Love What I (Mostly) Do
If anybody asks, as everybody does, I am a writer.
I've dabbled with plays, poetry, published a
couple of stories, written some reviews, edited other people's work and taught -- but mostly, I'm a novelist, and a very lucky one in that when my first one was finished I
was in the right place at the right time (young/NYC/late 80s, with a runaway
manuscript that had five sex scenes, not a single one, DARE YOU TO PROVE OTHERWISE, gratuitous).
Velocity made me a ridiculous amount of money while
my second novel had already been bought as an idea.
Because of this, I fell, and for too long remained, under the
illusion that writing would always sustain me.
HA!
My third novel, Hollywood Savage, published by an
imprint of Simon & Schuster called Atria Books was given zero (in math this is called: 0) publicity.
They rushed it out without
even the author photo I had provided, or any blurbs from other authors, well-known, who would have weighed on my side. Perhaps SS decided I would make a better
tax deduction; regardless, it was very hard to watch something I'd spent several (a lot of) years on come and go without a trace (when you read that, whhhisper).
I'm working on my fourth (novel), advance-free and
editor-less, with an agentress who wants to 'get more into editing,' and who was maybe
five when my first book came out. I don't believe she's read my 'oeuvre' (three books, a few short stories, see above, blah blah blahhhh).
All of the above is the preamble to the how and why I became
an animal caretaker.
Primarily, it is something I started to generate cash flow, ANY cash flow -- if not much. But it is all cash, and boy does it flow.
In and right back out again -- as it should! That's why it's called currency.
I've been stupid rich, and I've been astonishingly poor, and
I've discovered that I'm not materialistic, and I don't need more money than it
takes for me to live on – which I've learned to do with not much, unless you
don't count on tremendous generosity from your friends --- and I do. Oh boy, do I!
In fact, part of that help began when a woman I met at my
first reading for LitQuake, and who became the most constant member of my
fiction workshop, asked if I would consider staying in their back storage
unit/living studio to take care of their menagerie (one dog and three cats, plus
the house and garden), so that she and her husband could take a 3-month
fellowship he'd landed in Marseilles, France.
The storage unit is filled mostly with books, has a
wonderfully high bed, high ceilings, great insulation and a skylight, while the
garden is lush and wild, with plum and apple and peach trees, along with a lot
of fennel which attracts Monarch and Swallowtail butterflies. I couldn't say yes fast enough, especially
when I saw that my own kitty, Zelly, a serious hunter, could leap out the
window and into the mysterious natural world whenever she wanted, and then back
in again. I felt I'd won the lottery.
After they returned and graciously allowed me to stay on, I
looked for more animal work and slowly began acquiring clients, two of whom
book me at the beginning of every year, and who've kept me afloat when other jobs
occasionally dried up.
While the work is not exactly high-pay, I love it – not
least because it comes so easily to me, as I've loved animals with a freakish
intensity ever since I was a little girl, as I think most children do (just
look at picture books!)
Innocence has such a soft spot for other innocence, and
children are particularly vulnerable, as are nearly all the animals in our
world.
Turns out I'm very good at what I do because I have never not fallen in
love with other people's animals.
It's fun getting to know each little sentient being for its own distinct
personality, with as many quirks and differing habits as any person I
know.
The exception, I mean vis a vis humans, is that, given enough time and attention, all
of these little guys will start to shower me with affection in their own way –
whether it's wanting to be in (literal) touch at all times, or deciding they
need to sleep on my chest at three a.m.
Some of them follow me from room to room, others are more, Can you open
the effing door already? (As you can imagine,
the latter tend to be cats. It gives
credence to a bumpersticker I once saw:
'Dogs have people; cats have staff').
But then, cats are magical creatures – the Egyptians knew
what they were talking about. Why
shouldn't they be worshipped? You can
learn everything you need to know about visualization-becoming-reality from watching a cat jump
seven times its height without so much as a running start. It's just sitting on the ground and
next? It's waaay up there.
Like Jules Pfeiffer's cartoon women, I dance to the
ever-present grace in every single cat, their ability to drape themselves
anywhere (and then sleep!) to twist themselves while free falling in space so
as to land on their flexible feet, then simply walk away unscathed (and, more
importantly to them, I believe, unembarrassed!)
I dance to the way they pretend you don't matter, but manage
to keep you in their sight-lines at all times, regardless of how well they hide
themselves (it's called 'cat space' and if that cat does not want to be found,
well then: good luck!)
A quote I love: 'If there is a cat in the house, there is no
need for sculpture.'
When I'm writing I often ask
my small charges to help me channel the genie, and so often they will curl up
around me (on the arm of a couch, on the floor at my feet, nearby on a
windowsill) and fall into the trance-like sleep I so envy, creating an
atmosphere of deep serenity into which my mind can drop.
The only thing I dislike about animal care is that I have to
leave Zelly at home by herself, where she basically just waits for me. She's an Abyssinian, a breed known for their
wild beauty as well as their unusual loyalty.
They bond with a single being and you, lucky lucky you, become their
world.
I got Zelly after the cat I had adopted from a neighbor who
was never home -- a regal creature I named Napoleon -- was hit by some asshole
driving very fast down a single-block street.
Napoleon tried to come home and made it only halfway across the street. I bent over him and howled. The grief was so intense I knew the only
thing that would help would be adopting another cat, because believe me, there
is no shortage of beings who need out of a cage and into your heart.
