Cat Tales 9
Cat shows are supposed to encourage careful breeding and perfection of form . . . in the cats, that is. I’ve seen firsthand what trouble can happen whe n folks don’t realize it’s the animals they’re meant to be judging.
I have a friend, Mrs. H, whose intuitive anima l husbandry comes in an unpolished, largely uneducated, chubby, lowe r-socioeconomic package of love. Cats are her hobby, her passion, and, some might say, her obsession. She’s mighty good at breeding them, maybe too good for her fellow compe titors. Therein lay the proble m.
A number of years back she was on top of he r game. Not with he r family of nine difficult kids or her abusive husband or the never-e nding bills she struggled to pay on time. In general, her life was no picnic, but her cats . . . ah, perfe ction. They brought her a ton of joy.
Her precious charges took the major prizes at every show in the area. Such was her reputation that whe n she was showing, some contestants just packed up and left before the judging was complete, knowing the y didn’t s tand a chance against her. Certain me mbers of her feline society felt downright humiliated that this woman who looked one step up from a bag lady beat them on a regular basis. It was bad enough that some one like her was allowed into their club, but he r constant wins really rubbe d their noses in it. To the m the cats were symbols of prestige and pride, a whole lot to do with identity rather than heart.
Mrs. H didn’t care for that attitude, but in her typical forgiving way she said, “To each his own.” The world is big enough to let folks like that have their moment, according to her. Pity the uppe r-class membe rs of her club didn’t re turn the favor.
In a fit of jealous pique, some of the m decided that Mrs. H simply wasn’t up to scratch and had to go. But how to get rid of her? They couldn’t just throw he r out for not looking the part, not without ope ning a large can of legal whoop ass. So they conspired to squeeze her out with a series of cold shoulders, make her leave of her own accord.
Seems they didn’ t know Mrs. H very well. See, to her, anyone who doesn’t talk to you is likely feeling down and in need of cheering. No matter how they snubbe d her, she met their petty nastiness with her usual good heart and sunny disposition. She was just happy to be in the club, sharing her love of felines and immersing herself in all that went with loving cats.
So the snarky committee me mbers got toughe r. They changed the rules of showing several times, making it difficult for Mrs. H to come up with the entry fees and afford the new cat box decorations. She juggled her bills a little more, walked places instead of taking the bus, anything to save a few dollars so she could still enjoy her hobby.
Then one show day the snoot brigade got really dirty. We’re talking that-should-be-in-a- litter-box stuff. Mrs. H had been up at dawn to groom her Pe rsian troupe. She always
did this herself, though her arthritic fingers twinged objection. Her son’s friend gave her
a ride to the show venue, her cat boxes filling the back of his sedan. She set up every satin drape and cat cushion with elaborate care, then pette d her ba bies and left them while the judging took place.
She stood outside, excited and nervous, hopping from foot to foot. When the judges left and the contestants rushed back into the animal tent, she beamed at the blue champion-of-show ri bbon on Big Red’s cage and basked in pride for her baby boy, for about five minutes. An angry buzz of voices made her turn. Seve ral committee me mbe rs and judges stood behi nd he r with a larger group of onlooke rs forming around the m. One immaculately dressed, pinch-faced woman wave d papers in Mrs. H’s face.
“Is something wrong?” Mrs. H asked meekly, tugging the reading glasses that hung from a chain around her neck and perching the m on the bri dge of her nose. She read the paper, he r heart jolting:
Disqualified for showing a cat that wasn’t registered by closing date of applications for the show.
“Sorry, but we need your ribbon back,” a blushing judge murmured, pluc king at his white coat. The crow d behind him hushed. Either they agreed or we re shocked, but the hush itself was bad enough for a shy, country-raised woman like Mrs. H. “Big Red is registered,” she stammere d, pressing a trembling hand to her throat. “I know my application was a bit late. I had to raise the entry fee. I explained all that to the woman behind your desk. She didn’t say anything about it being too late."
"That’s just our secretary,” the pinch-faced lady said as she stepped forward to snatch Mrs. H’s ribbon. “She doesn’t make the rules."
"But I made sure Big Red was registered in time for the show today."
