At last, a ‘Word of the Day’ that I can use in an article. In fact, the one I’m working on now. Every morning, Barbara’s phone gives her a different word, most of which none of us has ever heard of, many of which became archaic three hundred years ago. In fact, one may wonder, are they making these up? The word of the day on May 5, 2026 was ‘clowder,’ described as referring, among other things, to a herd of cats. Let me check this out. Does anybody else in Ma’ale Adumim, in Israel, or anywhere else on this blessed planet have the formidable two volume set of The Compact Edition of the Oxford English Dictionary – complete with magnifying glass so you can read the tiny print – anybody in addition to David Brownstein and myself? I pulled mine down, and, sure enough, there is a brief reference to ‘clowder’ as a variant of ‘cludder,’ probably related to ‘clutter,’ as in a mass of stuff, which might include a herd of cats.

That’s what we have here in The Land, lots of street cats, some of whom, in a semi-organized fashion, congregate at regular times of the day in designated places, waiting for their feeder (more often than not a woman who speaks Russian as a mother tongue). Such a person was Lydia, a museum guard by occupation, a feeder par excellence, who is still in the building we lived in on Hakeren. After several years of watching her provide sustenance to her rag-tag crew, it occurred to me that there was something missing. Many street cats do get fed, but few of them get anything to drink. So I began putting out a plastic bowl of H2O on the steps down to the garden below us, doing my best to keep the fragile container from getting knocked over. And then I began putting a second bowl in the green area behind the building.

Before long, I noticed a small grey kitten hanging out there, clearly needing something to eat. What was I to do? I couldn’t let it languish. You see now how these things snowball. A few months later, the kitten vanished, but by this time, a few other strays showed up, if not quite a full-fledged ‘clowder,’ at least a ‘feed me’ group, eagerly waiting for breakfast every morning.

And then years later, we moved down the block and around the corner, about a five-or six-minute walk from where we had been. Well, the cats still need to eat and drink. Why should they languish because we’ve relocated? It’s not their fault. It was easier to keep feeding them than to find a good excuse not to. So I persevered.

Over the years, cats have come, and cats have gone. Were the missing ones run over, or did they meet some other fate? Were any of them taken it by a kind stranger? Did they move on, finding more succulent kibble nearby? I don’t suppose I’ll ever find out. The only holdover, a medium size female tortoiseshell, who has been with me from day one, is keeping quiet. Maybe she has something to say, maybe not.

The Wed. morning when this story unfolds found me up to my usual tricks, but with a larger than usual collection of customers, enough to form at least a mini-clowder (if such a thing exists). Then I noticed a newbie, and what’s more, a newbie with a collar, a diminutive black cat with the aforementioned collar hanging loosely around its neck, looking for a meal. I didn’t think about it; there are people here who let their family pets roam free, making sure that they some form of marker to distinguish them from the random street cats who survive by their wits or through the kindness of the Lydias of the world.

The little fellow returned the next day. By the third day (Fri.), I began to wonder what was going on. It seemed to have staked out a small patch of turf nearby for its home, and it was wolfing down food as if it were going out of style. Is this cat simply lost, or has it been abandoned? One way to find out; let’s see if I can read the information on the heart-shaped ID tag. I got as far as the first three numbers of the phone number, 050. The ID tag was maybe an inch long, so you can imagine how small the writing on it must have been. I’m going to need backup if I’m going to read the rest. I’ll feed whoever shows up on Shabbat, but… Barbara, you’re going to have to go with me on Sun.

The two of us went up to the ‘dining hall,’ where our tortoise shell, two black and white cats – both regular customers – and a couple of drop-ins were waiting. Then our little black cat with the collar arrived. If we can hold him steady, we can read what’s on the ID tag. Easier said than done, and in the process of holding on to the tag, it came off in my hand. At least now I can read it.

Sure enough, there was a phone number and what seemed to be an owner’s name.. What’s on the other side? I think it says, ‘Louie.’ Barbara, call the number. Which she did. Yes, Louie had gone missing a week or so before, and they were frantically looking for him. (Been there; done that.) The woman was a teacher, and she could come in an hour. Let us know when you’re coming, and we can show you where he is.

She apparently did arrive later by herself, and whether she figured out where her pet was hanging out, she was unable to get his attention. Later, she let us know that she would be sending her son. OK, we can meet him.

There indeed was the son, a lad in his teenage years, waiting for us on the steps of the nearby Leumit Clinic. He had thought to bring a package of cat treats with him, but nothing else. Barbara and I, veterans of tracking lost cats, were more prepared, with a bowl of food and a cat carrier. We knew from experience that the boy would not be able to scoop up Louie in his arms and carry him back to where he belonged. Scared pets do not usually cooperate with their rescuer, even if that person is their owner.

First thing: where is Louie? As in, don’t assume he is where you last spotted him. I walked over to where I thought he might be and, what do you know, there he was, looking up at me in an open space between two bushes. Over here! Barbara was off stalking a different black cat, and the lad was wandering aimlessly. Over here! I finally got my crew’s attention, and the hunt was on. Louie was enjoying his taste of freedom. He would sniff at the treat being offered him and then move away. He was now hiding under a large shrub. I would not see him, but if I paid attention, I could hear him rustling through the bushes. Over here!

Louie was going to give us a run for our money. He left the bushes and hid under a nearby car, then another car, then another car. When he ran out of cars to hide under, the lad was able to entice him with a treat. Finally the lad was able to grab the cat, but that was just the beginning of the struggle. He and Barbara needed to wrestle Louie into the cat carrier. Easier said than done, by a lot. It was as if this small creature had sprouted extra arms to fend off those mean people trying to kidnap him. Even when, after they corralled him on the third or fourth try, he still managed to worm his way out of the carrier. But finally he was securely inside, and the three of us started off homeward bound. Louie’s family lived a considerable way down the main drag, Midbar Yehuda, down a flight of stairs to the building entrance, then another flight of stairs to the apartment that Louie shared with his humans and a small dog, not much bigger than his feline companion. As Barbara and I were about to leave, the little canine ran out of the apartment and up the flight of stairs. No worries: he headed straight to a grassy patch and lifted his leg. He just needed to pee. And on that note, we headed down the stairs to the building’s lower entrance, down the block from where we live on Hashofar.

Hours later, we got a message from Louie’s owner, thanking us profusely for finding the little guy. Glad to be of use. We’ve been there ourselves, more times than we want to remember. The obvious question: how did Louie, having managed to sneak out of the apartment, manage to leave the building and make his way up to the corner and find a spot where he could hide and where he would get fed? You’d have to ask Louie, but he may not want to tell. Cats are funny that way.