We introverts are good at connecting with people one on one. Who knew we could use this same skill with animals, too.

Who among us hasn’t been asked, out of the blue on a quiet Tuesday morning, to drive 12 miles into the nearby countryside to round up a friend’s escaped alpacas, armed only with a bucket of treat pellets and a four-foot ski pole?

OK, I guess that is a bit on the atypical side.

But it’s where I indeed found myself one day a while back, after my wife’s friend Jackie—out of town nearly 200 miles away—called to see if maybe … well … could I go coax her trio of alpacas out of her neighbor’s field and get them back home where they belong?

I jumped at the opportunity.

It would be my chance to be Jim (or Stan, take your pick) from the old “Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom” TV show.

Visions of Jim and Stan

You’ll remember poor Jim and Stan.

Every Sunday night they had to do all the dirty work—like swimming into the raging river to save the drowning antelope, or wrestling the boa constrictor into submission with their bare hands—while show host Marlin Perkins flew safely above them in the comfort of the helicopter, “scanning topographical maps of the surrounding area.”

Even Jim and Stan didn’t deal with dangerous alpacas.

Nor did they ever face the unforgiving plains of rural Moorhead, Minnesota.

So they were both on my mind when I arrived at Jackie’s place and found … nothing.

Nothing, that is, except a forced-open gate to the alpacas’ pen.

A Roundup Assist

I went into the barn and grabbed the bucket of treat pellets and the ski pole, just as Jackie had advised, and started walking north on the dirt road in front of the house.

I crossed the road to take a look in that neighbor’s yard.

Nothing.

I walked another block or so in the same direction, figuring the nearby church might bring divine intervention.

Still nothing.

Then I turned around—and saw movement in front of a growing cloud of dust, several hundred feet south down the road.

“It’s Jim! And Stan! Hell, maybe even Marlin, too!” I thought to myself:

“They’re on horses, rounding up the alpacas, just like John Wayne would have done! It’s the cavalry!”

Not exactly.

It was the FedEx guy, seeing me flailing away in the distance as I jumped up and down with my bait and my ski pole.

Going One on One

Over the next minute and a half, FedEx Man did an amazingly “Bonanza”-esque job of weaving his van back and forth to slowly drive the runaway alpacas to within 15 feet of me.

“I did my best,” he told me through his window as he drove off.

“They’re not mine,” I replied—for some reason.

We were two driveways, and about a hundred yards as the crow flies, away from the alpacas’ pen now.

“It’s time to go home,” I said in a sing-songy voice to the white one, the clear leader of the posse.

“Bite me,” he/she/it replied. “We don’t need no stinking pen.”

Hmm …

“Maybe this will change your mind,” I responded.

And I shook the bucket of pellets as I started walking backward down the road.

One on One Carries the Day

White One and the two others immediately began to follow.

We got to the next driveway.

Then, figuring the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, I began cutting through the yard of Jackie’s nextdoor neighbor.

The alpacas froze.

“Let’s go!” I said to White One.

“We can’t cut through the neighbor’s yard,” he/she/it replied. “That would be against the rules.”

So I went back out to the road, got the three prodigals to continue to Jackie’s yard, and finally led them into the middle of their pen.

Whereupon I trotted away.

And closed the gate behind me.

And tipped my hat once again to one of my most cherished introvert skills: my ability to connect one on one.

With people, yes.

But with alpacas, apparently, too.