Nancy J. Bailey - Furry Murder 01 - My Best Cat

by Nancy J. Bailey

  Larry hung the ribbons on the Siamese cages, awarding Best, then Second Best of color, Best Champion, and finally the Best and Second Best of breed without fanfare. Tracy promptly got up and walked to the ring. She turned the number down on top of each Siamese cage, the signal that the judge was finished with that group.

  Seeming satisfied, the Siamese crowd went up for their cats and a bunch of chairs were emptied. I sat down in one of them. Andrew sat beside me. His legs were so long that his knees bumped against the chair ahead of him.

  “That red cat kicked your cat’s ass in Philadephia last weekend,” he said.

  “So I hear.”

  Larry turned to the Somali group and surveyed them briefly as he wiped his hands. He tossed away the paper towel and went to Kenya’s cage. Kenya’s back arched upward as Larry reached for him. The judge swung him out of the cage and set him on the table.

  I couldn’t help smiling. Kenya stood there on the table and marched in place, his front paws opening and closing enthusiastically.

  “He should work in a bakery,” Andrew said.

  “No doubt!” I laughed.

  Larry took a toy, feathers on a stick, and shook it in the air above Kenya’s head. Kenya stood up on his hind legs and instantly had it, ripping it from Larry’s grasp and straddling it. The crowd tittered with appreciation.

  Larry smiled and put Kenya back in his cage. He hung the black Best of Color ribbon on the door and turned to the disinfectant bottle.

  “That wasn’t very much time,” Andrew said. “Don’t you feel slighted?”

  I shrugged. I wasn’t the judge.

  Out came the big red cat, who sat with a plop on the table. Larry brought the toy out and Tigger gave it a few perfunctory whacks.

  “Well if they’re judging on spirit, your cat wins!” Andrew quipped.

  I said nothing. Tigger was probably five pounds heavier than Kenya. A lot of judges liked the large size. But I thought he was just fat.

  Back Tigger went into the cage. Larry wiped the table and turned to the second red cat.

  “This one is not in the running,” Andrew said. “Look at the color of it. It’s like a fawn, almost. Way too pale.”

  Inwardly I agreed with him. The cat stood on the table, a ghost of the color that Tigger had been. Blonde. Tigger was a nice rich copper color. The blonde kitty’s tail swished happily over its back. It certainly had the pleasant Somali demeanor. It jumped gladly for the feather toy which Larry jiggled enticingly through the air. Larry stepped back and gave the cat an appraising look, then picked it up with one hand and artfully slid it back into its cage. He shut the door and turned to spritz the table again.

  “That no-color cat was in Philly too. There were a few other Somalis there too. It was quite a large class,” Andrew said.

  “Really? How many?”

  “I don’t know. I have the catalog with me. You can look at it.”

  “How did Hotsy do in Philly?” I asked politely.

  “Oh she was great! She pulled down five out of the six finals and really put on a show. And that was just getting her winner’s ribbons! She wasn’t even a champion yet!”

  “Ah.”

  Larry judged the rest of the Somalis, giving each one about the same amount of time. He then picked up the breed ribbons and turned back to the cages. I saw Tracy Pringle stop her scribbling and lift one eyebrow as she watched with interest.

  “Here we go. Let’s hope you get Best Champion,” Andrew said.

  I held my breath. Larry hung the Best Champion ribbon on Kenya’s cage, and then, to my astonishment, also awarded him the coveted brown ribbon – Best of Breed. The orange Second Best of Breed went to Tigger.

  “Oh my word, what has this world come to!” Andrew said.

  I gasped. I jumped up and nearly knocked my chair over. Roxanne burst forward and went to the cage. She pulled Kenya out. “Thank you!” she said to Larry as she left the ring. She looked elated. I stood there watching as she was swallowed by the crowd, carrying my cat.

  “Price of fame,” Andrew said.

  I turned to answer him, and caught a glimpse of someone familiar. It was Wesley, standing in the back row watching me, with a sad smile on his face.

