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The sheep hesitated. “This isn’t normally how herding works. I’m supposed to go first, and you guide me.”

  Everyone was a critic. “Do you want your lunch or not?” the Bad Hat asked.

  “Good point,” the sheep said. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  The Bad Hat and MacNulty followed the trail, but it was a really stupid trail. First, one direction, and then, another. Across some lawns, along a pine-needle path, into a kid’s sandbox, down the road, into the woods, back to the street, through someone’s garden—the trail was completely illogical.

  “Are you sure this is right?” he asked MacNulty quietly. “It doesn’t make much sense.”

  “Shhh,” MacNulty said, sounding very anxious. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

  So, they followed the twisted route a little longer—ending up right back where they started, in the middle of the road. MacNulty growled something unintelligible under his breath, and put his nose to the ground, looking for a different path.

  “Where were you going?” the Bad Hat asked the sheep, panting. “This is all over the place.”

  The sheep thought. At length. “Well, first, I was just meandering around, because it was a pretty day. I ate some clover, that had lovely fresh dew on it. And then, I was looking for flowers, but I couldn’t find any.” She paused. “I really like flowers.”

  The Bad Hat nodded cooperatively, hoping that she would move things along.

  “All types of flowers,” the sheep went on. “I’m not very picky. Although daisies are especially nice.”

  “Unh-hunh,” the Bad Hat said.

  “Where was I?” the sheep asked.

  How was he supposed to know? It was a long and exhausting anecdote. The Bad Hat shrugged, and looked around for MacNulty, who had put his head inside a bush while he tried to find the scent.

  “Well, I ran around,” the sheep said. “And then, I realized that I was lost, and I panicked, and I ran around some more, in circles. There were a lot of houses. And then, I had to rest, and then I ran some more, and finally, I just stood in the street for a long time.”

  Not the most interesting story he had ever heard, that was for sure. “We can follow the trail,” the Bad Hat said, leaving the because dogs are completely awesome part unspoken, “but it’s going to take a while.”

  Which it did. Following the erratic circles seemed endless, and the sheep slowed things down even more by running off to one side to admire some pink asters. Then, when an increasingly frantic MacNulty ushered her back to the scent trail, she trundled off again, to look at a bed of day lilies.

  “Aren’t they gorgeous!” she said.

  Yep. Terrific. Wonderful. He couldn’t be happier. “Unh-hunh,” the Bad Hat said.

  MacNulty just groaned.

  “We passed my farm a little while ago,” the sheep said conversationally. “But, this is so nice, finding flowers together. Maybe we’ll come across some salvia. Wouldn’t that be exciting?”

  Was she kidding? The Bad Hat stared at her. “What about your lunch?”

  She considered that. “You’re right. There’s some hay calling my name right about now.” She spun around to go in the opposite direction. “Come on, I think it’s this way.”

  The Bad Hat looked at MacNulty, who seemed to be shell-shocked.

  “Buck up, man,” he said. “We’re in the homestretch now. You can do it!”

  “Trail,” MacNulty said feverishly. “Must follow trail. Must herd.”

  “That’s right,” the Bad Hat said. “Keep that laser-like focus. I’m rooting for you, big guy.”

  MacNulty staggered along the trail, while the sheep prattled happily about goldenrod and black-eyed Susans and forsythia and lupine and all. Finally, they came to a large pasture, which was full of grazing sheep.

  “Look,” the Bad Hat said. “It’s the Border Collie Holy Grail!”

  MacNulty just mumbled some more, shaking his head back and forth.

  A large ram came thundering over to the fence. “Where have you been, Amaryllis?”

  The sheep motioned towards the dogs. “Looking for flowers, with my new friends. We had such a good time!”

  The ram frowned at them. “She is not ever supposed to leave the pasture. I hold you two accountable for this!”

  “It won’t happen again, sir,” the Bad Hat said. If there was any justice in the world, that is.

  “It had better not,” the ram said, and then pushed some of the fence wires aside so that Amaryllis could squeeze through the hole and into the pasture.

