Full disclosure: I no longer have a cat. My dogs do not like cats—and most other animals—so cat ownership for me is quite a distant memory.
That is why, when a friend shared the pamphlet of a cat carnival in Gurugram, I made the journey wishing to capture some catty frolicking in the sun. Simply as we got in the place, we satisfied a female who had actually brought her ginger cat—called Ginger, obviously—in a transparent knapsack. I asked my friend why she did not bring hers. “The only cat I could show off is no more,” she responded, discussing the cat she had actually lost over a year ago while totally marking down the 2 others she had at home. Nonetheless, the ground had many cats on leashes and providers who were plainly having fun, so we assured ourselves that the next time we pertained to a cat carnival, we would have at least one with us.
Cats and owners rested on the ground with their coffees and kibble, because order. In the middle of all that, a dog, certainly the initial homeowner of the ground that had actually seen this significant feline intrusion, snuck in between people asking to be cuddled and most likely assured that he would ultimately get his area back. Sufficiently consoled by head massages and stomach rubs, he went off to oversleep the sunniest spot of yard, possibly hoping that by the time he got up, the cat problem would have ended.
In general, a happy photo.
Absolutely nothing might have prepared me for what lay inside the real place of the “carnival”. The poorly lit hall dotted with ‘Whiskas’ and ‘Farmina’ (animal item business) boards appeared like a mass of human heads in the beginning. It took a little time to spot the rows of grumpy cats in tiny cages with tinier litter trays. A milling crowd was petting the animals through the wires—only one rare owner asked her animal not to be touched as she was “feeling anxious”. Most were Persian cats, and there were also a handful of Bengal cats. It was an event for “pedigree breeds” and, as we soon realised, for their breeders.
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Many of the cats were handed over to strangers for cuddling sessions, sometimes even when they were not willing. As my friend reached out and cradled one, the owner informed us that she had 22 cats at home, including kittens, for sale. I was unsure whether the sulk on the cat’s face was the natural turn of the mouth that makes Persians look perpetually sad or whether she would much rather be home doing her own thing. For many others, the answer was clear. One cat, a diligent practitioner of the “if it fits, it sits” credo, sat in the litter tray, trying its best to squeeze into the middle of the cage to escape unsolicited cuddling.
Stalls of cat grooming products, cat foods and groomers had taken up the remaining space in the packed hall. “Are you a cat owner,” is how most conversations began.
When announcements for the championship shows began, their disgruntled four-legged participants were carried to the stage. I winced thinking of how my childhood cat would react if she were unceremoniously dangled by the belly. The occasion was a competition for Bengal cats.
The emcee talked about how it was bred in the 1970s, in the US, from a leopard cat and a domestic cat to ensure a beautiful but docile specimen of feline grace. As the emcee cracked a joke—“It is not so named because a ‘Bangali’ had bred it”— I started to wonder what would have happened if the offspring of the cross turned out to be a domestic cat with the aggression of a leopard cat. One of the men who had handed us a card for the breeder said there were numerous such Bengal cats for sale. As my friend murmured under his breath, “We do not pay for pets”, interest overcame me, and I asked just how much a Bengal cat expenses.
“Depends on the papers you want. Anything between Rs 1.3 lakh to Rs 1.6 lakh,” he responded. It was an advantage that there was a hand rails right in front of me.
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(Modified by Zoya Bhatti)