"Questions before we go in?" Anthony asks.
"Can we feed them?" one of the travel writers asks.
"Yes. We'll do that inside." His eyes find mine briefly, in a way that probably means nothing and that I am absolutely overthinking. "We'll go in two at a time. Slow movements, no sudden sounds, stay together."
"What are their names?" I ask.
Something in his expression shifts, almost imperceptibly. Like that was the right question and he wasn't sure anyone was going to ask it. "The big one in the back is Dasher — he's the eldest and he knows it. The female with the partial rack is Vixen. The younger ones are still earning their names."
"Still earning them," I say.
"You get a name when you've shown me who you are."
That is either the most charming thing I've ever heard a person say about livestock or I have a serious problem.
Both. It's both.
Everything goes smoothly for approximately twelve minutes.
The lifestyle photographer gets extraordinary shots. The travel writers are scribbling. I'm getting footage of Vixen eating out of my palm. Her nose is impossibly soft and she's giving me the same philosophical indifference as she did last night and I am completely enchanted with her, when one of the brand managers backs directly into the enclosure's secondary gate.
The latch clicks.
The gate swings.
And the youngest reindeer who has not yet earned his name takes one look at the open Colorado mountain air beyond it and decides that freedom is extremely interesting.
He moves fast. Faster than anything with antlers should be able to move, weaving between people with the particular joyful chaos of an animal who has just discovered what outside means.
"Gate," Anthony says, in exactly the same voice he uses for everything else, which somehow makes it more alarming. Someone, a member of his staff, moves in to make sure none of the other reindeer follow. The man doesn’t have to raise his voice or change his tone to show authority. He's already moving.
The brand manager who opened the gate is frozen. The travel writers are backing away. The lifestyle photographer has pivoted to capture all of this, which, honestly, same.
I step forward.
I don't know why I step forward. My body just decides.
"I can help," I say.
Anthony glances back at me, a quick evaluating look. Whatever he sees must pass some internal test, because he says, "Stay to his left. Don't chase him, just redirect. We're steering, not catching."
"Steering. Got it."
"And stay out of the mud on the east side."
I look toward the east side. There is a lot of mud on the east side.
Right. Noted.
The next twenty minutes are not my finest hour.
They are, however, extremely good content.
The unnamed reindeer has opinions about where he wants to go and those opinions change approximately every forty-five seconds. He is not scared. No, not this guy. In fact, I swear he is absolutely delighted by the game he thinks we are playing. He has the energy of a dog who has figured out how to open the back door and is now making the most of the situation. Anthony circles wide and calm, doing that thing he does where the animal can feel his intention without being cornered by it.
I try to do the thing he's doing.
I mostly succeed, right up until I don't.
