Lotsa city folk just talk about it, but few really know just how demanding cat herding is. Hell, I guess you could say that I justa ’bout herded any critter—with or without hair; it don’t matter—that can be herded. I’ve corralled just about anything that can walk, hop, or slither, including cows, horses, sheep, goats, frogs, lemurs, you name it. However, none of them sumbitches comes close to being as cantankerous, harrowing, and purely soul destroyin’ as cat herding.

I can tell you that herding them long and short hairs—it don’t matter much ’cause they’re all effin’ lunatics—is serious work. Backbreaking, I tells ya. You wouldn’t think it, given their diminutive size, but herdin’ cats across a scrubby prairie is twice as hard as herdin’ cows or horses.

Take fer instance yer lassos. You have any idea how small a cat lasso is and just how accurate you got to be with the dadburn thing? And just you try “hog-tying” an angry short hair after you get her lassoed. I gots the scars to show fer it. And everyone who’s ever needed to bathe a cat knows, cats despise water. Just you try herdin’ a pack of them crazy bastards across a stream without losin’ a’one of ’em, I dares you. 

The hours are long, the saddle sores are plenty and the hairballs are just plain awful. Spend enough time around a herd of cats and you’ll unknowingly ingest more cat hair than you can possibly imagine with your city slicker mentality. And you ain’t gonna end the day with a latte, or whatever the hell you city folk drink. Out on the prairie, we drink coffee so strong, yer spoon stands straight up in it. Dinner is a plate’a beans and chunk of charred pork fat. Of course, after opening 200 bags of Friskies to feed the herd, combing out their burs, and bedding the little bastards down fer the night, you’ll prolly be too tired to eat anyways.

And let me tell you, city boy, bringin’ up them hairballs ain’t fer sissies neither. For the cats or you.

That’s all I gots to say ’bout that.