CLOWDER, that's the word for a group of cats. I've got two clowders of cats - the bridge street cats (at my shop across town), the Parkview clowder, and I even devoted a website to them at Weebly called Clowder Country. I don't keep it up very well, but it's there in case I decide to chronicle what's going on with the cats I take care of. This cat thing isn't by design, isn't something I planned on or prepared for, and I've almost come to believe that providence led to it. Then again, perhaps it's just an extension of what I've always done, which is take care of things. I've been a caretaker for a long time, just in a much different way. I was for a long time a college professor, took care of lots of things related to the teaching profession, and I came to think of myself as just that - a keeper. I kept up with students and all the paperwork and management that goes along with that, and I was also a coach, which required more of me. And I liked it and did a fairly good job of it. That's all in the past now. I'm old, retired, and . . . lonesome for something to take care of, I guess. God must've known I needed something to look after, and so he sent animals.
I came to Texas with one old cat, a female I'd had a while named K.C. She lived to be 16, finally died in 2004. I wasn't a good caretaker then, barely paid attention to her, just put out food and gave her a place to live. My life changed dramatically in early 2005 when I nearly died of a heart attack. I had bought a little house across town, was restoring it and turning it into a guitar shop, and that's when I went down for a while. My recovery was a slow one, and I had lots of time on my hands doing little or nothing. So, I got a dog, and then another dog, and then a few cats showed up. My shop produced the first of them, mostly abandoned kittens that I saved. A few of them were given away, and a few of them came home with me to my home on Parkview to live. More showed up, and several of them had kittens, and we gave more away, and kept some. My home is across the creek from the city's largest park, a place where folks abandon animals from time to time. Starving cats started coming to my front porch looking for food, and I fed them. I now feed six or eight cats there each day - cats that are mostly wild but need to eat. At the shop across town, I feed another half dozen outside cats each day, and those cats over the years have given me more kittens. I've got nine other cats living inside the shop now . . . full time house cats, pets, spoiled rotten and content to be where they are.
Over the years I've shucked out money to have neutered and spayed almost all of the cats that have come to be part of my cat crew, and they've all been to the vet for various things - shots, sicknesses, etc. In all, I've got about 35 cats to look after these days, and my feed bill is about $500 a month. And taking care of the cats takes several hours of my day - feeding, cleaning litter boxes, checking them out, doctoring them, etc. And there's the dogs, too. I have only two dogs here at home, but a small chihuahua/terrier cross female attached herself to me some time back, and she recently had five puppies. Now I've got five little pups to feed and provide a home for, and that's more work . . . and more worry.
Nothing gives me more enjoyment than caring for animals, but there's also some heartache in it. I lose them from time to time, and that always sets me back. My favorite shop cat was killed last fall, and I'm still grieving over that. Some of my kittens have died, and that always hurts. I don't mind spending the money on vet bills, do what I can to save them, but I'm stretched thin because I'm getting old and less able to care for them. Friends are starting to suggest that I should euthanize some of them, do the humane thing, they say. My response is, "Yeah, I'll euthanize my cats just before I euthanize myself."
I don't kill anything unless it's absolutely necessary, so I keep plugging along, doing what I can to care for the animals . . . and that's keeps me from feeling absolutely worthless.
I'm a writer . . . a disenchanted, disappointed, disheartened writer for the most part who's sick of it. I spend about half the year working hard at writing, but it gets to me and I have to lay off for a while. Maybe I should write about what I enjoy the most - animals. Maybe I should just forget about the writing and be a caretaker, a keeper of critters. I like that idea best, but I haven't been able to make myself do it yet. Something always draws me back to writing. I'll finish more books before long, as soon as I can pull my head out of my ass and take care of the final stages. I'm not as good a caretaker of my own affairs as I am of animals, it seems. And I don't really care.
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