I saw him coming up the trail access. The shadows and lighting at 2 a.m. were murky at best. His approach seemed suspicious. I’m not generally concerned about the what-ifs of such people. Someone can just as easily jump onto me from the tree canopy if they’d like. (At times, I almost wish someone would. What a story that would be.) I can run fast, and my appearance tricks people into thinking I’m Gomer. While I am no Bruce Lee, I can snatch someone bald-headed faster than they can say “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.” I say “hello” or wave to everyone. I’d probably wave “howdy” to the Queen if she came sightseeing.

It had to be a man approaching me or perhaps the Beauty Queen of Madison County. I realize that I am repeating myself with that comparison. My apologies to the residents of Madison County, all of whom stopped reading after the first paragraph due to lip fatigue.

As he grew closer, the light from the streetlight illuminated him more. He had one hand in his pocket, and his pace seemed off.

As he came closer, my comedic instincts took over. “Have you seen my pet llama? He got out of the backyard a few minutes ago.”

“What’s that you said? A llama?” He pronounced it oddly, like he’d grown up learning phonetics from an inebriated bingo caller.

“A llama, yes. He got out.”

He stopped in his tracks, confused. “No. Not even a dog.”

“Dang. Thanks. I can’t own dogs, though. Not after Ohio.”

I could see that the gears weren’t clicking. It was too much odd conversation. He looked back and then at me two or three times.

“Well, have a good morning. I hope my llama is okay.”

“Yeah, me too,” he said, and kept walking, this time with a stable pace. I briefly wondered what he might do if I started running toward HIM. Imagine that police report.

“Gomez, where are you?” I half-shouted, even if the residents are the nearby apartment complex heard me.

My llama Gomez didn’t materialize.

You’re welcome to use the Gomez the Llama self-defense response if you’d like.

X
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