by Sofie Ryan
There was so much going on and so many people around I didn’t know where to focus my attention. I was like the proverbial kid in a candy store.
“I had no idea a cat show was like this,” I said.
“Then this is a good learning experience for you,” Rose said. I was pretty sure I wasn’t imagining the slight reprimand I could hear in her voice. Mr. P. gave me a sympathetic smile.
The commercial booths rimmed the space and the center seemed to be devoted to the cats that were taking part in the show. Since Rose seemed to know where we were going I just followed behind her and Mr. P.
Each cat contestant had its own small section, a kind of staging area to wait and get ready for the judging. And their spaces held more than just a carrier bag. Most of the areas were outfitted with what looked like miniature tents of every color and design you could imagine. There were soft blankets or towels in the bottoms of the tents. They all had mesh windows so their inhabitants could see what was going on around them. Several had music playing and I saw white noise machines set up at three different stations.
All the spaces were personalized, many with photos and ribbons won, I was guessing, at past shows. Some of the cats we passed looked a little apprehensive. Some seemed more relaxed and curious. A few seemed to be ignoring everyone and taking a nap. The people with them were working on their computers, checking their phones, talking to passersby or to their cats. Everyone seemed busy.
I glanced down at Elvis. He was happily looking out the mesh window of the bag. As usual he wanted to see everything around him.
Rose continued to lead the way down the long aisle of tables, walking with a purpose, smiling at everyone. She didn’t seem lost at all and since Mr. P. was content to follow without asking any questions I did the same. But as we passed cat after cat, I began to feel a niggle of worry.
Mr. P. spoke to several people, all of whom smiled and said something back to him. Was there anywhere he went that he didn’t make friends? I wondered, although I already knew the answer.
The level of activity was a little overwhelming. Mr. P. looked over his shoulder at me and slowed his pace so I could catch up.
“I didn’t know it was going to be like this,” I said in a low voice.
He looked up at me, nudging his glasses up his nose. “What did you think it would be like?” he asked. There was genuine curiosity in his voice. He was the least judgmental person I knew.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Just not this.” I looked around. “We don’t have any of the things other people have. Will Elvis be okay?” I felt a bit foolish realizing I didn’t want Elvis to look out of place, as though the other cats might snub him. I pulled a hand back over my hair.
“We have everything we need, my dear,” Mr. P. said.
“All I brought was the litter box, some food and water and a copy of Elvis’s vaccination records.”
He smiled. “That’s all you needed to bring.”
Ahead of us, Rose had stopped in the aisle and turned to look back at us. She wasn’t impatiently tapping her foot, but her body language, arms crossed, chin up—told me she wanted Alfred and me to pick up the pace. We hurried to join her.
“We have a lot to do,” Rose said. “Let’s get Elvis settled.”
The cat murped his agreement from the carrier bag.
I looked around at where we were standing. We were at the end of the row. A large black and purple tent was sitting on the table. A soft purple towel had been folded in the bottom and a similar-colored blanket had been draped over the top. To the right of the carrier was a tray with dishes for water and food. To the left it looked as though some kind of grooming station had been set up. There were several brushes and combs and two more large towels, these a paler shade of purple than the fleece blanket.
“I think we’re in the wrong place,” I said. I could feel Elvis moving restlessly in the carrier slung over my shoulder, impatient to get out.
“No, this is us,” Rose said as she bent down to rummage in her ubiquitous giant tote bag. “One oh four.”
She pointed her elbow at the table and I finally noticed sign number 104: elvis, “the king,” owned by sarah grayson and alfred peterson.
“Where did all this come from?” I asked.
Mr. P. smiled again. “I got us all set up yesterday morning. I thought purple was appropriate, given that it was the King’s favorite color.” He gestured at the carrier. “May I?” he asked.
Before I could answer Elvis gave a loud meow.
I nodded. “Go ahead.”
Mr. P. unzipped the bag and lifted Elvis out. My shoulders involuntarily tensed. Would he try to bolt? Elvis made no effort to jump out of the old man’s arms, but he did crane his neck to look around. He seemed curious but not the slightest bit unsettled. Rose had been right about one thing: Elvis had the right kind of temperament for a cat show, for any large group of people. He was the most sociable cat I had ever seen; although to be fair, I hadn’t actually been around a lot of cats.
I slipped the bag off my shoulder and took a good look at the setup Mr. P. had created. In addition to the eating area and the grooming space, there were several toys next to the cage. There was even an iPod connected to a small speaker that I knew Mr. P. had bought from Teresa Reynard, one of the other pickers we regularly dealt with. I had no doubt that if I checked it, the iPod would show a playlist of the “other” Elvis’s music.
“The litter box can go under the table,” Mr. P. directed. He had created a screened-off area using three-sided poster board. “For Elvis’s privacy,” he explained.
I recognized the artwork on the cardboard—curved lines and shapes that on closer examination were line drawings of cats. Dozens of them.
“Did Avery do this?” I asked.
He nodded.
It seemed as though everyone had been in on getting Elvis ready for the show.
I turned to Rose. “Now that you’ve infiltrated the show, what exactly are you watching out for?”