I went with my then-boyfriend, Craig, a tall man, to the
Humane Society shelter (ie, Heartbreak Hotel) and we started touring
cages.
Craig happened to be standing with his back to Zelly and she
reached out one long, striped paw and tapped him on the shoulder.
What're you gonna do when you get tapped? We took her into the 'Get Acquainted' room
and I tried to put her on my lap. No
go. Her eyes wildly dilated, she wanted
to PLAY. So we dangled string and threw
doodads and she dashed around caught everything we threw; Craig turned to me
and said, Wow, she's a real party animal.
Thus, the name: Zelda Fitzgerald McCloy, aka Zelly, aka Zel-Zel.
She was curious, insanely playful, and if you threw
something for her, she would snatch it out of invisibility and bring it back (no, not like a dog, panting and leaving it at
your feet, but much more casually), jumping on the bed and carelessly dropping
it near your hand. Her cool was
stunning, and very funny. But when she
needed affection, she let me know. She
would get up on my chest and knead me, then curl up next to me and sling one
paw over my collarbone.
We often fell
asleep holding paws.
As I said, she's an avid hunter, born to it and mostly
nocturnal, though I don't love it when she wakes me up in bed at 3 am with a
mama rat in her mouth – whose terrified eyes drive me to disentangle said animal
from her grasp till I'm holding it by the tail, then feinting out the back door
through which Zelly flies, then quickly letting mama out through the front door
(go go go!)
[*how do I know she's a mama?
*I just do]
*I just do]
Unfortunately she also lives with two small dogs who delight
in persecuting her, snarling and barking, till she leaps right over the fence. Sometimes I come home and realize she's just
been napping inside, waiting for me, and somewhere along the line, I had the
realization that my cat was essentially living for me.
Aside from attending to her own cat business (oh, where to take those
seventeen naps?), she is mostly waiting for me to come home, wanting attention,
wanting to play, and later, if I'm very lucky, jumping in bed when I wake up
panicked by everything at five am to meow in my face then curl up in the space
between arm and heart to purr us both back to sleep.
Understanding that this breathing, living, loving, very
chatty being was and is singularly devoted to me struck me with a sudden
force. The extent of that devotion left
me breathless, and from then on I knew: she
wasn't my cat, I was her girl.
I think most people take their animals' utter devotion for
granted, and I want to shake them and ask, Don't you understand what an honor
that is?
So here's the thing:
while I identify myself as a writer, a label that goes a lot deeper than
words (no pun etc), who's to say what's the more important work? Writing books that one hopes will outlast one's
own lifetime, and might perhaps achieve what Jean Cocteau always claimed was
the main reason for writing – to 'utterly overwhelm a single soul'?
Or is it the care and love that flows between myself and
these animals I've been entrusted with, including my own?
I made a deal once with a dog I met at Duke. Her name was Dirk and she was easily the
smartest animal I've ever met (she should have been, considering how many
classes she attended with me alone!) She
was one of my roommates during her owner's last semester at the university and
I asked for custody, but he sneered and said, You don't even know where you're
going to live next year!
Well, that was true.
But apparently, Dirk did. Because
one day, when I wasn't even home, my sister, with whom I shared an off-campus
house along with a litany of others, heard a wild scratching on the screen
door, opened it, and in out of the rain came Dirk. She
jumped on the couch, stretched out, and fell asleep. She'd remembered my promise, and she
obviously had my number. For the rest of
the time I was there, Dirk lived with me.
I remember coming back from a vacation once the previous year, and running
into her where the bus let people off at West Campus. This beautiful dog who had the height and color but not the long hair of an
Irish setter, and the lungs of a greyhound, grabbed my wrist in her incredibly
sharp teeth and leapt about me with a joy I've only ever associated with
dolphins. She held my wrist so gently,
she didn't even leave a mark.
When we had to part, I entrusted her with my soul. She was the fiercest guard I could think of,
and when I die, I pray she will be the first creature I see. And when I look
around, I hope that I see every other animal I ever loved, freed, helped, took
care of, or mourned for – including every stupid animal sacrifice, every animal
hurt, wounded, or poached – every animal in the whole wide world -- because that. That is my idea of heaven.
This essay is a shout out to the gorgeous variety of
creatures who have their own deep intelligence, and everything to teach us
about being at ease in your own skin, trusting your instincts, and loving without
limit.
WORD COUNT: 2,022
BIO: Kristin McCloy (me) is a thrice-published author
(Velocity; Some Girls, and Hollywood Savage, all available as e-books and on
Audible as well), working and whiling and working away on her fourth whilst living in Oakland with the cat who
owns me, Zelly, and with the family who took me in. I am on facebook; check out my lame author page.
I also writes a blog which
you can find on kristinmccloy.blogspot.com, called Writer Reading/Writer
Writing.
(YES I DID mean writes -- what? You got a problem with that?)
(Picture gracious smile here): Do visit, won't you?
1[This MIGHT get published in the Dare to Be Fabulous anthology, but it's up against people like Ingrid Newkirk and others who crusade for animals full time and whose voice is so desperately needed, so just in CASE it doesn't make the cut, here 'tis anyway for all y'all (the plural of y'all) to read!]
No comments:
Post a Comment