  “Come back soon!” Amaryllis called. “We’ll go jaunting again!”

  Oh, yeah. Without a doubt. “Good luck with your floriculture,” the Bad Hat said, and led the shaky MacNulty away.

  If he had to it do over, he probably would have suggested that instead of exploring, they should just spend the entire day napping!

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Bad Hat waited until they were safely away from the sheep farm, and then sat down in a nice, shady spot under some trees.

  “Come on,” he said. “Get out of the sun for a minute.”

  MacNulty nodded, lurched over to some thick grass, and lay down on his side, gasping.

  “You all right?” the Bad Hat asked.

  MacNulty stared at him with those glassy eyes. “That was awful.”

  By the Bad Hat’s standards, it had mostly just been annoying, but okay, whatever.

  “My life is meaningless,” MacNulty said. “It’s all ashes.”

  Whoa, they were way out of his skill set now. The Bad Hat really wasn’t going to be comfortable having a conversation about things like philosophy, and emotions. “Well, gosh,” he said, for lack of a better idea.

  It was quiet, except for the sounds of a tractor somewhere in the distance and the buzzing of unknown insects.

  “My whole life,” MacNulty said shakily, “my only dream was to be able to herd. Herding was my reason for being. My destiny! Only, I finally got a chance to do it—and it turns out that sheep are horrible.” He shuddered. “I don’t even like them.”

  The Bad Hat was not currently a big fan of sheep, either.

  “Now I have to question everything,” MacNulty said. “Am I real? Do I exist? What if it’s all nothingness, and the entire world is a figment of my imagination?”

  The Bad Hat couldn’t think of a single sensible way to respond to that—so, he didn’t say anything at all.

  MacNulty dragged himself up off the grass. “I’m going home.”

  Was he really leaving, or just being dramatic? “We don’t have a home,” the Bad Hat said. “And what about Florence’s rule? You’re supposed to stay with me.”

  “Sorry,” MacNulty said. “I have to go get some kibble. I need to ground myself.”

  That sounded like a joke, but apparently, it wasn’t, because MacNulty started trudging down the road without ever looking back.

  The Bad Hat stood underneath the trees, feeling quite bereft. What was the point of having a buddy system, if they all kept leaving him?

  Although it was further proof that most dogs simply weren’t cut out to be a Bad Hat. They cracked under the pressure, and wilted like little flowers. He was made of sterner stuff than that.

  Which didn’t mean that he wouldn’t mind going home to have some lunch.

  But, since he was the Bad Hat and should be above such petty concerns, maybe he would walk around town, instead, and see if there were any new adventures to be had.

  He was moseying down a deserted road, when a dark blue pickup truck came careening around a curve. The Bad Hat dodged into the underbrush, wanting to be sure that he would be safely out of the way of such an irresponsible driver. The truck sped past him, raising a thick cloud of dirt, which made him cough.

  Then, the truck slowed down slightly, and someone in the passenger’s seat tossed a large bag out of the window. It landed by the side of the road, and then the truck swerved away, until it was out of sight.

  Weird. And it was also
littering. The Bad Hat might be a ruthless rebel, but he did not approve of littering.

  Maybe he should drag the bag into the bushes, so that the street would look more tidy. Not that he was running for Good Citizen of the Year, but the black trash bag looked ugly, lying there on the pavement.

  He was about to pick up the bag with his teeth, when it moved.

  Hey, whoa! Of course, he was nearly impossible to frighten or alarm in any way—but he leaped backwards, feeling his heart start pounding. Garbage that wiggled was creepy.

  Could the sack be full of rats? Or worse, snakes?

  Something inside the bag was still squirming around, and he could hear gasping, and mewing, and—mewing?

  Cats!

  He used his front paws to tear a hole in the bag, and discovered a bunch of kittens—all of whom screamed when they saw him.

  “Calm down,” the Bad Hat said. “I’m just trying to—”

  “Ack!” one of the kittens screeched. Then, it toppled over and lay still.

