Meanwhile at the Cat Show

A Maine Coon, an Aby, and a Balinese walk into a judging ring.

Nothing about a cat show’s judging ring is as calm as it looks.

The Maine Coon never really fit inside his kennel in the judging ring. The humans put him in, and they shut the door behind him, so there he was, with his back to the room and his nose in the corner like always. It’s not that was ashamed of his tail; he wasn’t. But how was he supposed to squeeze around a space that’s only slightly bigger than he is, so he could turn around? Sure, he could do it. He’s a cat, even if he is four times as large as the Balinese on the end. But he just had a blowout, and he didn’t want to get himself dirty. These kennels were always so unsanitary. Honestly, did the theater crew ever wash them? He could smell years of unneutered Bengal balls. And good heavens, was that a stain? How could a cat be expected to put his best paw forward with this odor clinging to him?

If only he could go back to his tent. He hated the side circuit; the National shows had appropriately sized kennels for larger-boned breeds like himself. He liked his tent, and the flannel they draped over it; it smelled like the blankie he loved to curl up with next to his person, whose bizarre hobby of taking him to these auditions had disrupted their cozy lives together. He didn’t see the point of allowing strangers to hold him and stretch out his limbs like bagpipes. The auditions were so silly, all this fuss, all the combing, all the fondling, and then he was never asked to perform his sonnet. It was all about his body, how tiresome. He wasn’t embarrassed of his body; he wouldn’t have minded going completely nude once in a while, especially in the summer. He wondered if he could convince his humans to shave his belly next June?

And what the actual hell was that pounding from next door? Is that the Abyssinian? No, sir, I most certainly do not want to “go”. You “go”. You go on out of this ring if you are so inclined. Please, I outweigh you by 15 pounds. If you unzipped my fur, you could fit two whole Abyssinians inside my skin and still have room left over. Sir, desist that damned smacking, you’re rocking the entire row, and I’m not sure who put these kennels together or if they were assembled to standards.

You ruffian! You did not just try to deal me a blow through the bars of my kennel! I can’t help it if my floof is spilling over onto your side. As you can see, I have pulled my limbs inside my designated space as far as I possibly can. Yes, I AM doing a loaf, and I’ll thank you not to interfere! Why is it always cats of your sort who ruin everything with your common breeding and appalling manners?

The Abyssinian didn’t mean to start shit with the Maine Coon. He was just such a large target, with the light behind him outlining his silhouette against the barrier between the kennels. He did know what manners were, but he just found it difficult to focus on any one thing long enough to remember them. The Maine Coon’s slurs about his breeding wounded him. His humans always went on about his Aunt Fanny, something about her bloodlines, and how it was all very important. Yawn. Where’s the feather on the stick? Why is no one playing with me? Why am I always in a holding cell before I get my turn to slaughter the feather? One feather, whatever. How about you bring the whole turkey in here, and we’ll see what happens to it. He couldn’t help smacking the divider. He’d heard the humans say he had poor impulse control, but there was nothing else to do! I hate waiting. So bored, bor-ing. That placid little Balinese next door thinks she’s so smooth. Wait, I’ll bet I can get her to respond, take that! Smack!

The Balinese was at the perfect center of her kennel, visualizing herself floating on a wide, calm mill pond. She was in her I am standing but also sitting position, her mane spilling perfectly over her breast in elegant waves. Ugh, the boys! Why is it always an Abyssinian who ruins it for everyone? She cast her eye back to the Maine Coon, who had completely forgotten himself as he repeatedly shoved a paw the size of a human catcher’s mitt into the kennel. He looked lovely; she could easily imagine getting along with him. She had visions of the two of them cuddling by the fire in the winter months, him with his long body sprawling to protect her from the unwanted attentions of human offspring, canine curiosity, and these vile shows. She pulled herself up as tall as she could with her perfect posture and stepped half an inch away from the kennels on her other side. She did her special trick, her azure-eyed mind meld thing with the judge, half-closing her eyes. Not a full slow blink, no one would accuse her of cheating. But a crystal clear I am completely unaffiliated with them. I am the calm, I am the waves, slowly lapping on a distant shore, I am unruffled by these storms of unneutered male aggression. She found her calm center and folded herself down, one leg at a time. She intended to win. That big blue ribbon was already hers.

She finally caught the judge’s eye, and she could see it was true. The judge went from kennel to kennel, tagging each with the order in which they had finished. She knew smug wasn’t a good look, so she cast her eye back at the boys, and imagined the cool waves of her serenity would remind them that it’s not just a boys’ club after all.

The Maine Coon felt his cage being tagged, and he froze, mid-swing, his paw cocked. Oh, dear. He caught the eye of the Balinese a few kennels down, and he knew the gleam of triumph. She must have gotten the part. Well, good for her. These roles usually went to the boys, but she had done very well for herself. He hoped it led to a long career in show business; she looked the type to go with the flow and enjoy that kind of thing. He just wanted to go back to his stroller and his flannel blankie, sit by the fire, and forget about the pollution of the entire Abyssinian population.