I squeezed under the bed and opened the A–Z at its index, looking for Troy’s street name. Once I had worked out my route I ran back into the study. My owner had returned the pile of papers to its place on the desk and gone downstairs again. The computer was on so I logged on to Facebook and typed a quick message to Troy:“All systems go! See you tomorrow!”
Then I went into the children’s room to settle down for the night.
I woke up at dawn to the birds’ chorus of:
“I’m here! Are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m still here!”
“So am I!”
I jumped off the pillow and padded down the stairs. The people were all still asleep and there was no fresh food in the bowl, so I wolfed down the few crunchies left over from the previous night, before briefly checking my reflection in the hallway mirror. Not bad for a nonpedigree of traditional moggy appearance, I thought.
I trotted purposefully out of the house, down the hill, and through the station car park. On the platform I glanced at the notice board and was relieved to see that my train was running on time. There were a few commuters standing around, but they all had the same glazed expression on their faces and didn’t even seem to notice each other, let alone me.
When the train arrived I ran down to the last car and as the doors slid open I jumped in, climbing into a crevice between some seats that was intended for luggage. There was a heater blowing warm air behind me so I had to concentrate on not falling asleep—I could not afford to miss my stop.
As we approached my destination, the train slowed to a halt on the tracks and I could hear some of the other passengers tutting. After a couple of moments the driver’s voice crackled through the intercom: “I’d like to apologize to customers for the delay in this service. It has been caused by a signal failure on the line ahead. We’ll be on our way as quickly as possible.”
This prompted even more tutting from the passengers, and my heart started to race. Signal failure was definitely not something I had allowed for in my itinerary. I sat in my luggage crevice, fuming.
How was a cat supposed to build a career when public transport could not be relied upon? Some of us had work to do. Was it really so hard for the train company to do its job properly?
I began composing my e-mail of complaint when suddenly the train jolted into life again. It crawled at barely walking speed for the last hundred yards of the journey, until I finally saw the station signs slide past the window opposite me, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
The doors opened and I darted across the platform and onto the street.
Once out of the station I knew the next part of the journey would be easy. I had memorized my route from the A–Z and, besides, it’s true what they say about cats having an innate sense of direction.
In five minutes I had reached Troy’s road, and immediately I noticed a car with its trunk open, into which a cat basket was being placed. I ran toward the car, and when Troy’s owner went to lock up the house, I put my front paws up on the rear bumper.
“Troy? Is that you?” I whispered.
“Yes,” he replied. “Quick, jump in.”
I leapt in and hid among the coats, shopping bags, and umbrellas people always seem to store in the trunk of their car. A moment later the owner reappeared and slammed the door shut.
The engine started, the car pulled away, and we were off! I crawled out from under the coats and walked to the front of Troy’s cat box.
“Hi, Troy. I’m Nancy. Pleased to meet you.”
I had never seen such a well-groomed feline. He was indeed like a fluffier version of Brambles, except that his long fur had been combed and teased to perfection, and his eyes were implausibly blue. He had competed in shows all his life, I learned, as his owner was a breeder.
“What do you do when you’re not at a show?” I asked.
“Not a lot, really. I go to the groomer’s. I sleep. Facebook’s my savior, really.”
“I know that feeling.”
“And I’ve got an irritable bowel so I have to follow a strict diet. I’ve got a nutrition chart to fill in.”
“Of course,” I said, trying to suppress a smile.
After a while the movement of the car and noise of the engine had us both nodding off. Troy rummaged at the back of his cat box and pulled out a satin eye mask and pair of fluffy earmuffs. As he pulled the mask over his eyes he looked at me apologetically.
“Sorry, I haven’t got a spare.”
“Don’t worry, I’m fine,” I replied, and I curled up on the coats and allowed myself to drift into sleep.
I woke up as soon as the engine was switched off, and I quickly dived under the coats to hide. As Troy’s owner lifted the cat box out and looked in her bag for her paperwork, I jumped down and hid under the car.
So this was Birmingham. From where I was standing, Birmingham appeared to be a huge parking lot. A large building loomed ahead of us, with “NEC” written above the entrance.
As Troy’s owner picked up the cat box and set off toward the building, I followed, sticking close to other cars so as not to draw attention to myself. I slipped through the sliding doors behind a group of people and found myself inside an enormous exhibition hall.
Reader, I had never seen anything like it in my life.
Everywhere I looked there were owners clutching cat boxes, standing in queues waiting to register their pets. I heard a few yowls mixed with the hubbub of human voices, from cats who were either unfamiliar with the show environment or overexcited about what was to come.
Troy’s owner had joined a queue where an usher was shouting:
“Chocolate- and cream-point Birmans over here, please.”
“Good luck!” I called to Troy before setting off to look for my own class.
I was amazed by the variety of cats in the hall. Some of them were downright freaky looking.
There were cats with no fur, who were crouched in their carriers, shivering. There were cats with giant ears, or ears that seemed to have been folded over at the tips, as if a window had been slammed shut on them.
