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.