| 2 april 2001 This week's review ! Grodie!
| it ain't westminster Wilma, Friend X, and I had a most unusual Saturday morning. We attended a cat show. We picked up the free paper last week, and there was a little blurb about this cat show, which happened to be very close to where I live. What a nice way to start the morning! Wilma could make some new friends, we might learn a few helpful new tricks, and would be otherwise surrounded by other friendly and gifted Wilma types. How can I stress to you that this totally did not happen? Our first tip-off that this wasn't an Amazing Feline Festival occurred at the door. As we paid our admission, Wilma waited patiently on her leash. A couple of people looked at us, astonished, and asked how I got my cat to do that. Um...aren't all these cats on leashes? This is like a dog show, right? The lady tried to stifle her laughter. Friend X nudged me through the door before I could kick her. Okay, so we're inside the convention hall. We see a lot of cages. Dozens of cages, but very few cats warming up for their big showing, or their big "poise, carriage, pep and zing" run down the main stage. Where was the main stage? Where were all these gifted and talented best of breeds? Why were all of the competitors asleep? Were we in the right room? Another person approached us, wondering how I got Wilma to be so well-behaved. This was getting weird. Finally, we visited one of the vendor booths, where I asked the nice lady what gives. Didn't lots of people bring their cats to a cat show? Don't all best of breeds walk on a leash? Why are all of these nice kitties in crinoline-and-lace-draped cages? She explained to me that a cat show was simply about two things--health and appearance. Pretty, healthy cats win ribbons. The rest of the time, they sit in their cages while their owners (most of them in heavily-embroidered, rhinestone-encrusted, beaded sweatshirts) spoon-feed them five-dollar-a-can squishy food and do baby talk. Yarg. I had to tell Wilma (twice) to stop laughing at the other cats. They couldn't help it. Here's the real kicker, though. Several people approached us with very nice things to say about Miss Wilma. Most people assumed that she was in the show, but they did so sort of cock-eyed. They would slyly approach, and then ask, Is this a household pet? Well, duh. Isn't yours? When I told them yes , a couple of them mentioned that she could enter the household pet (read: second-class) competition, and that she was very pretty (for a little mongrel I found at the dump). Friend X and I finally had to leave. Not only was this not the entertainment-packed event we had anticipated, but no one gets all snob on Wilma. And, if they did have a talent competition, she would mop the floor with these silk-collared yarn wads. She's regular cabaret act! Household pet indeed. Hmph. |
