Cat Herding Ain’t Easy

By Austin Grisham

“Cat herding ain’t easy. Sure you’re up for it, son?”

I gave Gus my most resolute stare. The old cat hand nodded, and just like that I was his new partner.

This was my first run as a cat herder, and I was eager to prove myself. I’d had other work before, but nothing like the prestige of herding felines. We started from the plains, Gus and I each on a hover bike. With the red sun as our guide, we made our way toward the seaside city of Istal.

Gus took the front while I brought up the rear. Between us bounded two hundred hungry cats. Gus’s bike was equipped with exhaust fans that poured out non-stop fumes of tuna mixed with a healthy dose of chicken. That, combined with the balls of yarn attached to his fender, kept the felines following him, their paws leaving a stream of prints on the dirt road.

My job was the tricky one, making sure none of the herd lagged or strayed. These cats weren’t your typical terran variety—their DNA had been spliced. They were just as furry and cuddly as old-fashioned housecats, but their eyes were hazel green, and they could communicate with each other using some kind of psy-cat power. They were definitely smarter than terran cats too, even understanding some human language. If one of these critters ran off, they could be half a mile gone and still call their herd when they found day-old salmon someone had thrown out. And once they were feeding, they’d ignore you no matter how many balls of yarn you waved in their faces.

Despite the challenges, those first days were glorious. A river of black, calico, and orange streamed across the light-brown prairie, accompanied by a cacophony of meows and purrs. It was great—each evening spent beneath the blanket of the night sky with the warmth of furry bodies around me, accompanied by the low hum of endless purring.

“Let me try. I want to lead,” I pleaded with Gus on the last day.

He looked me square in the eyes, sizing me up. “I suppose I will, son. But remember this, cat herding ain’t easy!”

How those words would haunt me.

Within a few miles of Istal, I spied a shortcut—a sparse patch of trees we could ride through instead of following the wide curve of the road. It could easily shave a half hour off our time and show that old hand what a young buck could do. The purrs of cats followed me as I turned my hover bike resolutely toward the small wooded area.

“What are you doing?” Gus shouted. His voice was far enough away that I knew he couldn’t stop me.

I grinned and pressed onward. As my bike raced through the trees, I dared a look back. My cocky smile dropped like a rock. Behind me, that herd of calico and orange split apart. Cats climbed the trees, their claws sinking deep into the bark.

Gus caught up to me, took off his hat, and wiped his tanned brow. “You know what that is?” He pointed at one of the trees.

I looked down, my face reddening. “Yessir, boss. Sweet bark trees.” Their soft bark and sweet smell were like cat magnets. Idiot. I’d let hubris get the better of me and missed what I was driving into. He’ll never want to work with me again after this.

“I wish I’d never lost Scott.” Gus removed his hat again, this time holding it over his heart.

I winced. Scott was Gus’s usual side hand. He’d been trampled by a herd of cats when he’d left a bottle of milk open during breakfast. A professional hazard.

“Kid.” Gus motioned toward the coast, where Istal lay. “If we don’t bring these cats to town, we don’t get paid, and the mayor will have our tail. After all, he planted all those fancy cherry-apple trees.”

My grandfather had told me stories of apple trees, but spliced cherry-apple fruit was popular with the highfalutin city slickers. The Istal mayor had ordered the trees planted to curry favor with the electorate. Unfortunately, he never realized how many pests apples and cherries would attract. Six months from the next election, he had a massive rodent problem. He sure as heck wouldn’t cut down those trees—after all, a politician is never wrong—but he needed a cat herd to make quick work of those rodents.

And here I was, ruining my future and the mayor’s. I tried getting the felines interested in following the bike again, but despite blowing tuna fragrance at full power, the cats no longer found the smell tantalizing.

Gus gave me a nasty look. “Son, you know I have to bring this to the cat council.”

“But—”

“I hate to say it, but you ain’t going to get a job shoveling kitty litter after this stunt.”

I slumped over the bike handles. I was through.

Or was I?

These cats can communicate with each other.

I grabbed my picture-pad from my bike and brought it to one of the felines. I quickly pulled up an image for her. She looked curiously on while I pointed toward the city. Feeling a little silly, I whispered in her ear.

She yawned in my face. I whispered again. And again.

Suddenly, her ears perked up, and her eyes glowed. The other cats paused in their scratching and dropped from the trees. She’s communicating with them!

The felines headed in the direction of Istal. Gus’s eyebrows rose.

“Come on!” I waved for him to follow.

As we came over the last hill into Istal, Gus yelled, “How did you get those cats to come here?”

“Simple. I showed that cat a picture of the beach” —I pointed toward the coastal line of Istal— “and told her it was the biggest litter box in the world.”

That was the first—and only—time I heard Gus laugh.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Austin Grisham originally hails from Princeton, New Jersey, but happily moved to San Diego, California, a decade and a half ago. He loves the sunshine, taking walks on the beach, and writing entertaining fiction. He has self-published three novels (The James Christianson Chronicles) and seven short stories, all available on Amazon.

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