One of the cats I passed had no tail.
“What happened to your tail?” I asked, shocked. “Did you have an accident?”
The cat looked at me with disdain.
“No, of courth I did not have an accthident. I am a Mankth cat. It hath taken yearth of inbreeding to cultivate my tail-lethneth.”
“Oh, okay, sorry,” I replied. I nearly added, “Did it take yearth of inbreeding to cultivate your lithp, too?” but I bit my tongue.
In addition to the lisp I noticed that this cat also had a squint, and I couldn’t help wondering whether the years of inbreeding had been a good thing.
Class 32 was for blue and lilac Persians. Something about the Persians’ wide, flat faces and squashed noses made me want to laugh, they just looked so—stupid.
They all seemed to know each other and were evidently seasoned show cats. As I walked past their carriers I could hear their snuffly breathing, in spite of all the background noise in the hall. They were making snide remarks to each other.
“Who’s done your fur this time? It looks ... different.”
“Have you changed your diet? You’re looking . . . voluptuous.”
I couldn’t resist peering inside their boxes to get a closer look.
“Who are you?” one of them asked dismissively.
“I’m Nancy. I’m entering the moggy class. Just thought I’d have a look around first.”
“Good luck,” one of them said. “I think you’ll need it.”
Eventually I came across the “special fun class”—class number 58. Finally, here were some cats who looked . . . well, like cats. A hodgepodge collection of moggies like you would find on any street.
The class was due to begin shortly and the owners were getting the cats out of their carriers in preparation. I spotted a friendly-looking marmalade tom and hopped up onto the table next to him.
“Hi, I’m Nancy,”
I said.
“I’m Dave.”
“What’s that short for?” I asked, expecting to hear a convoluted show name: Davidius Pipistrelli or something equally whimsical.
“It’s short for Dave.”
“Oh,” I said, sheepishly.
“You haven’t been to one of these before, have you?” he added.
“Is it that obvious?”
He smiled.
“Are you a Grand Master?” I asked.
“Of course not. Only a pedigree can be a Grand Master. My stepcat is a Grand Master. She’s Bengal. I just get dragged around these shows to keep her company.”
“Oh, right,” I replied. “Do you enjoy them?”
“Honestly? Not really. You spend hours in the car, then ages in your carrier waiting for your class. You get prodded and peered at for five minutes, and then it’s back in your car for the journey home. Trust me, it’s not what it’s cracked up to be.”
“Don’t you get a check if you win?”
“No, your owner gets a check. You get a ribbon.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling a little disappointed.
There was an awkward silence as Dave contemplated his surroundings with evident ennui.
Just then a group of people arrived at our area and the mood changed among the owners (although less so among the moggies, most of whom, it seemed, couldn’t care less). I deduced from the air of excitement that this huddle of people must be the judges, and that our class was about to begin.
I sat patiently next to Dave on his table, trying my hardest to look like I was meant to be there. An usher walked past me shouting, “Whose is this cat? Can the owner of this cat please come and find me!” but I pretended not to understand.
When the judges reached our table I let Dave go first, watching with admiration as he allowed them to manipulate his body into certain positions, poke around in his mouth, and pull out his tail. I had to admit it wasn’t the most dignified procedure.
Then it was my turn. I played willing as the judges examined me, but if I’m honest it was a somewhat degrading experience. The judges didn’t once look me in the eye, and the way they moved my body around made me feel like a piece of meat. I could hear them muttering among themselves, “Where has this one come from? I’m not sure she’s even registered to enter.”
“I can hear you, you know,” I meowed at them. “And, for the record, I do have a brain, too.”
My chances of winning were looking slim. It hadn’t occurred to me until now that I might lose on a bureaucratic technicality.
It was a surprisingly fast process, as the judges made their way around the tables and performed the same perfunctory assessment of all the entrants.
I had been expecting some Oscars-style announcement of the winner from a gold envelope, but instead one of the judges, an elderly lady who looked as if she would rather be at home watching Antiques Roadshow, called out, “Number twelve,” and all eyes turned to my table.
For a fleeting moment I thought I had won, but then I heard Dave’s owner scream. He had taken the top spot.
The judge called out the numbers of the runners-up and I realized that I had not ranked.
Dave’s owner rushed forward to collect his ribbon and trophy, and of course her check, and then ran back to our table to attach the huge pink ribbon to Dave’s collar. There was muted applause among the rest of the owners as the show photographer came and took their picture.
Dave cast me a look while this was going on, as if to say “See what I mean?” and, I had to admit, he had a point.
I could tell the show was winding up, as everywhere I looked there were owners clutching trophies, and cats wearing improbably large rosettes. I made my way back to Troy’s class, and as I reached the Persians, I could hear them hissing at each other.
“I think the judges need to get their eyes tested. I can see your cellulite from here,” said one, who was wearing a modest “3rd Place” ribbon.
“Shut it, bitch. You’re just jealous,” replied another, caressing her huge pink winner’s bow.
