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The Life and Times of a Quadrupedal Cowgirl (Part 1)


I was, in almost every possible way, a huge disappointment to my grandfather. The fact that he had plenty of other, better grandchildren did nothing to mitigate that fact. You might think, knowing this, I would have resented him or acted out in pointless rebellion. But I never did either, because he was a good man and I knew it, and because it was all my fault and I knew that.

Granddad had never asked to have some weird... xeno... non-Human... alien centaur-thing shoved into his household. His middle daughter -- my mom -- had come back planetside from one of her year-long shifts on an asteroid harvester bearing a little four-legged green surprise that she'd adopted. I have no real memories of my Felra birth-mother. All I know for certain is what Mom told me about her. That her name was Thanaali and she lived on Highport, the big belt-miner recreation station. That she was a pretty and gentle-spoken woman. That she was a dear friend of Mom's. That she was sad a lot. That she had a sickness that she just wasn't strong enough to beat. That the sickness finally took her when I was just a few months old. That she loved me and wanted me to be happy. A few other things about her I was able to figure out for myself after overhearing some of my grandparents' conversations, especially after I was old enough to know what words like 'prostitute', 'addict', and 'overdose' meant.

The important thing is that the only life I had ever known and the only memories I had ever had were from planetside with my Human family. In my own mind, I had never been Sareltha reThanaali, I was and had always been Sareltha Renee Rossington. I was raised like a Human, by Humans, among Humans, on a majority-Human world.

The problem was that I sucked at actually being a Human.

In the storybook lands of make-believe and platitude-laden feel-good movies, that isn't a problem. Everyone can just be true to their own natures and toddle along in pursuit of their dreams and as long as they really try, everything works out with no bad consequences. But I lived with farmers and life on a working farm is nothing but consequences. Especially with the pace and intensity of a Human-run farm. Work becomes food becomes life. Everything and every person has to pull their own weight, or someone will go hungry. And I... I just couldn't pull mine.

Humans evolved from omnivorous persistence hunters. Their bodies are optimized for maintaining a grueling pace for hours upon hours. My Human family would get up at sunrise and work straight through until dark -- tending, mending, maintaining, harvesting, hauling. All the never-ending chores required to not only turn bare dirt into food and get that food to market, but to keep up the family and household that the farm supported. Finish one task and slide right into the next one, because no matter how much you get done, there's always a next one.

My Felra ancestors were not persistence hunters, but ambush predators. Evolution molded us for short bursts of intense, violent action, not the long, steady chase. Strength I had. Farm life ensured that. In fact, I could lift and carry more than any Human girl my age, more even than some of the boys. When dealing with the livestock, I could run faster, react quicker, and hold tighter than any of my cousins. Just... not for long. An hour's solid work, maybe two, and my tail would be dragging in the mud, my barrel heaving until it felt like my lower ribs would break. When Granddad was just getting into the rhythm of his work, I'd already be panting in the shade somewhere, all four legs stiff with aches, Grandma fussing over me and telling me to pace myself.

And Granddad would give me that look as he went past. Felra are sensitive to body language anyway, but Humans are particularly expressive in that regard. That look said, 'You have failed me again, Sareltha.' Oh, he never actually said that. If I asked -- and I did ask -- he would tell me he knew I was trying and that he didn't think I was lazy and that I was doing the best I could. He said those things because, whatever his other feelings on the subject, I was still his daughter's child and that's what a grandfather does. But that look in his eyes never lied and I would push myself back onto my quivering legs, slosh some water over my head, and stumble on to the next chore.

That's not to say he didn't love me. I was pretty sure he did, if only in the general I'm-obligated-to-look-after-you-and-you're-cute kind of way. And I didn't lack for love. Not with a doting Grandma, a Mom who was everything a girl could ask for when she was planetside, and all the aunts, uncles, and cousins that being a Rossington entailed. We're a huggy bunch, even by Human standards. No, it wasn't that I needed Granddad to love me. I had that. I wanted him to like me. And that is a different thing. A very different thing.

More than anything in the world, I wanted my grandfather to think, "My life is better because Sareltha is in it."

But by the time I was twelve -- about equivalent to a nine-year-old Human -- I realized that wasn't happening. Not only wasn't my existence in the family making his life better, it was making it harder.

It was bad enough that I couldn't keep up with my fair share of the work. What was worse was that I couldn't even eat some of the things we grew on the farm. Certain vegetables I would never even be able to taste unless I wanted to go to the emergency room. My stupid, stupid Felra metabolism was designed for mainly meat anyway, and since I had a bigger body than a Human child my age, lots of it. The family had to buy a food-synther for that, and to ensure that I got certain special nutrients a growing Felra requires but Human food doesn't provide. It took more material to make my clothes, of course. I had to have specially-made furniture to fit my centauroid body. And since Felra take longer than Humans to reach adulthood, I was going to be dependent on the family for these things for longer than any of the other children. I was little more than a freaky green drain on the family budget.

