You're probably surprised to see me here, after all that's passed between us.  But before you bite my head off, let me explain ...

    Considering the recent change in management, I guess I shouldn't have been too surprised when the reorg hit, but to tell you the truth, I was.  It wasn't the reorg per se, it's just that chasing sheep is all I'd ever known.  Being assigned to the Cat Unit was a bit of a shock.
    "I want you to teach the cats to herd sheep, Lewellyn," said the Farmer.
    "I beg your pardon?"
    "I'm going to make this a more efficient, profitable operation," he breezed on, as if mindless that I had barked. "We're not going to have any more 'dog tasks' and 'cat tasks' and 'pig tasks.'  Everyone's going to be able to do everything."
    "Ah ... ahem ... rowf!" I interrupted, as tactfully as I could. "Cats herding sheep?  You'll excuse me if I sound skeptical, ..."
    "What?  Oh, yes, indeed!  The cats aren't fully tasked, and I want to save you for the higher level sheep duties, like anti-wolf security.  But first, you need to train the cats to herd sheep."
    "Don't you need them to catch mice?  They always seem to be busy with that."
    The Farmer gave a wave of dismissal.  "Nonsense!" he scoffed. "They can do lots more.  In fact, sheep herding isn't the only new task I'm going to give them."
    "What about my sheep duties?"  I didn't have the nerve to ask him what else he had in store for the cats.
    "Relax, Lewellyn," said the Farmer, brushing the hair out of my eyes. "You have a couple of weeks to transition out of those.  But you'd better get on the cat training pretty quick after that.  I want those cats herding in six weeks."
    "Um, how many cats are there?" I asked.
    "Only 26," said the Farmer. "Last time I looked."

    Samantha was a sleek black-and-white of indeterminate ancestry.  I awakened her from a deep nap, and she rewarded me by nearly tearing my nose off.
    "Yowch!" I yelped.
    "Well, what do you expect, Lew?  Blundering in here like a pack of wild d...  Well, I guess you are a dog.  No offense."
    "None taken," I said, licking my nose.
    Samantha looked at me suspiciously.  "What do you want, anyway?"
    "I, uh, I'm supposed to teach you how to herd sheep," I said sheepishly.
    The laughter started at her whiskers and spread quickly to the tip of her tail.  In moments, she was rolling on the ground, gasping for breath.
    "Ok," she said at last. "That was almost worth being awakened from my nap for."
    "No, really," I said. "The Farmer wants me to do it."
    She sobered up immediately.  "You're kidding."
    "Afraid not," I said.
    "Well, in that case, shove off."
    "I can't," I protested. "I'm supposed to train you."
    "I sleep during the day," she said. "Come back tonight."
    I could swear she was asleep before she meowed the last word.

    "Ok," I said cheerily. "It's night!  I'm back!"
    "Sorry," said Samantha. "Got a serious mouse problem here."
    "But I have to train you."
    "Sorry.  My priority is mice."
    "So, when will you be free?"
    "Don't know," she said, tensing for a pounce. "They breed like rabbits.  Or mice."
    "How about a little later tonight, after you've disposed of the mice?"
    Samantha nailed a mouse.  "Maybe," she shrugged. "Maybe Horace'll be done tom-catting around by then, and he can give me a break."
    Horace didn't show up that night or the next.

    "How's the sheep herding training coming?" asked the Farmer cheerily.
    "Not so well," I admitted. "I'm having trouble getting time with the cats.  Either they're asleep, or they're chasing mice.  Why don't you tell them to lay off the mice for a while?"
    "Oh, I can't do that!" said the Farmer somberly. "Mouse catching is their number one priority!"
    "Then, how about the sleeping?"
    "You work that out, Lewellyn," said the Farmer. "I have faith in you."
    "So, I have the authority to wake them up and make them listen?"
    "Of course not," said the Farmer. "You don't have any authority.  You're just a dog.  Work it out."
    "It's like herding cats," I griped. "Pardon the expression."
    "Oh, there was just one more thing ..."
    "Yes?"  I felt suddenly chilly.
    "I need you to sign your new performance plan."  The Farmer extended a document in my direction.
    "Hmm," I mused, flipping through the performance plan. "What's all this stuff about catching mice?  And playing with yarn?  Hey, this one isn't bad:  chasing my tail."
    "It also has training and sheep herding," he said. "See?  Everyone in the Cat Unit gets the same plan.  Everyone's going to be able to do everything, remember?"
    "So, I have to catch mice, too?  I'm afraid I don't know how."
    "Sheep herding training is your priority."  The Farmer eyed me gravely.  "If you don't get that done, it'll be the pound for you!"
    "So, what about all this mouse catching stuff?"
    "When the cats are herding sheep, you can go back to anti-wolf security."
    I affixed a paw print to the document.

    When, against all odds, I began to have some success with my cat training, the Farmer called me in again.
    "Remember when I told you that sheep herding wasn't all I wanted the cats to learn?" he asked.
    "Arf," I said.
    "Well, I also want them to learn how to lay eggs, and I want you to teach them."
    "I don't know how to lay eggs!" I yelped.
    "Now, now," he said comfortingly. "You don't have to do it all yourself.  Go see Henrietta in the chicken yard.  She's the best egg-layer on the farm.  See if you can get her to help you."
    "So, do I have the authority ...?  No, of course not," I finished.
    "How's the training coming?"  He mimed a dogcatcher wielding a net.

