Aphrodite Giant (International Cat Show)

She’s more of a dog person, but it was her idea

to come to the cat show. Neither of us

had ever been to one. Her favorites

are the huge Maine coons, which are basically dogs anyways.

They frighten me a little, but so does she.

I pet her hairand listen to her purr,

knowing she could take a swipe at me at any time

as we walk up and down the convention center

between the rows of tables covered with cages and cat carriers,

some simple and some insanely elaborate,

plastered with glamor shots and awards ribbons 

and here and there a homemade sign announcing 

KITTENS 4 SALE

It’s been nine months since my friend’s cat disappeared.

The other one wasted away and a few months later

she had to be put down. Poor little bag of bones,

I loved that kitty. She hasn’t gotten another cat.

I fantasize about showing up to her house

with a new kitten in tow., the way a friend of mine did

years ago when my cat died. I hadn’t thought I was ready

but there she was, with this little orange ball of fluff

peering out of her coat.

Why do we keep getting attached to things

we know are going to leave us?

I am a scratching post, a litter box. 

My new companion and I stroll past the booths

with the pet photographer, the pet psychic, the vendors

selling feathers on sticks and felt bats. We laugh

at the ladies wrapped in head to toe leopard print,

at the girls wearing cat ears, at the guy in the shiny track suit

covered copper tigers. She picks out a carrot

stuffed with catnip

for my furry boy, so he won’t be too upset

that I cheated on him.

We watch the judges bestow the ratings,

baffled at why some cats are deemed more worthy

than others, the rules seem arbitrary and arcane.

I’m not going to grow attached to this person,

I tell myself. I am a cat.

Fickle, selfish, difficult to please.

And why not? Look at all these Ragdolls and Selkirk Rexes,

all these California Spangles and Aphrodite Giants.

They don’t need anyone, yet they are still lavished

with affection, groomed to within an inch of their lives,

worshipped like whiskered deities. 

Of course, who can tell if they’re happy?  They all look

slightly peeved. They all look like cats.

I glance over at her. 

I’m not going to fall for you, I think, and she smiles

and without meaning to or wanting to,

against my feline nature,

without giving it a single thought

I smile back.