My middle-aged llama Knapp turned into a sex pest. Something had to be done

An event has occurred which is not necessarily to my llama, Knapp’s, advantage. The tale, though it falls short of tragedy, is melancholy to relate. Knapp, now approaching what are, from a camelid time-perspective, his middle years (he’s about 11) has always done what he’s supposed to do well. Almost too well. He’s a stud. He comes from a fashionable llama ranch in the home counties. His uncle has featured in a fashion advertisement in The Spectator, being led through the streets of Notting Hill. His own portrait, standing proudly beside his rather crumpled-looking owner, has appeared in Country Life.

He’s big, for a llama: strongly built, with a coat that is long, thick and creamy-white, touched with the occasional caramel streak. His eyelashes are as luxuriant and fetching as Andy Burnham’s. He carries himself with an air of Monarch of the Glen; his head and physiognomy are of a noble aspect. Undoubtedly Knapp possesses the kingly qualities.

And, perhaps because of his relaxed air of command, this llama is exceptionally good-natured. You never see him flatten his ears back — a sign of affront or ill-humour in llamas. He has never once spat; and he is easy to catch and lead, and unafraid of human touch. He resents, it is true, his scarlet head-collar, and tries to pull it off — but I like that in him: I wouldn’t care for a head-collar either.

And Knapp’s behaviour towards his wives is (in every respect but one) unfailingly chivalrous. He lets them dip their snouts into the corn bucket first, and when they spit at him to keep him away from food, he withdraws with dignity, and stands a little way off while they feed. He never takes food from his children.