Dispatch: Are Cat Shows Cruel?
Answer: I didn’t think so.
This is part dispatch, part confession, part mea culpa. (Try not to judge. Read on.)
I purchased tickets for my mother and myself to attend the 41st annual International Cat Association’s cat show because it’s the kind of activity I almost never take part in: light and purposeless in the best way.
And saying that I love cats is an understatement. Without hesitation, I revealed in an NPR interview that my primary social supports are my cats, Sweets (Birman Tabby) and Baby Theo (Bluepoint Ragdoll).
The idea of seeing four hundred or so cats seemed like it was going to be a little slice of heaven.
My thinking went something like this: Cats were bred to be shown. Unlike dogs bred for their usefulness to their masters, cats were propagated solely for appearance. We didn’t even bother to soften their predatory instincts. Their DNA remains relatively unchanged from their days as big cats viciously hunting prey on the savannah. They’re basically beautiful killers.
So why not put them on display? I imagined performing cats, perfectly at ease on some sort of stage being admired and enjoying being idolized the way that cats believe they should be. Just like a dog show but with cats.
Add to this the fact that my own cat—Sweets is descended from show cats. Ahem, his father is the number one Birman tabby in the world. The world.
But Sweets was too shy to be a show cat. I firmly believe he faked it to get out of doing the hard work of being in the public eye.
Cat shows seem like they would be cruel. It’s a terrible idea. Cats don’t like to be awake, let alone on display.
But cat shows have been with us a very long time. They may have started as early as the sixteenth century. The first show on record was the National Competition at the Crystal Palace in London in July 1871. Two hundred thousand Londoners flocked to see the Siamese, Persians, Manx, etc. gathered. It was an aristocratic affair, and the second show, which took place a few months later, encouraged “working men’s cats” to join.
The two events spurred a feline frenzy that spread throughout Europe and across the pond to the U.S.
While researching, I watched a video of the Cat Fanciers’ Association International 2016 All-Breed Kitten Final. The cats seemed fine. No stage, more like a podium on which they’re held aloft, the straightness of their spines and length of their tails and quality of their coats admired.
I should have known cat shows weren’t what they seemed. While watching the All-Breed Kitten Final, Sweets sat beside me. I turned my laptop, so he could see. He looked on in horror, his expression saying, They do that? To cats? Put them in public? On display? Torturing them? Objectifying them? (I kid you not. It was an expression of horror.)
Still, I was excited. I was going to be in a room with my people—all of us unashamed of the cat hairs flecking our clothes, unembarrassed about the amount we spend on lint brushes and cat beds and cat food and cat toys.
My mother and I arrived at the exhibition hall at the Hilton an hour-and-a-half after the doors opened. Those rooms are sort of tucked away. They’re windowless. They’re strange.
As we entered, announcements came from loudspeakers positioned around the room: “Ragdolls 28 and 29 to area 11,” “Bengals starting in area 5.”
In the middle of the hall were the areas curtained off. Folding chairs faced the display podiums. Most of the seats were filled. A sold-out show.
The perimeter of the hall was lined with table after table of extra-large cages (what dog people refer to as “crates”) and cat carriers, most with tiny litter boxes and cat beds inside. In one was the most exquisite Siamese I’ve ever seen: perfect brown mask, fluffy white fur, seal points on the tail and ears.
None of this was necessarily a problem—although PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) would disagree and many of you reading this will vilify me in the comments for even thinking of buying a purebred instead of a rescue. (I get it. I agree. And I still have two purebreds.) The cat show was chock a block with (yes) women who clearly love their cats.
The problem was the cats themselves. Some looked perfectly at home being carried from one show area to another and being exhibited; most, however, did not. Their meows were sometimes mournful, sometimes desperate. It was painful to hear. The sounds alone seemed to confirm that if dog shows seem cruel, cat shows definitely are.
Forty-five minutes after wandering around watching poofy Persians and keepin’-it-real domestic shorthairs handled, displayed, and applauded, we left the hall.
Should we breed and show cats when there are plenty of unwanted ones at shelters across the country? If you put it that way, no.
Should there be kitten mills? Of course not.
Should we maintain the genetic lines of the species’ most exquisite examples? Maybe. Perhaps.
Should breeders also do what they can to support local shelters? Yes.
Should we travel with those cats and compete against other cats for best in show? Only if the cats want to.
But we don’t speak meow.
When I got home, I went to Sweets and apologized for having gone and told him that might have been him there, miserable.
An apology isn’t always enough. I pulled out a toy purchased at one of the booths, a transaction that left me conflicted (should I support these people?)—a yellow wand on the end of which was a dragonfly made from pom-poms and feathers and plastic.
Sweets lost his little kitty mind over it. Those people know cat toys.
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Oh my, guilty! Dave and I also attended an “International Cat Show” in Portland years ago, and we also left feeling…a bit anxious, uncertain. Don’t get me wrong, seeing all those beauties in one room made me high, like being in the presence of gods or spiritual gurus, but the air felt dead, the vibrancy of the kitties, off. We found ourselves enjoying the cat breeder/people watching more than the actual competitions, a somewhat comical Best In Show throw-back but with more snacks and leopard print blouses.
Their meows! The shop where we buy cat food in Thailand has all sorts of small animals in cages (including a few cats); I find imagining their confined lives so painful and avoid zoos for the same reason. That said, I would’ve been tempted by the cat show - at least once.
I have a purebred Siamese who’s been sickly since I got her as a kitten (but she’s adored, spoiled, and still hanging in at 13). Her Siamese-mix step-sister comes from a wild house in rural West Virginia overrun with animals and people; she has her quirks (neither of them is “normal”) but has been healthy and strong her whole life (she’s 12, acts 2).