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THE CATWALK

We've been discussing whether or not to enter little brother in a cat show.
I’ve been to that so-called cat gala myself – without much success at the judge’s table, but I definitely made an impression in other ways.

A bit of charming the audience, a bit of napping here and there – and yes, I did win a prize!
Little brother Jonatan might do even better and rake in some nice rewards, like tasty treats and new toys. Especially since Odin has chewed up most of the ones we had...

So here’s a little throwback to my own show days! 
(From my latest book)

Full of anticipation this Friday, I jumped into the car, ready for the weekend’s challenges. After a reasonably long drive, we arrived at a huge house. We even got our own room. Mom had brought a portable litter box for indoor use of course.

On the table, I noticed a magazine: SHOW CATALOGUE, it said in big letters on the cover. This gave me a slightly uneasy feeling.

But then dinner appeared, fresh shrimp arranged on a paper plate - and the uneasy feeling was forgotten. Only after my stomach was full did the thought strike me: could this be some high-level bribery?

That’s when Mom started rummaging in her bag. She pulled out some tools and tried to reassure me by saying she just needed to tidy up my fur a little.

At 5:00 AM the next day, I was up.

“I’ll probably be the first one at the hotel breakfast,” Mom said, eyes squinting. Luckily, she made sure I got an unusually good breakfast served in the room.

Then she dropped the bomb - without so much as a cough to prepare me.

I was going on the catwalk.

Hundreds of lady cats? – I could probably handle that with one paw (unless they start messing with my fur, of course) – but hundreds of cats?

“Maybe only a couple will show up,” came a hesitant mumble from the trickster in the bed.

But why would I believe that? I’d already seen that blasted cat-alogue on the table. Didn’t Mom think I was paying attention when she flipped through it last night?

It was page after page of cat pictures. All dolled up, they looked ready for any Miss Kitty contest. The centerfold featured a dandy little syrup snip who had clearly never been anywhere near a real mouse.

Perched on top of the backpack, I entered the hall. Mom dangled my travel crate in her hand. The moment I skeptically surveyed the hall, I realized there were far more than “a couple of cats” here. The line into the hall seemed endless, all cats. Everywhere I looked: cats in more or less decorated, gilded cages. At a table marked “Veterinarian,” someone had clearly planned for me to be placed next to another cat who, for now, was still alive.

No way was anyone going to vet-check Jesperpus in front of other cats. I hissed like a furious viper, then loudly thanked everyone for their time, left the table and the vet behind, with Mom in tow on a leash, heading straight for a sign that said “Emergency Exit.”

While Mom desperately tried to explain that we couldn’t leave or enter through there, she negotiated a deal: the vet, at his own risk and expense, could very kindly be allowed to take a quick look at my whiskers, as long as his hands were scrubbed so clean that not a trace of scent from the other furry fashionistas could be detected.

So we tried again. Whether out of respect or fear, I don’t know, but they gave the Tiger a VIP spot, right at the front of the line, alone. This sneaky, grabby vet, quick as a flash, managed to check my mouth, ears, and eyes before I could unleash the TIGER ROAR.

Never before (and never since) have I roared that loud.

As the echo bounced around the hall for the fourth time, my vet card was instantly stamped APPROVED.
Maybe the white-coat, now with fresh trauma on his resume, added a note to my file: “This candidate is equipped with strong, sharp claws, razor-sharp teeth, and a certified tiger roar.”

With a black belt in behavior, I was placed alone along one short wall. The show committee had clearly made an emergency decision. Thank goodness my crate got its own spot, transformed into a wilderness-style den with camo colors.

Once the crate was decorated with my things, it felt like my very own cabin, a cozy spot atop a fluffy sheepskin.

Mom hurried to arrange my favorite blanket and all the things we’d brought. I stretched out on my back, relaxed. You know, a cat show is such a long patience test.

From the sheepskin where I lay, I could see people and cats whizzing past my crate, and woe to any cat who tried to sneak a peek in my direction. If they did, they were in for a life experience they'd never forget in any of their nine cat lives - or maybe even more.

Still, Mom left the crate door slightly ajar. The idea was to let me “air out some grumpy crate energy,” as she put it. Gradually, as I observed this unfamiliar feline world, my blood pressure returned to near normal. Mom served my favorite food, seasoned with some strategic flattery and appeasement. I allowed myself to relax, even drifted off for a little nap.

A couple of times during the day, Mom got permission to bring me to a plastic table surrounded by people. A woman examined me from every angle and jotted down notes. I held my breath, and since I’d been promised treats afterward, I let her. She didn’t even ask to see my tricks like sit, lie down, or give paw. Just studied me carefully and said nothing. I didn’t touch anyone, didn’t even hiss.

Later in the day, I actually slept through most of it, inside my crate. Mom took a solo stroll around the hall to chat with other cat owners.

The point of the trip wasn’t to win prizes anyway. Mom didn’t really believe that would happen. So beforehand, she bought a fancy ribbon to hang on my crate all day. It said “DO NOT TOUCH.”
I was the only one with such a fine ribbon—everyone else had mysterious codes like 1st Prize, 2nd Prize, BIR, and BIM.

At least I wouldn’t leave completely rosetteless, even if Mom had bought it.

But guess what happened while Mom was off gossiping?

My name was called!

JESPERPUS boomed from the speakers under the ceiling, not quite at tiger roar volume, but loud enough that everyone turned to stare at me and my crate.

“JESPERPUS HAS BEEN VOTED THE AUDIENCE FAVORITE,” echoed through the entire hall.

“Holy moly,” as Mom would say.

Something clearly happened while I was napping. Had someone picked me up? Checked my front or rear end? Messed with my fur?

Mom said no to everything. It was plain and simple: the audience had written my name on their voting slips. I was the people’s favorite - the cat most folks in the hall had voted for.

Imagine that: even though three judges picked their so-called winners all day, everyone else chose me.

And I’ve got their admiration on a paper, on a framed certificate I got to take home. With my tail held high, I strutted out of that hall, as proud as the rooster on the neighbor’s farm.
That store-bought ribbon could be stuffed way down deep, and I could proudly admire my real prizes from a cat show.

This story is one of several in our latest book (only in Norwegian), which you can find HERE.