When my cousins and I would say our prayers before going to bed -- the Rossington home is a Christian home -- I would beg God every night to please please please let me wake up in the morning pink and two-legged. I dreamed that, like the Little Mermaid in the story Mom read me, I would meet someone who would offer me that magical trade. I would give them my voice, or even my soul, if they would just take my hind legs and tail with it. If they would swap my locks of ferny tvan for real hair. If they would just make me into a normal girl and not a pathetic green xeno freak.

Obviously, that didn't happen.

I tried to make up for my lack of usefulness in the farmyard in other ways where I could. Grandma always enjoyed the unofficial yet intense competition among the ladies of the church every Sunday regarding whose little ones looked the best in their dress-up clothes. One of the few things I was glad to have inherited from my birth mother was natural Felra poise, so whatever sort of dress Grandma put me in for church, I made sure it drew every eye before and after service. I took on as many extra housekeeping responsibilities as I could keep up with, to take pressure off the others. I was given an allowance, like my cousins, but I never spent any of it. I just put it away, saving up in case the family budget came up short because of me. And it all helped, I suppose. Except that none of that did anything about my primary worry. I still didn't feel like Granddad was glad to have me around.

So I got sneaky. I've read that Felra are supposed to be naturally subtle and manipulative. If that's so, I guess I should thank my birth mother for that, too.

Granddad had one passion aside from family, faith, and farm. He loved Westerns. Cowboy stories, I mean. When he had a little free time to relax and unwind after church, or when taking a break during the workday, he would go off into a little side-room and watch old 2D movies and shows about gunfighters and train robbers and such. And he always did that alone, because nobody else in the household cared for old-timey stuff like that. He had some books in there, too, reprints of a few old classic novels from Terra that had survived the Commonwealth's culture-purges. Zane Grey, Louis L'Amour, Lon Williams, that kind of thing. Those books would be instrumental in my new plan to make my grandfather happy with me.

Granddad liked cowboy stories. I would like cowboy stories, too. Maybe that could be a part of his life I could share without disappointing him.

But I was crafty about it. I couldn't just barge in there and start watching those shows with him. I knew nothing about Western stuff except that tough men in old hats rode around on animals and shot each other. I needed to understand what was going on. I needed context, or we wouldn't really be sharing the experience and he would know it. And I couldn't ask Granddad questions to try and understand, because that would be annoying and that was the opposite of what I hoped to achieve. So I would ease my way in. Gain some knowledge first. Use Felra subtlety. I would start with research.

"Granddad, could I borrow one of your books to read?" I asked one day after supper.

"I didn't think you read, outside of school," he replied. With all the complications of running a big farm and overseeing an extended family, you'd think Granddad wouldn't keep track of such details about his many grandkids. You'd be wrong.

"I've been meaning to start." I'm sure I didn't sound as casual as I intended to. "And I don't want to mess with any of that fluffy, girly stuff they offer us at school. I'm wanting something... tough." And then I played my trump card. "Something with bad guys who get what's coming to them." That seemed like the kind of phrase that would appeal to Granddad.

He just looked at me for a little while, scratching at his beard. Then, "All right, Sareltha. I've got one for you to try."

The book he handed me was called True Grit. I started reading it that night before bed.

I wasn't sure about it at first. The heroine was a girl of fourteen. Maybe that was why Granddad picked this one, because he thought I might relate to a girl near my own age. But I had told him I didn't want any girly stuff. However, I was determined to see through my plan to get Granddad to like me, and if I had to put up with reading some boring girly stuff to do it, so be it.

My opinion of the book changed pretty quickly. Mattie Ross was a girl, but not girly. She was actually pretty hard-core. I could definitely relate to her devotion to her family and her determination to see her plan for justice through, no matter the cost. And then I got my tough-guy cowboys in the forms of Rooster Cogburn and LaBoeuf the Ranger, and my bad guys in Chaney and Pepper. And the bad guys certainly got what was coming to them.

But it was harsh. Bleak. The world in that novel, the American West of Mattie and Rooster and the Ranger, was a cold and unforgiving place, with violent death waiting at every turn and filled with badly-flawed people who only by sheer will could manage to rise up and tear loose a moment of glory or justice to call their own. Of course, I didn't think that in so many words at the time, but I knew what I felt. That story should have made a preteen Felra girl throw it aside and go bury herself in dress catalogs and kitten videos. Instead, I was hooked.

When Mattie stood her ground and bested the horse trader in a battle of wills, I smiled and counted the money there with her. When the men left her behind to chase Tom Chaney on their own, I strode along beside her, back stiff with anger and frustration. I rode beside Marshal Cogburn when he stuck the reins between his teeth and charged at Lucky Ned's gang, guns blazing, and proved all the stories about him were true. I even shed a little tear over that final $50 debt that would remain unpaid.

I wanted more. I needed more.

When I finished that book, Granddad and I talked about it. It was the longest conversation he and I had ever had, just the two of us. And I felt a connection with him I never had before.

