Llama, llama. Lama.
A young llama lives with two pygmie goats by Tom's dad's barn. Tom's dad found him on the sub-zero night he was born and brought him into the barn. The little guy's ears were frostbitten, and he now has shorter than normal llama ears. Freya and I are friends with all three (llama and goats). When we walk in those woods, we stop on the way, Freya goes nose-to-nose, and I rub Dalai Lama's neck (Yes, that really is his name) and rub the little goats between their horns.
Llamas spit. I know this, and when he starts chortling up his cud, I move out of the direct line of fire. This weekend, however, he was particularly nuzzly and cuddly and wanting rubs, so I let my guard down. Only to get PHLAT! right on the chest and chin. It's green. It' s mostly chewed grass, but it's still a bit phlemy and not exactly pleasant. But still funny.
I've been Llamaed. Llamed Llammed. Lamaied. Phlatted. Two points for whoever can think of the best verb for this experience.