“Now, now, girls, it’s not the winning that counts, but the taking part,” I called out as I walked past.
I arrived at Troy’s area in time to see him posing for a photo—true to form he had ranked first in his class.
As he climbed back into his cat box I congratulated him on his win.
“Thanks very much. Another one to add to the collection,” he said, although I thought his voice lacked conviction.
It was gone nine p.m. by the time I finally slipped through the cat flap at NHQ , and I felt shattered. After the drive back from Birmingham I had ended up caught in the evening rush hour. My train home from London had been late, and it was packed with irate commuters. I had endured much tutting, not to mention a bruised tail where a bad-tempered man “accidentally” trod on me as I tried to make my way past him to the luggage crevice.
I dragged myself up the hill from the station and, once back at NHQ, went straight to the sofa to wash and reflect on the day’s events. I was in no doubt that being a show cat would not suit me as a career. It seemed to me that the shows existed for the enjoyment of the owners, rather than the cats. Even the winners had seemed to find victory a fairly hollow experience.
Besides, I was a modern cat and I wanted a modern career: one in which success would depend upon my talent, not my looks.
I knew I could do better than this.
CHAPTER 13
Would Like to Meet
Youth is easily deceived because it is quick to hope.
—Aristotle
I was flicking through a celebrity gossip magazine one morning, looking for my favorite feature: “Ugh! How could they leave the house looking like that?”
The magazine’s highlight, this was a photo spread of human celebrities in varying states of wardrobe malfunction.
As was often the case, I had no idea who most of the “celebrities” were. It seemed that many of them had achieved fame without doing much to merit it. A reality show here, a sex tape there—it didn’t take a lot to become a human celebrity, apparently.
I sighed, wondering why the same rules didn’t apply for cats.
Beginning to lose interest, I skimmed through the rest of the magazine, only stopping when I stumbled across an advertising promotion for none other than Kit-e-Licious cat food.
The full-page advert showed the Kit-e-Licious cat on his hind legs, emerging from the sea onto a white sandy beach. He was wearing a pair of tight-fitting, light blue swimming trunks, and his muscles rippled under his glistening fur. The overall look was not unlike Daniel Craig in Casino Royale (apart from the fur, obviously).
On the beach were clusters of sun loungers, on which female cats reclined. Some were wearing sunglasses, which they had tipped forward to give themselves a better view; others were holding cocktails, which had started to spill.
They all stared slack jawed at Mr. Kit-e-Licious, whose amber-green eyes gazed straight into the camera with a look that could only be described as devastatingly attractive.
“Is my body too Kit-e-Licious for you?” ran the tagline across the bottom of the page.
“Absolutely not!” I giggled.
Naturally I then did what any computer-savvy cat with nothing planned for the day would do. I ran upstairs, logged on to the computer, and searched Google for “Kit-e-Licious cat + blue trunks.”
Surely he’s got to be on here somewhere, I figured.
My heart leapt when, less than a second later, over three thousand results flashed up on-screen. Mostly they were links to chat forums where feline fans could post their appreciative, and sometimes rather explicit, comments:
“OMG this cat is SO HOT!!! Purr purr,” wrote one of the more demure contributors.
I typed into the search bar, “Who is Kit-e-Licious cat,” and several thousand more pages appeared.
I scanned the results, but the upshot was, no one knew who he was. This cat’s true identity was a closely guarded secret.
My eyes were drawn to the sidebar of the website, where a stream of advertisements flickered.
The first was an advert for feline Viagra: “For the Alpha male who likes to be up all night.”
The second was an advice helpline for cats: “Antisocial Siamese? Paranoid Persian? Bulimic Burmese? Whatever your pedigree problem—call our confidential helpline now.”
The third was for a feline dating website. “Looking for Mr. Right? Look no further than Datemycat.com” flashed the slogan, over a picture of two cats in a cozy embrace.
I could not resist the impulse to click on the link. What did I have to lose?
The website’s home page popped up on screen, boasting of its success in finding love for its members. I looked through some of the user profiles. A few were house cats looking for online pen friends. Another was a female whose kittens had finally been homed and who was raring to “get her life back.” They seemed to be a pretty normal bunch.
Why not, I thought, and I clicked on the “sign up” tab. “Choose your user name,” the website prompted.
I thought for a few minutes before typing “Molly.”
In the “Interests” category I highlighted “Internet/blogging,” “hunting/fishing,” and “travel/sightseeing.” Then I reread the list and added “politics/current affairs,” thinking it might help to weed out some of the less intelligent users.
I filled in the “About Me” box with two hundred carefully chosen words and clicked “submit.”
The deed was done. My profile would go live on the site the next day.
I leaned back from the keyboard and turned round to see Pip sitting on the landing, evidently watching what I was doing. I hurriedly closed the Datemycat.com page as he said, “What are you up to now?” with a tone of exaggerated weariness.
“Nothing. Besides, it’s none of your business anyway.”
I jumped down from the desk and strolled past him, refusing to meet his gaze.
Sex and the Kitty Page 10
