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Ooooo—welcome back to weird word time, a recurring feature in which I take entirely too much pleasure in knowing things that are almost never useful at dinner parties, but might impress the right kind of nerd.
I think many of us harbor a quiet, slightly smug pride in knowing the proper names for certain groupings—especially the delightfully obscure ones. For instance, I love being able to casually drop phrases like a murder of crows, a band of coyotes, a stand of flamingos, or a parliament of owls into conversation, as if this knowledge simply floated into my brain uninvited. (It did not. I worked for this.)
Over time, I became fairly confident that I had a solid grasp on most of the unusual collective nouns roaming the English language. Animals? Covered. Birds? Absolutely. Livestock, fish, and things with antlers? Bring it on.
And yet—yesterday—I discovered a glaring omission. A shock, really. An oversight so basic it borders on embarrassing. I had never once wondered whether there was a proper name for a group of ordinary cats.
You know the scenario. Your precious Tabby invites over the neighbor’s Persian. The Siamese from down the street shows up unannounced. Maybe a Maine Coon wanders in like he owns the place. Suddenly, you have multiple cats occupying the same space, all pretending they don’t care about one another while absolutely caring. Friends, that group is not just “a bunch of cats.”
It is a clowder.
Yes. A clowder of cats.
Say it out loud. Let it roll around your mouth a bit. Clow-der. It sounds exactly like what cats would form—slightly chaotic, vaguely judgmental, and just on the edge of mischief. I love it an unreasonable amount.
So the next time you’re ankle-deep in felines, staring into a room full of twitching tails and unblinking stares, take comfort in knowing you’re not overwhelmed—you’re merely hosting a clowder.