My father was a cat herder, a wily wrangler

  • My father was a cat herder, a wily wrangler of domestic short-hairs. It was not an easy job but someone had to do it. Sometimes when he came home from an especially long ride,
  • he'd have so much fur on him that he just about looked like a giant cat himself. My father was my hero. I thought to myself, when I get older I want to be a cat herder too. But I'd
  • also loved the water. Splashing actually. I tried to herd cats that had just been thrown in the pool. This is why I am covered in scars.
  • You see...the cats were gone--obliterated--by 100 piranha-shaped bombs. My scars are a reaction to billions of shark-like electrons biting through me like a hammer into whipped
  • Tartufffes locked in the locks of the canals on the red planet. Not to be outdone, the electric sheep pirouetted on point and together slip a hustle under the eviscerated cat holes
  • High on eggnog, the cats purred Christmas carols made prevalent in the dark ages; a time when lutes and flutes resonated down empty hallways from dusk till dawn, 365 days a year.
  • It must've been worse than being trapped in a Wal-Mart between October 15th and December 25th. Thank goodness those days are over. The next day, the hungover cats crawled down to
  • the detox center to purrge their system of any nasty meowfter-effects of last night's carousing. The cats were shivering around a barrel of fire & spoke of things only whispered.
  • They prayed to Ceiling Cat that he'd whisker them away, to the promised land of Mice and ... Mice. They realized their meowstake, but it was too late. The Litterbox of Fate needed
  • a deep cleaning. The stench of accumulated neglect had caught up with them all. Karma always has its day for meow means meow, after all.


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