Seen and Not Herd

By Pamela Love

I leaned against the fence, my jaw hanging open. Am I dreaming or drunk? “Dr. Conley, you said you needed a sheepdog for your flock.”

He clapped his hand on my shoulder. “Exactly. From what I’ve heard, Mr. Ferguson, that border collie of yours is the best in the business. She handles not just sheep, but geese, chickens—”

“That’s no flock.” I pointed a trembling finger. “That’s a herd—”

“Same thing.”

My eyebrows shot up under my winter hat. “Not when it’s a herd of woolly mammoths.”

Conley shrugged as he stared at them eating hay while snow flurries fell. “We’ve genetically engineered them to be sheep-sized, and, by definition, they’re woolly. What’s the problem?” He nodded toward Aberdeen. “Your dog’s not worried.”

True, Aberdeen was straining at her leash, eager to enter the fenced-in field. With a surge of pride, I patted her black-and-white head. “You like a challenge, don’t you, Abby? But I need to be sure we’ll be okay. Those beasts have tusks and weren’t domesticated before going extinct. Is it even safe to have them outside with only a wooden fence to pen them in?”

Conley laughed and banged his fist on the railing. “This wood is genetically engineered, too—far stronger than oak. Those mammoths couldn’t break through if they wanted to, which they don’t. They do nothing but eat and sleep, the lazy brutes.” He smiled. “We included traits that make them much calmer than the original species, for safety’s sake. Unfortunately, they’re too stubborn to go where we want, when we want. That’s where Aberdeen comes in. Don’t worry, I’ve seen video of her at work. She’s fast, nimble—my livestock won’t be able to touch her.”

I flipped a plaid scarf end over my shoulder. “Seems odd to call them livestock when it’s been so long since they were alive. Why bring them back anyway? You don’t need them for wool.”

“We want to bring back the full-sized mammoth.” Conley stroked his chin. “We can, but we need to ensure they’re going to have a niche in their original ecosystem, the Asian steppe, first. The governments we’ve spoken to want to see how they do here in Canada before committing themselves. Losing any species is a great loss. But losing them again, once we’ve brought them back? That would be unforgivable.”

He sighed. “So this is a midway stage. It’s better to have them in the world at this size than extinct, but we need them practical to keep, too. Shearing season is a few months away. I’m hoping their wool will catch on. I need to find out if the mammoths will cooperate. That’s why I’m trying out you and your border collie.” Conley folded his arms. “If this works, I’ll hire you permanently in May. Will you tend my flock?”

I straightened. “Yes, and no. Yes, we’ll take the job. But this is no flock—it’s a herd.”

***

Well, we tried. Aberdeen went right to work, using all her usual tricks, starting with barking. They ignored her. She locked eyes with them and crouched, stalking toward them over the frosty ground. They stared back, not budging an inch. She tried to chase them, but those mammoths wouldn’t run. It’s like they remembered their ancestors were much bigger, although Conley said that was impossible. She even nipped at their heels, without success. None of them tried to kick her, not even Tundra, the herd’s matriarch. Their hides were too tough for dog teeth to pierce.

Finally, we gave up. I scratched Aberdeen behind her ears. “Not your fault, Abby. Guess Conley was right—that herd is stubborn.”

Dr. Conley had to drop his original idea. With the herding experiment a bust, I was planning on leaving, but at a routine vet visit I learned Aberdeen was pregnant. Since I’d gotten used to the mammoths, Conley invited me to stick around as one of their caretakers while Abby was waiting to give birth. Flattered, I agreed.

I should’ve asked for more details, money, or both. Turns out he’d found a buyer for the herd’s manure, which wound up selling for more than he thought he’d earn with their wool. My shoveling made Conley’s fortune.

Aberdeen had three puppies, Dundee, Inverness, and Glasgow. Judging by their looks, their father was another border collie at our previous job.

Abby was a good mother. Her pups were healthy, spunky, and soon tumbling over each other around the farmhouse. Conley insisted we keep them indoors away from his so-called flock. “Can you imagine the headlines if they got stepped on? ‘MUTANT MAMMOTHS MURDER PUPPIES!’” Conley shivered. “I’d lose my funding.”

One day, Abby bounded up to me, barking frantically and tugging at my jeans. I glanced around—we were one pup short. There was a terrified yelp outside. I dashed to the window. Glasgow was fleeing a cougar!

I sprinted out the door, bellowing. Abby raced ahead. My gut twisted. Glasgow was doomed—I was too far away and the cougar too close. The big cat might even kill Abby.

Thud! I jerked my head toward the mammoth pen. Oh, no. So much for the “mammoth-proof” fence. As if things weren’t bad enough, Conley’s “do-nothing” herd had toppled it. With Tundra trumpeting in the lead, they stampeded out of the field, headed straight toward that cougar.

The predator whirled and bolted for the trees. I gasped, fearing the mammoths would follow. Instead, they stopped and circled Glasgow. They wouldn’t even let me get him, giving me painful smacks with their trunks when I tried. Fortunately, they let Abby weave through their legs to retrieve him.

Then the mammoths sauntered back into their field, with Tundra the last to enter. Just as she did, she turned toward me and winked.

Maybe you think my whole story’s mammoth manure, but I saw what I saw.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test,” which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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