"The rules do say that cats must be registered by closing date of applications, not by the time of the show,” the judge murmured, staring at his shoes.
Mrs. H looked from one to the othe r. The judge shrugged thin shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he added, avoiding her pleading stare. Mrs. H’s big blue eyes widened and swam with tears. Then she lifted her chin, packed up he r cats, and went home without another word, neve r realizing the worst was still to come.
About a week later, a letter arrived saying that because she’d broken the rules on the day of the show, some cat society membe rs had move d that he r yearly me mbe rship not be renewe d. That was too great a blow. She fell in a messy heap on her bare woode n steps and howled for half an hour. If she couldn’t show he r cats, she couldn’t fetch as much for her kittens, and without tha t income, she couldn’ t afford to feed all her beloved pe ts, not with her family situation being how it was. That meant she’d have to scale down he r breedi ng prog ram. And that meant selling off some of her much adored breede rs. She’d rathe r gnaw off her own leg.
Mrs. H wasn’t the kind to drop her bundle for long. Though everything looke d grim, she continue d to believe that a new door would open for her. And it did, in a very unlikely place. She got a phone call from Carol, one of the fancy-dressed women she’d thought was part of the snobbish clique. “I hate what they did to you,” the five -foot-nothi ng fashion plate said. “Cat shows should be about our animals, not the people who own the m. But if you trust me, I’ve got an idea how we can fix this.”
Together the y hatched a scheme to show the bigots the error of their ways. At the ve ry least, it gave Mrs. H hope.
When the nex t cat show finally arrived, Carol entere d Big Red under he r name. And won, not surprisingly. Taking the blue first-prize rosette in her hand, she turne d and addressed everyone present in a loud voice, “Aren’t Mrs. H’s cats something?”
The tent fell to awkward silence, but Carol wasn’t finished. She walked over to the second-place winner and smiled, then quickly rattled off the cat’s ancestry, all the way back to one of Mrs. H’s cats. Then she moved on to the third-place holder and did the same.
“All of our wins are connected to Mrs. H,” Carol crowed, wa rming to he r subject. “Without her eye for genetics, the local Persian bloodlines would be nowhe re near as strong. But somewhere along the line, some club members have forgotten that it’s the animal’s bloodlines and pedigrees we’re supposed to be judging, not thei r owners. How is it that the woman who has done so much for us and our cats is no longer welcome in our club?”
Her face reddened with passion for her subject, even as the judges’ paled with humiliation.
Finally she was asked to leave, without he r ribbon. The committee called an emergency meeting, and nothing more was heard from the m for weeks. Then Mrs. H received anothe r letter, this one reinstating her membership and listing all the upcoming show events. She chuckled and rubbe d her double chins. She’d never been one to hold a grudge.
At the next cat show those disgruntled hoitytoities stood around in tight groups, their designer suits floating in clouds of expensive perfume. The Louis Vuitton handbags slung over elegant, gym-toned shoulde rs held Evian water, facial spritzer, and make up kits for ongoing facial repairs during the day.
Mrs. H, in contrast, wore he r favorite cotton smock, handmade by her daughter from fabric Mrs. H had picked out at Bargain Box because she liked its cat pattern. The bodice shimmere d with the gold-coated plastic and sequins of a dozen cat brooches she’d collected over the years. Her oversized vinyl pocketbook was crammed wi th everything imaginable for her cats’ health, safety, and comfort. With her, the cats always came first. Beside her, as immaculate as ever, stood Carol, five feet of protective fury, testament to the adage, It’s not the size of the cat in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the cat, or friend, in this case.
Mrs. H won three ribbons that day, including grand champion. Bette r yet, folks jostled for the chance to orde r her kittens, booking litters for the next year and bumping up her asking price. Every extra dollar widened he r smile and ensured she’d be able to continue paying for her hobby for a long time to come. As far as I can see, everyone won that day. Mrs. H got to keep doing what she does and loves best. The cat lines continue d to improve under her clever eye. She and Carol formed a new true friendship. And a group of snobs learned that having money was no excuse for exclusive, condescending behavior toward thei r fellowman, bringing that cat fight, which should neve r have begun, to a purrrr-fect end.