Saturday, May 08, 2010

Homeless Camp Cats

I saw six of the homeless camp cats today, when taking the bags of food in. I saw Biker, a tame black and white male, in the tent of one of the campers. I saw Hooch's mom, whom the campers once tried to kill with a sling shot, because "she kept popping litters". She looked good. I saw Blotches, a black and white female, abandoned by other campers, tame once. I saw Cammie, a light brown tabby tux female. I saw Felicity, the tame long hair black, older, who really needs out of there. And I saw Bobby, the gray tux bobtail male.

Missing: The white and black female, tame also, loved by the female camper there. Old Green Eyes, the big male brown tabby, and his sister, a dark brown tabby tux. Bobby's sister was nowhere to be seen either nor was Zachary's sister, the other black short hair, likely also tame. Hitler was nowhere to be seen. She is another little black and white female with a full mustache. Neither was Pistachio, yet another black and white female, to be found. Nor Junior, an older black tux male. Junior's been around there for years. I trapped him to be fixed in 2007 but he was then a mature male of 3 to 5 years in age.

There are only about a dozen of the cats left, and often they are not to be found and wander to other areas. They don't last long because the campers get drunk and don't feed them, then they wander and end up hit by cars or killed by dogs or coyotes. I so much wish I could get them all out to somewhere safe, but then the campers would just bring in more. They always do. They are all lovely cats. Almost all of them left are tame, at least to me and to the campers.

Cammie, spayed last summer, a female. She is the shy one of all the cats left, along with Hooches' Mom, whom I also saw this evening.
Cammie wants to be my cat and retrapped almost immediately last summer, after I trapped her to be fixed. I believe she wanted me to bring her home. It's hard on me, to know they want me to bring them home. I have so many already.
This is the long hair black brought in already fixed by other campers who then abandoned her. Richard takes care of her now. She's older, about six he claims, and he wants me to take her out too.
Felicity again.
Bobby, the gray tux bobtail male, who also wants out of there. His sister may be deceased.

I like the homeless campers. They know their faults and they don't deny them. I like sitting around with them. They're blunt and terse and in possession of a hopeless wisdom concerning humanity.

They've given up on the world. They're the nemesis of the perfectly groomed righteous "hard workers", of the Rush Limbaughs of this world. Of all the judgements passed, they receive more than their fair share. The poor always do.

I think more people should give up on the world. World would be a better place then. Less greed. Less hypocritical save your soul crap. Less idiotic recruitment by social services intent on getting them off the street, for their own good of course, onto their kind of drugs and into lesser lives. Like they did me.

I think about the committees formed to study the homeless, the ten year plans, the awards given out to the advocates for this and that, those shining committee types and all the change their committees produce which are none I can see. It makes me smile.

I get bitter I must say, trapsing through the poison oak to deliver cat food to the campers bought not with some grant money shelled out after a lengthy writing submission endeavor, paper articles, awards pinned to some chest sticking out for it. Nope, it came from my red ink bank account, just like always.

And it wasn't the committee people out there getting torn by brambles and rashed out by the poison oak either, trapping 52 cats and hauling them out, one at a sore shoulder, neck, back time. Hail to the dogged. I don't get an award winning crown of thorns because I gripe too much.

That poor little girl killed on that city street had no chance, but she tried to be happy and make the best of her world. She latched on to a crusty old drunk who will be found one day dead in his camp or under a tree somewhere, or slumped over on a curb with people driving by and maybe over him, just like her. Strays.

God help the strays. I'm one. If you think you aren't one, if you think you're better because you got yourself some fancy roof over your head, a huffy attitude, a self written up ticket to heaven, and no problems, just wait. Just wait for it. They'll be a disaster, natural or personal. You'll have your hard times. If you turn to the bottle or drugs of any kind, think about Richard out there, and that little girl smashed on the road. Think about them now.

We're all strays. Not one of us is of much importance and the comparitive difference in our relative importance to this universe is laughably zero. If one person has some self-inflated high faluting job and fancy car, good for that person, man. Have yourself a high ride. But, in terms of space and time, that doesn't mean shit.

And the least you can do, the least all of us can do, is leave the likes of poor Richard and that little lost black tux girl alone, to live as they can, to enjoy what they can. Forget them, if you can't be of service. Don't be dodging to hit them on the road, you fucking assholes. Get over yourself. You don't have to kill strays to feel like somebody. That's lame.

Tip a glass, if you're inclined, tonight to a little black tux kitty, dead along the road, horribly mangled, run over and over and over again.

She was somebody, I tell you. She was really something else.

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