  Was it dead  ? “What’s wrong with him?” the dog asked, trying not to panic. “Is he okay?”

  “Harold faints sometimes,” another kitten said. “Hit him, everyone, until he wakes up!”

  To the Bad Hat’s appalled amazement, the other kittens all began whacking the unconscious one with their paws.

  “No, no, don’t do that!” he said. “You’ll hurt him. Didn’t your mother ever teach any of you how to behave?”

  In response, the kittens started crying, and calling for their mother, and just generally going to pieces.

  Wow. This was terrible. The Bad Hat bent his head, and cautiously puffed a gentle breath into the unconscious kitten’s face.

  The kitten woke up, fluttered his eyes, stared at the Bad Hat for a second, then said, “Ack!” and passed out again. In the meantime, the other kittens wailed loudly, without even seeming to pause to breathe.

  Since he had no idea what to do, the Bad Hat sat down for a minute and panted as hard as he could.

  Okay, he needed to pull himself together. Someone around here had to be calm, and think clearly—and he was pretty sure that none of the kittens were up for the job.

  “Kittens, just take it easy,” he said. “Tell me where you live, and I’ll bring you home to your mother, okay?”

  The only response was more hysterical crying.

  So, the dog panted for a while longer, and thought about running away, and maybe hiding somewhere for the next week or two.

  “Please,” he said finally. “Can one of you tell me what happened?”

  It took a while, but several of them explained in earsplitting unison—how many were there, a hundred ?—that the mean people had taken them away from their mother, because they wanted to get rid of them forever, and that they were scared, and that it had been hard to breathe inside the bag, and that they missed their mother, and they wanted to go home, but they were afraid of the people—and it just went on and on.

  “Where do you live?” the Bad Hat asked, once they had finally run out of steam—and things to say.

  The kittens all looked at each other, and shrugged. None of them said anything, except for Harold, who woke up briefly, took another look at the dog, said “Ack!” and slumped down again. But, the rest of them were now being less noisy, at least, and the dog took advantage of the relative peace to count them.

  Six. Funny, they sounded like an army of kittens, but there were only six.

  “Tell me about your home,” the Bad Hat said. “I need some clues.”

  They all talked as loudly as they could, trying to shout over each other, which gave him a headache.

  “One at a time,” the dog said.

  They all looked at each other, and then, a little black kitten with white paws spoke up.

  “There was grass,” she said.

  “And a house,” a second one added.

  “And—maybe a tree,” a third one contributed.

  The Bad Hat nodded, waiting for more information, but they seemed to be finished. “Is that it? You don’t have any details?”

  There was another very long pause, as they all thought.

  “Dirt, maybe?” one of them said uncertainly.

  The others nodded.

  “There was dirt,” another one agreed. “We lived outside, and it was cold.”

  The Bad Hat listened patiently, while they all talked about how cold it was, and how scared and sad they were, and how hungry they were—and a whole new round of crying and mewing started.

  At some point during all of this, Harold woke up again.

  “Where am I?” he asked, and then gasped when he saw the dog. “Ack—”

  “Don’t!” the Bad Hat ordered. “Stay awake this time!”

  “Okay,” Harold said obediently, and sat down on his tiny haunches, instead of passing out. “Why are they crying?”

  “They’re upset,” the dog said.

  Which was the understatement of the year.

  “Oh,” Harold looked around, his eyes that sort of milky blue color that very young kittens had. “Where’s Mommy? Can we find her?”

  “She’s gone!” one of his siblings said through stormy tears. “We’ll never see her again! We live in a nightmare!”

  Harold thought about that, blinked, then said “Ack!” and toppled over again.

  Of all the roads, in all the towns, in all the world, these kittens had had to be dumped on the one where he was? The Bad Hat panted some more.

  “Okay,” he said, once that was out of his system. “I know a safe place to take you. Once we get there, my friends—” Oops! “I mean my, uh, colleagues will help us figure out what to do next. But, right now, I need for you all to relax, and have, um, Quiet Time.”

