Show Business
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday July 11, 2015

It was raining cats and dogs. My windscreen wipers whined a irksome tune. As I passed the Showgrounds, I spotted a sandwich board. Feline Fanciers Show, it read. Today. 9-4pm

“Come on,” I said to my 5-year-old as we drove through the gates. “We’ve got an hour to kill.”

The cat pavilion was a vast tin shed that smelled strongly of toast and vaguely of tuna. The entrance was fortified with sacks of cat litter, stacked like sandbags along one wall, in case of dog invasion. A small table offered an array of cat show essentials: three knitted berets, four pairs of fingerless gloves and a half a dozen jars of pickled onions.

Inside the hall, a hundred cats were corralled in cages.

“Look mum!” said my daughter excitedly. “They’ve got shiny curtains!” She pointed to the rows of metal crates bespangled with silky drapes and plush padding.

In the first cage, a poufy Persian sprawled across a pink satin pillow. Her tail twitched against a backdrop of matching curtains, the hems studded with rhinestones. A dainty bowl of salmon-shaped biscuits sat alongside her silver tray of kitty litter. She narrowed her eyes at me and yawned. I felt inferior.

“Cage curtains are important for privacy,” said a woman at my elbow. I noticed her windcheater featured a tiger’s head embroidered with gold sequins. She was holding a leopard-print bag filled with knitting. I picked her as a cat lover.

“Cats don’t like to see their competition,” she said knowingly. “And they hate being shown in winter.”

It was as cold as concrete in the cavernous shed.

“If you’re smart,” she w hispered so no-one else could hear, “you match your curtains to the colour of your cat’s eyes. Really sets ‘em off.”

I looked around and saw several cages padded in vivid shades of turquoise and emerald. I admired a Burmese with golden eyes who was trying to tear down his harlequin-striped curtains.

“Are you showing a cat today?” I asked my new friend.

“No,” she laughed. “My show days are over. My Mr Fluff was crowned Grand Premier in 1989. In those days, all I was allowed to put in his cage was a white towel, litter and water. Now they get a boudoir!”

A cat the size of a small lion stared stonily at us from a cage plumped with red velvet.

“I only have four cats now,” she continued. “Marika has diabetes. I have to inject her with insulin twice a day. Lord Louie is a Burmese cross. I named him after Mountbatten. Kismet Hardy is 19 now – he sleeps on top of the microwave.”

She was interrupted by a vile stench. My daughter screwed up her face. “Ewwww” she wailed. “What’s that?”

“Someone needs their bottom changed,” my companion broadcast in a loud voice. The pedigree lion in the red velvet cage stared smugly at me. The stink from his litter tray was making my eyes water.

We moved smartly to the next aisle where a judge was examining a giant puffball on legs.

“Good chin, gorgeous wedge,” announced the judge, but all I could see was snub of muzzle buried in a mound of fur.

“Lovely coat, nice expression,” the judge declared before adding: “This handsome fellow deserves first prize – he showed himself off the minute his toes hit the table.”

A steward in a white coat bundled the winning cat under one arm. Depositing him into the upholstered crate beside me, the steward reached into the neighbouring cage for a new contestant. A hefty grey cat with sky-blue eyes was in no mood to please. He peeled back his rosy lips to reveal a shark-toothed grin and attacked the steward’s arm, snarling and hissing. The steward leapt backwards, slamming the lid. “Bloody Russians,” he muttered. “Ruthless, aren’t they,” I whispered back – just so he knew he had an ally.

He gave me a quizzical look and marched away. Behind me, a Siamese kitten began yowling in a voice as gravelly as a pack-a-day smoker’s.

It was time to leave. My youngster had chosen her favourite cat: a petite Lilac Ragdoll called Bruno. “Took me four hours to dry him,” said his owner as she fluffed his lacy curtains. “He kept attacking the dryer. I got to bed at 2am. By then, there were nine other cats sleeping on my bed!” She giggled self-consciously, before addressing Bruno with a frown: “And who decided to cough during judging, hey? Good time to get a furball, Mister.”

We said goodbye to Bruno and his strange neighbour, a hairless Sphynx called Neil. The rain had stopped and a weak shaft of sun shone through the shed door.

“Can we get a toy?” begged my daughter, pointing to a collection of crocheted cat rattles for 50-cents each.

“Not today, honey,” I said. “But I could be talked into buying some pickled onions.”