Secrets of the Cat_ Its Lore, Legend, and Lives - Barbara Holland [74]
This is only the second cat show of my life, and all I remember of the first one is that I took my impulsive little sister and she spent three weeks’ salary on a rather self-centered Persian kitten named Mokey, leaving me with the impression that they were dangerous events to attend, and of dubious purpose. Watching hunting dogs at field trials or horses racing, horses cutting cattle, or horses in the Handy Hunter Over Fences or the Knockdown and Out, it’s nice to see what animals can do. They seem to like it too, and why not? It’s satisfying to do things well, whether or not they appreciate the competitive point of view and the ribbons afterward. But cats are shown only for their looks, and how their looks conform to standards inexplicable to the cat or even the uninitiated human. The catliness of them is not at issue; they might as well be framed and hung on the wall.
Here I am, though. Stepping warily. Prepared to sneer.
The program says the exhibitors will be happy to explain and discuss their cats with me, but the program is wrong. Even people with signs saying “Kittens for Sale” are laconic and suspicious and go on laying out a round of solitaire. Maybe they were up too late last night, or got up too early to polish fur and backcomb tails. They barely chat among themselves, and no one greets another with cries of recognition; this is not a social occasion. They sit, blocking the view, in front of their cages, each of which has a sign saying “I’m Friendly But My Owner Bites,” or “Touch Not the Cat,” or “Don’t Touch Me Even if I Ask,” or “Your Kind Affection Could Result in Infection.” Some cages are fronted with plastic wrap. I feel a bit leprous, my hands aswarm with invisible poisons.
Most of the cats are sensibly asleep.
One of the cages in the first row contains a patterned dollhouse rug on the floor, an elaborate standing lamp, and a four-poster bed with chintz bolsters and matching ruffled coverlet on which a Persian kitten is asleep. It’s a pretty kitten in one of those pale Persian designs I can’t keep straight, Cameo maybe, and doesn’t seem at all affronted by life in a dollhouse. Other cages are fitted with curtains for withdrawing behind, or triangular ledges in the corners for lolling on, and one cat has retired into a drawstring bag and left only an ear showing. Ribbons, I suppose from earlier shows, hang across the wire like medals on a military chest: Second Best in Division, Best in Class, Fifth Best Kitten.
Many people have invested in pipe-cleaner tarantulas to hang from the ceilings of the cages, and several cats have already hooked them down to chew on.
A number of cats are sleeping in their litter boxes, paws decorously curled under chests.
Later a prize will be awarded for the best-decorated cage. A stand at the end is selling cage decorations.
The stands are doing a brisk business in sacks of scientific cat food, stuffed plush cats, coat conditioners, silvery cat bracelets and pendants and cat-shaped plastic earrings, mountains of pins and T-shirts and bumper stickers and mugs and decals and dish towels saying “I My Cat,” “ … My Burmese,” “ … My Manx,” and so on, carpeted posts and platforms called Custom Cat Houses, kitty candies, collars, books, toys, toys, toys. A genial girl has set up a stand featuring home-grown catnip and toys thereof; already she’s sold out of the pots of growing catnip. I buy a plastic bag of the straight stuff, to be assured later at home that it is indeed the real thing.
An official-looking woman strides by with a blue-point Siamese on her shoulder, an incongruous Siamese of the old-timey, chunky, round-faced type; I try to speak to it, but the woman hurries on.
The standard of manners among the cats is high. No one yowls, no one rips its cage apart, no one seems angry or nervous, and only one of a pair of Burmese kittens is frightened to see me and tries to hide behind his sister. The rest are old-timers. All but the Household