
And did I ever mention the time when I was walking on the
path at the side of my house, and felt my coat sleeve tugged and my arm pulled
back? I turned round expecting to find it caught on a briar or something, but
there was nothing anywhere near.
You can understand why I like living here, can’t you? And
why Helen says she’s glad she doesn’t live with me any more.
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