“Hey! Someone’s there!” one shouts, pointing directly at our hiding spot, grabbing an axe.
“Run!” Melody gasps, scrambling to her feet.
I do not need to be told twice. Self-preservation is a perfectly rational instinct. We turn and flee as the men shout behind us.
Running in the snow is challenging for humans. Their bipedal locomotion, while occasionally useful for reaching high shelves, proves woefully inadequate for rapid escape across uneven snowy terrain. Melody demonstrates this limitation spectacularly, pitching forward after only a few strides.
“Oxford!” she cries as she face-plants into a snowdrift.
I pause, looking back at her. The men are gaining ground. One brandishes an axe in a manner that suggests he’s considering how I might look as a winter coat.
Melody scrambles up, starts running again, but she’s too slow, and then falls again.
“Go!” she yells at me as she struggles to stand.
As if I would abandon her. I may be pragmatic, but I am not without loyalty. Also, I can no longer live without strawberries and my premium bed.
I position myself directly between Melody’s legs as she attempts to rise. With a swift upward motion of my neck, I propel my head upward.
The result is… loud.
“AAAAHHHHHH!” Melody shrieks as she slides backward down my neck, her legs instinctively wrapping around my midsection, her arms encircling my neck in what humans might call a “death grip.”
“OH MY GOD!” she yells almost directly into my ear, which is unnecessary given our proximity.
“OXFORD WHAT THE ACTUAL—” Her words dissolve into incoherent screaming as I launch into a full gallop.
I am—it must be acknowledged—impressively fast. My powerful legs propel us through the snow with efficient grace, putting distance between the pursuing thieves.
“MY PUBIC BONE!” Melody wails, her grip tightening to the point where respiration becomes challenging.
The thieves’ voices fade behind us, but my fear response has been thoroughly activated. There’s no way I’m becoming llama BBQ. Adrenaline floods my system.
I’ve fully activated “flight mode.”
“Oxford, you can slow down now,” Melody gasps, her voice vibrating with each of my strides. “I think we lost them.”
I hear her words but find myself unable to comply. My legs continue their rapid movement, carrying us through the trails at a pace that would impress professional racehorses.
“Oxford!” Her voice rises in pitch. “Seriously, you can stop now!”
Stop? What an odd suggestion.
Stopping is for creatures who aren’t being pursued by axe-wielding tree thieves. I accelerate, my hooves barely touching the ground.
“MY LADY BITS WERE NOT BUILT FOR THIS!” Melody shrieks as we hurtle over a fallen log.
I must admit, there is something exhilarating about this physical exertion. Perhaps this is why humans engage in recreational running when not being chased by predators.
We burst from the trees onto the main path, startling a couple, who stare open-mouthed as we thunder past. Melody offers them a weak wave before burying her face in my neck again.
“Sorry!” she calls back. “Runaway llama! Tree thieves! Call the sheriff!”
I veer onto another trail. My respiratory rate has increased, but I don’t feel tired. If anything, I feel more energized with each stride.
“Oxford!” Melody’s voice sounds desperate now. “The exit is the other way!”
An insignificant detail. Direction is secondary to velocity at this juncture.