Dirty Chick by Antonia Murphy Page A

the purple plastic bowls with alpaca nuts, and wander out to the paddock, hoping for the best.
    It did seem that the alpacas were calming down. They’d worked out their ranks according to an uncomfortable racial hierarchy, with Kenny, the large white male, presiding at the top. Henri, the light-brown alpaca, was second in command, and McTavish, the gorgeous chocolate-colored one, got spat on by everybody.
    â€œIt’s so embarrassing,” Peter complained one evening, offering the food bowl to McTavish. Kenny shoved him out of the way and grabbed the fresh nuts for himself. “We thought they were so cute, and now it turns out they’re these racist camel zombies.”
    â€œWho spit,” I added.
    â€œAnd attack children.”
    â€œOh, well, at least they cure autism!” I reached out to pet Henri’s snout. “And . . .”
    Peter looked up. “What?”
    I blushed. “No. It’s embarrassing.”
    â€œ
What
?
”
    â€œFeel Kenny’s nose,” I suggested. “Does it . . . remind you of anything?”
    Peter frowned. “What?”
    â€œA penis,” I mumbled, half under my breath.
    â€œA
what
?”
    â€œA penis,” I repeated.
    Peter snorted, still stroking the nose. “Oh, my God.” He laughed. “You’re right. I feel kind of gay right now.”
    And that, I am pleased to reveal, is the sole redeeming quality of the racist camel zombie. Their noses feel exactly like a lovely erect penis. Not a menacing penis, but a friendly penis. The sort of penis you’d like to snuggle up with on a cold winter’s day. The penis of your best lover, firm yet warm and accommodating, and covered in a delightful soft fuzz.
    â€œI wish
I
had a furry penis,” Peter mused. “I think it would make me more lovable.”
    â€œI don’t,” I told him. “You’d have to shampoo it all the time. Just one more thing to remember.”
    â€œG’day,” came a voice from behind us. We turned around to see Hamish, the dairy farmer from across the way. Dressed in his usual getup of olive-green coveralls and gumboots, he was leaning on the gate to the alpaca paddock and frowning. “Feeding the llamas, are ya?” he asked.
    â€œAlpacas,” Peter corrected, finishing the last of his wine.
    â€œYeah, we’re just feeding them,” I chimed in. The fact that we had been performing hand jobs on their noses did not seem necessary to share.
    â€œWas wondering if you had a teat I could get at,” Hamish asked, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. “My ewe’s had twins you see, and we’ve only got the one.”
    At first this seemed a little personal, but then I remembered a ewe is a sheep, and I relaxed.
    â€œI don’t know, Hamish. We don’t have any lambs.” Peter took my empty glass and headed back to the house.
    â€œBut we’ve got some old baby bottles,” I ventured. “Let’s see if I can find one for you.”
    Once I set Hamish up with a bottle and teat, I went back to the house. “He’s always so stern,” I complained to Peter, pouring myself another glass of wine. “Do you think he just can’t talk to women?”
    Peter grinned. “I don’t know, Antonia. Take a look in the mirror.”
    I did. My T-shirt was smeared with green alpaca slime, I had a glass of white wine in one hand, and I was wearing a pair of red plush devil’s horns. If I’d seen myself on the sidewalk of a major city, I probably would have crossed to the other side of the street.
    â€œNo wonder the farmers won’t talk to us.” I shook my head. “We really don’t fit in around here, do we?”
    That was putting it lightly. Peter and I tried to relate to our farming neighbors as if we spoke the local vernacular, but there was no hiding who we really were: urban Americans who talked funny and knew nothing about