2:59 a.m. - Monday, Jan. 13, 2003
Ms Leslie Goes to the Cats
If ever I turned up missing, there would be a lot of places to look for me. I might be in a card room at one of the casinos, or watching movies non-stop at the big new multi-screen cinema the just built here. It�s got enough snack bars, coffee stands and cutesy cafes that a girl could live in there if she could get her checks forwarded. And speaking of food.. something I so rarely think about� I could be at Sho-Ya�s restaurant, lost in an endless sushi fantasy, or eating fresh hot snow crab at the all you can eat buffet at the Isle of Capri. I guess, basically, I could be anywhere, except one place�.. the International Cat-Fanciers� big cat show and hairball conference.

Well, now that�s on the list too. I went there yesterday with some of my cat-loving friends who just for now prefer not to be named in my diary. I guess I don�t blame them. I would hang my head in shame too.

No, I�m really just kidding. Somewhere along the line I gained an undeserved reputation as a cat-hater. That�s simply not true. I think cats, in small doses, are fine. It�s litter boxes, shredded furniture, and disgusting, oily �I own this corner of the house� urine stains I hate. The cats themselves are fine� except for those unexpected times when they quietly walk across the bed and wake you from a sound sleep with their warm backward kisses. Backward kisses.. you know, when they kiss your face with that little pink mouth that�s just under their tails? I really, really hate that.

It was obvious yesterday though that as soon as I paid my five dollars, got my little red kitty stamp on the back of my hand and stepped into the grand ballroom of the casino near my house, I was in the distinct minority. Inside, it was chaos. There were six or eight tables, surrounded by cages full of cats. Fat cats, skinny cats, cats with big ears and no hair and cats, I swear this is true: with lots of fur and no ears at all. Cats with long pointy faces and my favorites, cats that looked like they had had an unfortunate encounter with a plaster wall. At the tables were very officious looking men and women, with assistants. They were taking the cats out of the cages one by one and, as near as I could tell, abusing them. They would sit these creatures on the table in front of them and rub their fur all the wrong way. Then they would take them by the head and stare into their eyes. Suddenly, they�d pick up the cat, stretch it out and sight down its tail, like looking through a spyglass. It was all very disconcerting to a beginner, but no one seemed to mind all this manhandling, so I did my best to appear nonchalant about it all too.

People were milling about and hanging in groups around these tables while others rushed back and forth carrying their cats. I was surprised to see a number of middle-aged men who clearly had lost their minds, walking with huge fat cats n their arms just like princess babies and snuzzling them under their chins, talking to them as they walked. There were long skinny women with long skinny hairless cats and truly fat women with truly fat big hairy cats. As I joined the milling group, I noticed that someone had thoughtfully put out bowls of those goldfish crackers you see in the grocery store. Cheese flavored, kind of dry, but thoughtful nonetheless. Just to be polite and to, you know.. fit in, I took a handful and was just standing there munching, kind of wishing they would put out some Cokes or juice or something to help wash down the crackers when I noticed at one of the other tables that the judge was tempting his appointed cat with one of these very same crackers. The spectators at my own table were oddly silent and seemed to be staring at me instead of the cat so, out of consideration, I decided to move away. Clearly they were not tolerant of transsexuals.

In the main ballroom were rows of cathouses, and no� I�m not going to sink to the obvious comparison. These cathouses were basically wire cages, all identical, but each cage was fitted out with the most amazing array of silk and brocade. The sides and tops were draped with opulent colors and textures. One was done in leopardskin, one in pink silk, with hearts for cushions inside. The overall effect was that of a vast room full of tiny oriental tents in every color, decorated with feathers, cords and tassels, and each tent occupied by a pampered and lounging animal that clearly had not touched the ground in months.. maybe never. Nearby the so-called owners were sitting on hard chairs. Some were eating stale boxed lunches, while others just sat reading or gossiping with their neighbors.

One of the most impressive things to me was how serious everyone was. I would have thought that this many cat people in one place would an occasion for unmitigated joy for them all. Not so. These people were dead serious. This was like the Miss America of cats, I guess. Maybe there was money changing hands, I don�t know.

We didn�t stay very long, actually. We left soon after �K� found a cute cat that was for sale and �S� announced loudly and in no uncertain terms that no fucking CAT in the world was worth three hundred dollars and if �K� paid three hundred dollars for a fucking CAT, she was crazy.

After that, I think we all felt a little conspicuous.

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