  “Excuse me,” I said to Andrew, and walked away.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tracy Pringle

  Friday Morning

  Larry gave Baloo Best of Breed over a couple of other grand champions. I was so excited! I thought we had it made until I saw what he did in the Somali ring. What was he thinking, putting a champion over a Grand? I could not see him using both an Abyssinian and a Somali in an Allbreed final. That just didn’t happen. And he was obviously really impressed with that Somali.

  I knew the owner, Roxanne Moore. She was always flirting with my husband. She was too stupid to realize that Jack would never want anything to do with her. She wasn’t his type. She was cheap and slutty-looking, and talked like an idiot. And she was taller than him. Jack was attracted to intelligent women who were cute and petite.

  Still, it didn’t hurt to be aware of potential hazards. I had decided to keep my eye on Roxanne Moore.

  I did like that ring she wore, the cat with the emerald eyes. I told Jack he could have one of those made for me for my birthday.

  Roxanne’s Somalis were mediocre at best. I was surprised that Larry had sold out to the slut look, but that was a judge for you. Anywhere the wind blows.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Wesley Taft

  Friday Afternoon

  “I owe you an apology,” I said.

  Cecilia’s head swiveled around. She was sitting by her cage, knitting what looked like a scarf, out of fluffy purple yarn. She put the knitting into a flowery bag at her feet and politely turned to face me.

  “I don’t know what I was thinking, coming over here and trying to influence you against someone who is obviously your friend. In fact, I don’t know what she is to you. She could be your sister or cousin. That was really tactless of me. I’m sorry.”

  She shook her head. “It’s okay. I am not related to Roxanne.”

  “It’s just that, well, Max and I saw you hugging your boy there.” I nodded toward her Somali who stirred happily in his cage at my glance. He was so like Rusty! I couldn’t look at him for long.

  “His name is Kenya,” she said helpfully.

  “Yes, well, we saw you with him and we both just felt really bad. We didn’t want the same thing to happen to you, which happened to us.”

  “I see. I understand. It’s okay.”

  It was clear that she didn’t want me to go on. So, I stopped. I stood there, somewhat helplessly, not knowing what else to say. Finally, I added, “We meant no harm.”

  Kenya squalled, an unusually loud call for a cat of his breed. She turned to him and smiled. The moment she looked at him, he bowed his head and slammed it enthusiastically against the cage door, arching his back up in a thrill of blatant affection.

  I laughed. “He is a beautiful Somali.”

  “Thank you. He’s starting to notice girls and today he started spraying!”

  “Uh oh. That’s always fun.”

  “I know it! He lives loose in my house. I couldn’t bear to ever cage him!”

  “I can see why. He’s very sweet.”

  “He’s like this all the time! Just purr, purr, purr and the feet going…” She dropped the needles to use her hands in kneading motions, imitating the cat.

  “Maybe he learned it from you. You know, with the knitting and all. The body still but the hands always moving. It must take deep concentration to keep his paws kneading like that.”

  She smiled. Her whole demeanor had changed now. She leaned toward me, enthused, the knitting kind of crumpled in her lap. The ball of yarn had tumbled unnoticed to the floor, trailing a string behind it, and now it rested by her foot. The proverbial cat toy.

  “He has done that with his feet since a baby!” she enthused. “I thought he might grow out of it sometime but he
never did. It’s so funny.”

  “I’ve seen lots of cats knead like that, but I must say, I’ve never seen one do it quite as incessantly as he does.”

  “I just hope he will grand soon so we can neuter him.”

  “I’m sure life will be easier for both of you when that happens!”

  “Roxanne said I could have him neutered if he started spraying. His appetite is good though. Gracious! He eats like a horse! Why, he’s practically omnivorous!” She was laughing now, but then looked up and noticed my face, and said, “Oh, I am sorry.”

  The mention of Roxanne’s name had sobered me, and then her sudden empathy was my undoing. I felt myself bursting into tears, and I turned away and fled.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Andrew Gilbert

  Friday Afternoon

  Wesley Taft rushed past me sniffling like a schoolboy. I looked down the aisle and saw the Mouth Breather watching him.

