Here’s what I know about cats: if you die alone in your house alongside a cat, it will eat you in order to survive. Probably won’t even wait for your body to cool. Shit, after devouring every last bite of you, I wouldn’t be surprised to see your furry friend use its paws to flip open your laptop, hack your Facebook page, and type disparaging comments to everyone you’ve ever met. You know why? Because cats are assholes. They are the trolls of the domesticated animal kingdom.
In other words, I guess I’m more of a “dog guy.”
Which is precisely why I felt compelled to step outside my comfort zone in order to understand the hubbub surrounding cats. And what better way to achieve this than by attending an official Cat Show sponsored by the Cat Fancier’s Association, or “Cat-tacular” as absolutely no one calls it.
Walking into The Los Colores Cat Club Country Fair Spectacular located in the Palm Springs, California Leisure Center, I wasn’t really sure what to expect. Kitties in costumes? People dressed like Andrew Lloyd Webbers version of Cats? An officially sanctioned congregation of filthy hoarders? Eh. Perhaps. If I were a betting man, I’d realistically place all my money on meeting a bunch of nice folks with frizzy hair who went bananas for Garfield cartoons without any sense of hipster irony.
Two observations immediately struck me after paying the entrance fee and stepping into the showroom. First, “Yup. This auditorium reeks of cat piss, all right.” And, second, my clothes were waaaaaaaaaaay under-bedazzled for the day’s festivities. (I knew I should have packed at least one faux-rhinestone covered sweatshirt.)
Luckily for me, there were a few merch tables scattered around the joint offering -- you guessed it -- a shit load of cat items. I rifled through a pile of t-shirts featuring slogans like “No outfit is complete without cat hair!” and “My cat walks all over me” (with matching paw prints stamped all over the front and back.) For some odd reason, though, I couldn’t find a single garment with the honest tagline, “Between the hours of 9 P.M. and 6 A.M., my cat is a fucking nocturnal sociopath!” Maybe they sold out already? Who knows? After a few minutes of “window-shopping,” someone at the table asked me if I needed any help and, naturally, I played it cool by replying, “Got any stuffed mice with squeakers?” You bet your sweet ass they did.
As I shuffled into the crowd, I couldn’t help but notice that there were far more cats in attendance than people. The 3:1 ratio made me very uncomfortable. If these cats discovered a way to get loose, I gave it about 20 minutes before I would be on my knees in shackles taking commands from my new Cat Overlord. Fortunately, 50% of the nearly identical looking cats were asleep; a comforting sight.
To paint the scene a bit more, the gymnasium was arranged as follows: in the center of the room, seven (or so) rows of tables were covered in cat crates and fold-out display boards each labeled with a number and name. And I’m not talking names like Mr. Winkles or Mittens. No. I saw everything from Calamity Jane to Sweat Pea to Duncan MacLeod (owned by, I can only imagine, die-hard Highlander fans.) The meows were deafening. Apparently cats are driven bonkers by the scent of other felines in close captivity. Turns out, I am too! The cats and I have finally found something we share in common. A bridge has been formed.
Nestled around these tables were six different judging stations elaborately decorated with Country Fair items. Imagine 4th of July Parade-style floats, only with far more cat puns.
Here’s how judging worked (written by a guy with a very dim understanding of how judges actually determined scores that day): first, cats were carefully removed from their cages. If the cat sank its fangs firmly into the judge’s hand, point deducted. Next, the cats were lovingly stroked on the top of the head. If the cat completely lost its shit, point deducted. From here, the cats were lifted high in the air for all to see, ala Simba at the beginning of The Lion King. If the cat crapped, pissed, hissed, or scratched, point deducted. Finally, the cats were placed back on the table and tickled in the face with a feather. If the cat ran out into the parking lot, stole the judge’s car, drove it to the nearest quarry, and pushed the vehicle into the ditch causing an enormous explosion, point deducted.
All these points were then added up and a winner, per category, was announced over the loud speaker. For those who actually care to know who dominated the competition, uh, well, lets just say it was the fluffy one.
Time passed. One hour became two and two quickly became four. Crowds thinned as cats were awarded their official ribbons (which one 4th place runner-up cat promptly shred to bits. Talk about poor sportsmanship.) Clearly my time at the Cat Show had come to a close.
But what was the takeaway here? After spending quality time with these cats, do I still perceive them as hair-covered Devils? Truth is, on that day, a handful of kittens snuck their way into my heart, which I hope they have the decency to not eat while I’m still alive and kicking. Overall, though, I still think of myself as a dog person. But there was a sense of community at this event that was hard to ignore. These cat owners and competitors were completely themselves in all their “open-toed, leopard-print shirt wearing” glory. And isn’t that the point to life? To just be happy and true to ourselves? In many ways, we should all aspire to live life by the code of the Cat Fancier.
As I drove back to Los Angeles, I sensed I was emerging into the world with a newfound appreciation of cats. And by “appreciation of cats,” I mean a t-shirt featuring a gigantic white tabby cat swatting at planes from the top of the Empire State Building. Hard to admit, but maybe I am a cat guy after all. Or maybe I bought that one because I instinctively knew that, like King Kong, the cat falls from the skyscraper in the end. Only time will tell.
