Dirty Chick by Antonia Murphy

boss.”
    Then he and Gay smiled and waved and left us alone with the alpacas.
    We filled three purple bowls with alpaca nuts and set off for the paddock.
    â€œCan I bring my That Baby to the ’paca friends?” Miranda wanted to know. “That Baby” was the first doll we’d ever given her, back when she was eighteen months old and just learning to talk. She’d called it ’Dat Baby, and the label had stuck.
    â€œOf course you can bring her,” I allowed. “Come on! Let’s go feed the boys.”
    â€œSilas, you coming?” Peter called, but Silas shook his head. “
No, no
,” he insisted, hugging his Dart to his ear
.
He was listening to
Peter Pan
, and the grin on his face was huge.
    â€œHave fun,” Peter said, shrugging, and the three of us set off, Kowhai trotting along behind. Phoenix, who was older and more sensible, opted to continue sleeping on the front deck.
    We should have stayed home with Peter Pan and Phoenix, because when we got to the paddock, the alpacas had changed.
    Kenny, Henri, and McTavish stood there dead-eyed, lower lips hanging slack. Their mouths gaped, exposing rows of yellowing fangs. There was a viscous green fluid collecting on their tongues, sticky streams of it spilling onto the ground.
    And then they started to moan. “
Beeeeeeehn
,” they groaned. “
Beeeeeeeehn
.”
    â€œDid they just say, ‘Brain’?” Peter looked at me. “I think they said, ‘Brain.’”
    The alpacas were advancing, green drool pooling at their feet. They were very close now, no more than five or six feet away.
    â€œ
Beeeeeeeeeehn
 . . .”
    â€œGay says it’s humming,” I said brightly. “But it sure sounds like ‘brain’ to me.”
    â€œ
Beeeeeeeeeehn
 . . .”
    â€œMama?” Miranda reached for my hand. “What’s wrong with the ’pacas?”
    â€œWell, Magnolia,” I explained, using my special pet name for her. “I think they want to eat our brains.”
    â€œLook at Kowhai,” Peter whispered. Our German shepherd was crouched low like a wolf. Hackles raised, she crept in for the kill.
    Then the trance snapped. Kenny spat and charged, shooting a stream of green slime and scoring a direct hit at That Baby’s head. Miranda screamed, tossing her stricken doll in the air. Kowhai took one look at the vicious alpaca galloping toward her and beat it, zipping out of the paddock and back to the safety of the house.
    We retreated, Miranda wailing and clinging to my leg.
    â€œDid that fucking camel just go for my
brains
?”
Peter wanted to know.
    â€œThey’re not camels,” I corrected him. “They’re
camelids
.”
    â€œMy
baby
! I forgot my
baby
!”
Miranda wailed.
    â€œI’m not going back in there,” I told her. “We’ll get you a new baby.” Turning to shut the paddock gate, I cast a wary glance back at the boys.
Did I just see what I thought I saw?
They were standing beneath a tree looking cute, chewing their grass and pretending that nothing had happened. “I gotta call Gay,”
I muttered.
    That evening, I rang our breeders. “Oh, don’t be silly,” Gay chirped lightly over the phone. “Alpacas don’t attack people.”
    â€œThese ones did,” I assured her. “They’re getting a little aggressive.”
    â€œTry to socialize more. They need to get used to you,” Gay suggested. “Did you know there’s an alpaca in China who predicts sports results? They’re very psychic.”
    So we kept trying. After a couple of weeks Miranda stopped insisting the “mean ’pacas” were trying to “get” her, and we did spend more time with the boys. Usually we did this in the evening, after Peter was home from work and we could go as a group, so we’d be less vulnerable. We’d pour ourselves glasses of wine, fill