  This I had to look into!

  I got up from my chair and went over to her. “Now I should have warned you, when we gay men try to convert to normalcy, we take rejection very hard!”

  She shook her head. “That’s not funny.”

  “He must be a Cancer. They’re notorious crybabies. What the hell was that all about, anyway?”

  “Do you know anything about that situation?”

  I did know, more than I wanted to. I had chosen not to get involved.

  “I can see you do. I can see by the look on your face,” she said. “Well, Roxanne told me they starved their cat and he was sick all the time.”

  I just looked at her.

  “Is it true?”

  “That cat was doing really well at the shows. Do you think that would have been possible if he was underweight or sick?”

  She hesitated. “No.”

  “And as I said, the cat was doing very well.”

  “I see. So, where is the cat?”

  I shrugged.

  “Is he dead?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well does she still have him? I’ve never seen him at her house.”

  “I don’t believe he is there.”

  “Well, he didn’t just disappear, did he? Did he get away from her and she was just afraid to tell them?”

  I shook my head.

  “Did someone steal him?”

  I smirked. “Yeah. Roxanne did!”

  I turned around to walk away.

  “Andrew!”

  It was the first time I had ever heard her say my name. She said it forcefully and I stopped.

  “She screwed those people over, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, she did. Very badly. And the scary thing is, I hear there’s a gene for moral character!”

  “Well, why didn’t you do something?”

  “What?”

  She just stared at me. She couldn’t be serious. At least her mouth was shut. I felt my shoulders shrinking upwards against my neck. “What could I do?”

  “Andrew, when you see something like that happening, and you don’t step in, you are just as guilty as the perpetrator.”

  “Oh, come on! I might cheat on my income taxes, but I would never steal someone’s kitty!”

  She scowled and looked down. I turned and ambled down the aisle, past a row of dozing Burmese and over to Dennis’s photo booth. He was leaning over his tripod, looking through his lens and adjusting the settings, blowing gently into the eyepiece.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “You wouldn’t believe the conversation I just had.”

  “It bothers me, you taking that ring.” Dennis said. “I know you stole it.”

  “I’ll put it back, okay?”

  “You’d better.”

  “I did it just to tease her. I’ll put it back.”

  “She will go ballistic on you.”

  I shrugged. “So what if she does? It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  He just shook his head. He was looking at me with – I don’t know – an expression of condescension. Disgust, even.

  “What?” I snapped. I couldn’t help feeling defensive.

  “Nothing.” He went on adjusting his camera, acting as if I should just leave him alone. But I could never leave well enough alone.

  “Well excuse me! I’m sorry if I insulted your girlfriend.”

  He edged away from me, turning his broad shoulder so that his back was completely toward me. I watched the muscles ripple beneath his tight cotton shirt. He looked so good in white cotton. I paused for a minute, but when he continued to ignore me, I said, “Okay, well then, I’ll just be going now.”

  He gave me no reaction.

  “Maybe I’ll send Roxanne over for a little whoopee behind the curtain.”

  He turned suddenly and glared at me. “You know what? If that’s what you think of me, then you should just take a walk!”

  I took a step back. “Oh, you mean it’s over? Because of Roxanne? Please!”

  “No, not because of your aunt. Because of you. And your lack of respect!”

  “Because I don’t respect Auntie Climax?” I was laughing now.

  “No. You don’t respect me.” He glared at me. He was serious.

  “Dennis…” I reached for him. But he folded his arms and looked away.

  “I’m sorry. It’s over.”

  “Well, what about the cats?”

  “We’ll discuss that later. Please just leave me alone now.”

  I smiled a little, tipping my head in the way I knew he found irresistible. “Den… Come on.”

  “I mean it!” he snapped. “Take a walk!”

  It was perhaps unfortunate timing that at that moment, my Aunt came breezing up holding Kenya. “Denny? You have time to do him?”

  Dennis’s smile was too big as he said, “For you, anything. Let me get this backdrop ready.”