  The kittens promptly closed their mouths, and were silent.

  Thank goodness. Now, he could hear himself think. “It’s at least a mile away from here. Are you all good at walking?”

  They looked at him, their mouths still shut.

  “Can you walk that far?” he asked. “Because it would be very helpful if I knew that.”

  They stared at him with their glistening little eyes. Some of them shuddered and trembled and shook, but none of them made a sound.

  Great. Just great. At this point, he felt like lying down and crying, too—for about a month straight.

  The Bad Hat took a deep breath. “Please tell me if you can walk, or if we need to make a different plan.”

  “We’re having Quiet Time,” one of the kittens whispered.

  Oh. Right. Fine. He would simply make an executive decision, then. “I want all of you to climb back into the bag, so I can carry you,” he said.

  None of them budged.

  “Please,” he said.

  “Can we move during Quiet Time?” the same kitten asked.

  “Yes,” the Bad Hat said. “But, only to get into the bag. Then, you can sit and think your silent little thoughts, while I bring you to the safe place.”

  Cautiously, the kittens crept into the bag and crouched against the black plastic, their eyes looking bigger than ever. Well, five of them did, anyway. Harold was still lying on the road in a crumpled heap.

  The Bad Hat gently picked him up by the scruff of his neck, and set him inside the bag. Then, he lifted it off the ground, which made the kittens all tumble against each other and start screaming again.

  The Bad Hat put the bag down, and frowned at them. “Shhh,” he said. “It’s Quiet Time.”

  Upon which, they closed their mouths.

  He carried the bag a few hundred feet, and was just starting to relax when Harold woke up and began yelling that he was suffocating, and had claustrophobia, and needed to be let out of the bag right this very minute. Which set the rest of the kittens off, and Quiet Time was very definitely no longer in effect.

  The Bad Hat was able to lower the bag to the ground without losing his temper or snapping at anyone—and congratulated himself for being the most gloriously saint-like and kindly do
g on the entire planet.

  “All right,” he said through his teeth. “Everybody, get out of the bag. Then, line up behind me, so that we can walk together. No straggling!”

  The kittens weren’t very coordinated, but they managed to scramble over each other and out onto the street. They milled around in confusion, and finally lined up, most of them facing in different directions.

  “Everyone, face forward,” the Bad Hat said.

  The kittens maybe didn’t understand what “forward” meant, because they all turned around a few times—but, ended up pointing in completely different directions again.

  Well, maybe they would catch on, once he started walking.

  “Follow me,” he said.

  The kittens did fairly well for about fifty feet, and then they started to get bored and cranky, and began scuffling with each other.

  “Maybe you could sing,” the Bad Hat suggested. “Do you know any songs?”

  The kittens shook their heads.

  Which would not be a problem if he had a guitar, and they were in the Alps—but, he didn’t, and they weren’t.

  “Can you count?” he asked.

  “To three!” one of the kittens said proudly.

  The Bad Hat nodded. “That’s very good. So, you can count our steps, while we walk.”

  They made it another fifty feet or so, with the kittens shouting, “One! Two! Three!” over and over. Then, the chant petered out, as they got tired, and started stumbling and wandering all over the road.

  He was beginning to understand why people made jokes about the notion of herding cats. Sheep might be challenging, but poor MacNulty would be stymied—and distressed—even more by this group.

  So, the Bad Hat lay down by the side of the road, and took slow, deep breaths to try and collect himself.

  “Oh, no, he fainted!” one of the kittens yelled, and they all ran over and started swatting him.

  Two kittens even climbed up on his back, and smacked his ears violently with their paws.

  The Bad Hat was going to yell at them, but then, he thought of a possible solution to this mess.

  “Everyone else, climb up on me, too,” he said. “I’ll carry you piggyback.”

  “But, I thought you were a dog,” one of the kittens protested. “You are weird-looking, if you’re a pig.”