“Anything that could disrupt things,” she said. “At the shows in New Hampshire, both the sound system and the sprinklers were tampered with and several of the show cages were damaged, so we’ll be watching out for that here.”
“Being participants also means that we’ll have the opportunity to gather information without arousing suspicion,” Mr. P. added.
In other words, they’d be able to get all the behind-the-scenes gossip. Rose, especially, was very good at that kind of thing. She was one of the smartest people I knew, but she wasn’t above letting people think she was a slightly ditsy old lady if it served her purpose.
“Do you need to check in with your clients?” I asked.
Mr. P. smiled. He and Elvis were checking the banners hanging from the rafters overhead. “I’ve already spoken to them. Don’t worry. Everything is going according to plan.”
I hoped that was a good thing. I gestured at Elvis. “So what does His Majesty do next?”
“All the cats, including Elvis, wait until it’s time for their category to be judged.”
I looked around again. “Where does that happen?”
Rose gestured to an area near the long back wall of the room. It was divided into five separate sections by what looked to be moveable wall panels. Each section was open in the front and closed in on the three other sides. An inverted-U of tables held several cages. In the center of the space were two more long tables arranged in a T-shape and covered with bright red tablecloths. A sign suspended from the ceiling in each area indicated which judging section it was: Ring 1, Ring 2, etc. I could see that the sign for Ring 2 also read “Household Pets.” That was probably where Elvis would be judged.
“Okay, so Elvis is in the household pet category,” I said. “How many other categories are there?” It was clear there was a lot more going on than I had anticipated.
“Seven,
” Rose said. “Household pet, of course.” She smiled at Elvis who seemed to smile back at her. “Kitten. Championship. Premiership. Veterans. Miscellaneous. And Provisional.”
“So they all have different criteria?” I asked.
She nodded. “Kitten is pretty obvious. These are cats between four and eight months old. The other designations are a little more complicated. The Championship category, for example, is for unaltered, pedigreed cats over eight months of age.”
I thought of all the different cats I’d seen when we’d come in. “And pedigreed means the cat is a specific breed, not a bit of everything like Elvis. How do they make the distinction?”
Rose tipped her head to one side and studied me. “What do you know about the structure of these shows?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said, feeling my cheeks get warm. I should have done more research.
“This is an AFA-sanctioned competition. American Feline Association.”
I nodded. “I remember you saying that, and I saw their logo on the paperwork I filled out about Elvis.”
Mr. P. had finally set Elvis inside the tent. He was walking around on the fluffy purple towel, sniffing to see if it met with his approval.
“That’s right,” Rose said. “The AFA is an organization that registers cats for show and keeps track of their lineage—their family tree, so to speak. They also keep track of judges and things like the standards for the various recognized breeds. But each show is run independently by its organizers.”
“How many recognized breeds are there?”
“In an AFA show, forty-two.”
I looked down the long aisle of tables. Had we passed anywhere close to that many different cats? “Forty-two?” I’d been expecting Rose to name a number closer to two dozen.
“Forty-two,” she repeated. “Five cages down on the other side, did you notice a stocky gray cat with really thick fur?”
“Yes,” I said. “It reminded me of a teddy bear for some reason.”
“That’s a British shorthair,” Rose said. “There’s also Ragdoll, Maine coon, Siamese, Russian Blue and Abyssinian.” Rose was ticking them off on her fingers. “Bengal, Persian, Scottish fold. Would you like me to list them all?”
“No, thank you,” I said. “I get the picture.”
Elvis seemed to be satisfied with his temporary accommodations. He had stretched out on his side and was washing his face with his right paw. Mr. P. zipped the door closed and joined us.
“Rose was just explaining about the judging categories,” I said. “But what happens during the actual process? What does Elvis do?” I knew Alfred would know.
Mr. P. gestured in the direction of the judging areas Rose had indicated before. “There will be judging happening in several different rings at once,” he said. “Every cat has a number. When we’re called, we’ll take Elvis to a cage in his ring. He doesn’t really have to do anything other than be himself. The judge will take each cat out one at a time, inspect it and decide where it places compared with the other cats.”
“That sounds easy.”
Mr. P. nudged his glasses up his nose. “It is and it isn’t. In Elvis’s category the cats aren’t judged by breed standards because they aren’t purebred. That makes it a little harder to be objective. The judge will be looking at things like the cats’ physical condition, their attractiveness.”
I grinned. “In other words, the cat version of the swimsuit competition.”
Rose gave a soft sigh and shook her head.
Mr. P. simply smiled. “That’s one way to put it. The judge will also be looking for cats with personality and presence.”
“Elvis definitely has personality,” I said. I turned to look at the cat. At that moment his personality would best have been described as laid-back. He was sprawled out on his back, eyes closed.
“What if he doesn’t behave the way he’s supposed to?” I asked.
“He just has to behave like a cat,” Mr. P. said. “Everything will be fine. There’s nothing to worry about.”
Looking around, I could think of lots of things to worry about. I slipped one hand behind my back and crossed my fingers. Just in case.
