Cats took the wheel of the municipal buses at dawn, hi-vis vests on and whiskers to the wind.
Longer routes, plusher seats: napping becomes an onboard service, and travelers purr with delight.
At five o’clock sharp, the doors opened with a polite meow and manicured claws adjusted the mirrors. The feline drivers, highly focused, charted the routes according to pools of sunlight on the sidewalks: each stop in a bright patch turned into a “nap stop,” and horns were replaced by soothing jingle bells. The result: no one arrives on time, but everyone arrives relaxed.
“We guarantee maximum comfort and at least two micro-naps per trip; if we have to take a detour to follow a sunbeam, we will,” says Chouquette, the whiskered depot chief, smoothing their badge with a paw. Fare inspections have been entrusted to owls, whose piercing gaze instantly spots half-validated tickets, while canine stewards hand out blankets and biscuits to well-behaved passengers.
The urban ecosystem is already adapting: at the terminus, cow baristas froth cappuccinos with to-the-bell precision; a switchboard octopus handles eight complaints at once at the traffic info center; otters, vests soaked but smiles bright, sell tickets from a fountain; and giraffes, living perches, flag low bridges to double-deckers. On the roadway, turtles in white gloves direct traffic with a tempo of exemplary patience.
Tomorrow, it is announced, squirrels will launch an aerial locker service in the plane trees for overweight luggage, and beavers will offer very design-forward temporary detours in case of roadworks. In the meantime, the city is learning a new kind of punctuality: that of sunlight, softness, and the well-placed meow.
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