  He raised one hand and wiggled the fingers arrogantly in my face. “Toodles!” He turned and led Roxanne to the pile of fabric at the side of his booth. Standing strategically with his back to me, he beckoned to her and pointed to the pile, saying, “See, I think for him, green is a good choice…”

  I watched her lean over, close to him, far closer than she needed to be. I felt an unadulterated surge of hatred. She was never satisfied. I felt my fists tightening, tightening, and I looked down and noticed I was still holding the feather toy. It looked foolish and trivial in my hand. I stood there, clenching it, glaring at the hefty behind of my tacky and provocative aunt.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ginny Robards

  Faraway Places

  Everyone seemed drowsy in the show hall, as the sugar buzz from lunch wore off and the judging droned on. The crackle of excitement had dulled to a frail whine. The cats snoozed. I had my crossword puzzle, and Liesl dozed in her chair with one arm propped up on the grooming cart. Her chin was cradled in her hand and she snored gently. My baby.

  Liesl was thirty five years old and from what I could tell, she’d never had a boyfriend. When she was a child, not long after Ed left us, I’d had an affair with my cousin’s best friend. He was a nice man, Lance was his name. He had a gentle nature that I appreciated. But he was allergic to cats. Whenever he came over, his face would swell up like a balloon. And so it had to end.

  At that time we’d had only one Persian, Muffy. I’d let Liesl name her. We had gotten her from a pet store when Ed left. I thought Liesl could use a friend.

  If Muffy had been able to maintain a coat, she would have been a black and orange tortoiseshell. But she was the worst quality Persian. She had a long protruding snout and small drippy eyes. Her coat grew in shoddy patches, like a ragged carpet, despite my doses of cod liver oil. She had chronic ringworm and we had to shave what hair she did have. She sneezed constantly. It was before I realized that one should never buy cats or dogs from a pet store; before all the nasty puppy and kitten mills that supplied these facilities became public knowledge.

  Liesl had immediately bonded to Muffy. She used to dress her u
p in doll clothes and roll her around in a baby stroller. Perhaps it was due to her poor health, but Muffy tolerated everything. She would lie on her back in the stroller with her forepaws over the edge of the blanket exactly as Liesl had placed them. In her pink lace bonnet and with that black tear-stained face, she looked like some kind of ghoul. But she purred constantly.

  Muffy was the typical Kitten Mill kitten – she had health problems her whole short life. When she was only four years old, she lost weight and suddenly became prone to fainting spells. She would be sitting on the window sill, and suddenly fall over and crash to the floor. Tests revealed that she had cardiomyopathy. Liesl was heartbroken.

  And so was I. Muffy’s lungs were filling with fluid, so we decided not to let her suffer. I told Liesl I would take her to the vet myself, but my brave girl said, “No, I will go with you. She is my cat.”

  Our vet gestured to me and we left Liesl alone in the exam room, so she could say goodbye to Muffy in private.

  “Next time you get a kitten,” he had said gently. “Be sure to find a reputable breeder. Don’t go to a pet store.”

  Liesl held Muffy while she was injected, and Muffy died in her arms. Liesl stood like a rock and did not shed one tear.

  Lance had told me to call if I ever “got rid of the cat.” It crossed my mind, but I never did. I decided what was past should stay there.

  A month or so later, Liesl and I saw an ad in the paper for a local cat show and decided to attend.

  That was where we found Cattindow’s K. Purr, our first real show cat. He was a black Persian. And that was how we had started in this whole crazy, wonderful business. And now, here sat Liesel, snoozing next to K. Purr’s great-great-great granddaughter. I liked to think that it was all done in Muffy’s honor.

  Roxanne passed by, her skirt brushing against me. She was with the Pringle boy again – I couldn’t remember his name. He was sort of ordinary. He and his wife seemed nice enough but they certainly wanted to play politics.

  Young people often wanted to clerk and make friends with the judges, thinking it would get them ahead. In time, if they didn’t get discouraged and quit as many did, they would learn that the way to success was simply to show a great cat. And that meant great in all ways – not only in conformation, but temperament. There was no mistaking greatness when it was present in an animal. The cat oozed it. It was a thing of beauty.