Chapter 3
By the time the first cats in his category were called almost an hour later, Elvis had had a nap, a snack and a bath, and I had brushed his fur until it gleamed. Mr. P. carried Elvis to the judging ring and settled him in one of the cages.
“Behave,” I whispered.
There were several rows of chairs in front of the judging area, with about three-quarters of the seats filled, but Mr. P. moved to stand at the back of them where we had a better view.
Elvis was sitting up in his cage, looking around with curiosity but no apprehension. When a ginger-colored cat was placed in the cage to his left he looked at the newcomer with interest. The other cat in turn regarded Elvis in the same way. The two cats seemed intrigued, not combative in any way.
I realized I’d been holding my breath. It didn’t matter how well Elvis performed. What mattered was catching the person who had been sabotaging the shows before a cat—or a person—got hurt.
It occurred to me then that Rose had disappeared more than half an hour ago to do what she called some “fact finding” and hadn’t come back. I scanned the area. Off to the left a bearded man holding a beautiful, longhaired white cat seemed to be arguing with a pretty blonde woman. Behind them, a very muscular man with a sleeve of tattoos covering his left arm towered over the crowd. He wore a T-shirt that read Cats Are People Too and was carrying a tiny black and white kitten with deep blue eyes. There were a lot more people moving around now than there had been earlier, which made it harder to spot Rose. Not that she would be easy to find. She was so tiny it was easy to lose sight of her in a crowd.
“Rosie is fine,” Mr. P. said as though he’d read my mind. “She knows what she’s doing.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that was exactly what worried me.
I turned my attention back to Elvis, who was still watching the big cat in the cage next to him, who in turn was giving a last pass to his face with one paw.
“That’s a red cat,” Mr. P. said in a quiet voice. “They are more commonly known as a ginger or marmalade tabby.”
“He’s beautiful,” I whispered.
The judge for Elvis’s category was a man somewhere in his midfifties. He wore a gray tweed jacket with a blue shirt and a gray tie. I found myself wondering if he’d chosen the jacket because the pattern meant it wouldn’t show cat hair. He had a thick head of snowy white hair, dark-framed glasses and a warm smile. I squinted, trying to see the nametag he wore. J. Hanratty, it read. I wondered what the J stood for.
Elvis seemed to be watching the proceedings with interest. When Mr. Hanratty lifted him out of his cage he bobbed his head in seeming acknowledgment and he appeared to be playing to the audience seated in front of us. The judge pointed out the cat’s thick, shiny fur, his green eyes and his easy disposition. Elvis alternated looking at the man and making eye contact with onlookers.
“He’s doing very well,” Mr. P. whispered.
When the judge noted the scar on Elvis’s face and speculated about what might have happened, the cat obligingly cocked his head from one side to the other and meowed with enthusiasm when the man commented that he had a certain rakish charm. Mr. P. and I exchanged smiles and I realized, to my shock, I cared about where Elvis was going to place. I didn’t want him to come dead last. I could imagine how Rose would crow if she knew what I was thinking.
I looked around again. There was still no sign of her.
The judge was returning Elvis to his cage.
“What a charmer,” the woman standing on the other side of Mr. P. said. She was about five foot five, an inch or so shorter than I with olive skin, dark eyes and dark curls that just brushed her shoulders.
He turn
ed to look at her. “Thank you.”
“Oh, is he yours?” she asked.
“Ours.” Mr. P. gestured to me then offered the woman his hand. “I’m Alfred Peterson and this is Sarah Grayson.” He dipped his head in the direction of the cat cages. “And that’s Elvis.”
“Debra Martinez,” the woman said. “He’s going to finish in the top three, you know.”
“That’s nice of you to say so,” I said, “but I don’t think so. This is Elvis’s first show.”
“Well you’d never know it,” Debra said, brushing a clump of cat hair from her burnt orange sweater. “He’s going to do well. He has the ‘it’ factor.”
The “it” factor. I didn’t know how to reply to that. Luckily I didn’t have to.
“What about your cat?” Mr. P. asked.
Debra smiled. “His name is Socrates. He’s a Blue British shorthair.”
One of the purebreds, I realized.
“He’s the current front-runner in the points race, isn’t he?”
She nodded.
Alfred looked at me. “From what I’ve heard, Socrates is the favorite to win in the Championship category.”
Debra’s smile grew wider. “Yes, he is.” She held up one hand, her middle finger crossed over her index finger.
The judge had been consulting his notes, but now he looked up and the audience in front of us grew quiet.
Debra leaned in front of Mr. P. “Just watch,” she said to me, raising her eyebrows. “‘It’ factor.”
To my amazement, she was right. Elvis came in second—the marmalade tabby took first—which meant both cats moved on to the next round.
I collected Elvis. “Good job,” I whispered as I picked him up. He seemed quite pleased with himself, as though he’d understood my words. And who was to say he hadn’t?
Debra was still talking to Mr. P. “Hello, Elvis,” she said when the cat and I joined them.
“Mrrr,” he replied, his whiskers twitching. He ducked his head, which meant you may scratch the top of my head. Debra of course spoke cat and in a moment Elvis was purring happily.