    Henrietta was clucking contentedly on a very comfortable looking nest.
    "Yo, Henrietta!" I called. "How would you like to teach some cats to lay eggs?"
    As much as a chicken can look like a cat, Henrietta looked just like Samantha did after hearing about the sheep herding.
    "You're a card, Lew," she clucked, after regaining her breath.
    "Afraid not," I said. "Just a dog.  So, what do you say?  Will you do it?"
    "I can't agree to that," said Henrietta. "I've got my egg-laying and chicken-scratching and corn-pecking to do.  My time is not my own.  But I'll tell you what.  Old Chanticleer over there is my supervisor.  If you can get him to agree, I'll do it."
    I shambled over to old Chanticleer, who cocked his head quizzically to one side.
    "You want one of my ladies?" he asked, cocking his head back to the other side.
    "I, uh, well, yeah, I guess so," I said.
    He strutted appraisingly around me.
    "Well, that's gonna cost you," he said.
    "What?" I squawked, although he should have been the one to squawk.
    Old Chanticleer blinked a calculating eye at me.  "One bushel of corn!" he crowed.
    "Look," I protested, "I don't have any corn.  The Farmer wants this done."
    He gave me another strut-around.  "No corn, no lady," he said succinctly.
    We settled on one cup.

    When Henrietta showed up for egg-laying training, not a single cat was in sight.
    "Where are they?" she said.
    "Sleeping, catching mice ... Beats me."
    "Didn't you tell them this was required training?"
    "I did, but ..."
    "Ah, right," she said.  "Just a dog."
    "How about if you come back at night?" I suggested. "We get a bit better turnout then."
    "I don't usually work at night," clucked Henrietta. "But that's old Chanticleer's call.  Just ask him ..."
    "Maybe we'd better just do this now."
    "But there are no cats," Henrietta pointed out.
    "You teach me," I sighed. "I'll teach the cats."

    It was a few days later that I next saw the Farmer.  He had a chicken carcass slung over his shoulder, and it had a familiar look.
    "Isn't that old Chanticleer?" I asked.
    "Yep.  Was," he said shortly.
    "Good grief!  What happened?" I cried. "I mean, he was a venal old poop, but ..."
    "Chopped his head off," said the Farmer.
    "Did he try to shake you down for corn?" I asked.
    "Nope," said the Farmer. "Worse.  It's appraisal time."
    "I beg your pardon?"
    "Time for all the head critters to designate some of their resources for slaughter.  Old Chanticleer wouldn't do it.  A good manager knows how to give up his subordinates."
    "A good manager?" I babbled.
    "Yep.  Take Napoleon here."  The Farmer indicated a bloated hog.  "Napoleon is executive material.  He rounded up that whole pen full over there for me without batting an eye."
    Napoleon smiled modestly.
    "Napoleon, you swine!" snorted one of the pigs in the pen.
    "Thank you," replied Napoleon, blushing.
    "May your trough be empty and your mud hole dry!" shouted the penned pig. "And may the flies avoid you!"
    "Nothing personal, ok, Mom?" Napoleon called back.
    "Speaking of appraisals," said the Farmer, "yours is coming up, Lewellyn.  See you tomorrow at 8 a.m. sharp!  How's that training coming?"  He thumped his right fist in his left palm and silently mouthed the word "pound."

    I faced the day of my appraisal with trepidation.  Ok, the cats couldn't really herd sheep, but I had at least showed them the basics: rounding up strays, cutting a sheep out of the herd, and so forth.  Egg-laying was a disaster, but I could at least argue that I had made the effort, and I had a sore butt to prove it.  And so I went to face the Farmer.
    "What do you have to say for yourself?" said the Farmer.
    "I've been a good and faithful sheepdog for five years now," I said.
    "But now you're a cat," said the Farmer. "And a pathetic excuse for one at that."
    "Uh, I know the sheep herding training wasn't perfect," I began. "A little late and ..."
    "Sheep herding?" asked the Farmer. "Who said anything about sheep herding?  You didn't catch a single mouse!"
    "Uh, you said the sheep herding ... What's this about mice?" I squeaked, much like my putative prey.
    "You're a cat, for Pete's sake!" snapped the Farmer. "Cats catch mice!  It's right there in your appraisal!"
    "But you said ..." I stammered. "I didn't even see any mice!"
    "That doesn't matter," he said. "A true professional cat is supposed to hunt them down in their holes.  You're also deficient in playing with yarn and batting at string.  You weren't bad at chasing your tail."
    "Well, that's positive," I said hopefully.
    "But your egg production is abysmal!  A professional cat should produce several cartons a week!"
    "My egg production?  Low?  I think that if I produced any eggs, that would be grist for the Smithsonian Institution."
    "As a cat, you suck," concluded the Farmer.  "It's the pound for you!"
    "You're sending a good sheepdog to the pound because he didn't catch mice?" I asked.
    "Well, that, and I have a couple of nice sheepdog pups who cost less to feed than you do."

    I'm afraid I left a couple of paw prints on his shirt in my haste to get to the door, but I was weighing that against a gas nap at the pound, and well, it was no contest, really.  So, that's how I came to visit your pack meeting.  Think I could sign on?  I mean, I've been a cat already.  Being a wolf should be a piece of cake.