More books followed, as many and as fast as the time between chores, school, and church permitted. I sat next to Tell Sackett while he explained to Kid Newton that killin' don't mix well with a man's supper. I stood in camp with Jack Hildreth when quick fists earned him the name 'Shatterhand' and I chased specters on Alkali Flats with Deputy Winters and Cannon Ball. Now my daydreams weren't just of being pink and two-legged, but pink, two-legged, and striding through Tombstone and Dodge City with a six-gun at my side.

And then... Oh happy day! Just what I was waiting for! I had avoided asking, or even hinting, because I wanted Granddad to be the one to bring it up.

"Sareltha. I'm going to go watch some Gunsmoke. Join me if you want to."

Yes! Yes yes yes!

My eyes were opened. Now I got to see, in detail, the pictures that had been mostly in my head before. There, almost close enough to touch, were the endless prairies and iron-hard deserts. The little wooden towns teetering on the edge of extinction and the slumped adobe ruins of the ones long-fallen. I fell in love with the sound of jingling spurs, the creak of bat-wing doors, and the thunder of desperate hooves. And there were heroes like Marshal Dillon and the Magnificent Seven and the Man With No Name. But most especially, there was Rowdy Yates.

I'm not sure why, out of all the Westerns Granddad and I watched together, that Rawhide made the biggest impression on me. It wasn't the most action-packed show, or the most thought-provoking, or even all that visually appealing. But for some reason, the character of Rowdy Yates just... clicked... with me. I mean, of course he was cool. He was played by Clint Eastwood, so he'd have to be. But something about him, the barely-an-adult second-in-command of the cattle drives, struggling to learn all his responsibilities and live up to the faith his trail boss, Mr. Favor, placed in him, just hit home. My daydreams changed again. Now I wouldn't just be a Human in them, I'd be one very specific Human.

Granddad noticed. For my next birthday, he made me a pair of slingshot-pistols with rattlesnakes on the grips, just like the six-shooter Rowdy used. They were so perfect, I cried for an hour. He even started calling me 'Rowdy', at least when it was just the two of us. And when he wanted me to go do something, he'd use Mr. Favor's catch-phrase. "Head 'em up! Move 'em out!"

My plan had worked.

For the first time in years, I could feel happy with myself. I had finally given my grandfather something to like about me, something to look forward to from his weirdest grandchild other than stress and disappointment. I still couldn't hack it on the farm, still couldn't contribute more than I cost. But that was, if not okay, at least counterbalanced a little by the bond we were developing over outlaws and tumbleweeds. I finally had something to throw onto the other side of the scale.

It was one afternoon when I was nearly fourteen -- Mattie Ross's age -- that I volunteered to go check on a section of field-fencing where the sensors were reporting a break. Fence breaks weren't unusual that time of year, when windstorms came two or three times a week and sent branches from the orchards flying. And it was just a critter-fence anyway, lightweight and flexible to keep honeyrunners and packweasels and such out of the crops. Fixing breaks in the fence was one of the few jobs around the farm I was actually good at. I could trot out to it in good time, nearly as fast as anyone else could get there in a mud-buggy, and I was strong enough to stretch and re-attach the fence sections by myself. If only every chore could be like that.

I had my slingshot-pistols holstered at my waist and the flat-crowned gray cowboy hat that had recently replaced my old straw sun-hat firmly on my head. I had gotten pretty good with my sling-pistols and was secretly hoping that some packweasels had gotten in through the break. I could knock one out of a tree at thirty feet and had even hit and killed rats on the run.

The fence break was on the hillside behind the apple orchard. It was when I was nearing the crest of the hill that I realized something was wrong. I could hear music, loud, jangly industrial rap, playing from down at the fence-line. Frowning, I sped up to the hilltop and crouched low in the shadows. Ambush predator reflexes, I guess.

Down below was the break in the fence, and its cause. A light hovertruck -- not a farm vehicle, but a fancy city-boy's ride, glossy red and tricked-out -- was parked at the edge of the road. The loud music was coming from the truck's stereo. And out of the truck were three Human men. Young, not quite boys anymore. Two of them were wearing shirts with the logo of Heatherton College, an upscale private university in a nearby city. They had plastic buckets and--

Dammit, they were stealing our apples!

As I watched, one of the young men filled his bucket and set it in the bed of their hovertruck, then grabbed another empty and returned to his buddies, who were grabbing apple after apple off the low-hanging branches. All three were smiling and laughing as they plundered our orchard. Those... those... thieving varmints!

I seethed, hands on my sling-pistols. How dare they! They were taking our livelihood! Every apple they took was money from Granddad's pocket, was food from my cousins' mouths. They were rustlers, claim-jumpers, no-account banditos! This would not stand.

I should go and tell Granddad or Uncle Levi. But, no, by the time I found them and got back here, it would be too late. The outlaws would be long-gone. And even if we called the law about them, three guys in a red hovertruck wasn't much of a description to give. I fingered the rattlesnake emblems on my sling-pistol grips. What would Rowdy Yates do?

Of course. The answer was obvious.

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