The local competition that’s like ‘toddler’s and tiaras’ – but for cats

Leigh-Anne Hunter attended the nail-biting finals of the Southern Africa Cat Council’s Cat of the Year contest, where the coats are sleek and the teeth are sharp. And that’s just the judges

Saturday August 8 dawned just like any other morning for Pearl Squeaky. The Burmese woke up, devoured her premium mince and went to claw the curtains. Her owner, Penny Steyn, on the other hand, was sipping a gin and tonic for breakfast.

"I had that jittery, new-bride feeling, and I'm not that kind of person," she says, peering at me over her square glasses. She sits at the helm of an accounting firm: she doesn't do wishy-washy. "Maybe, subconsciously, I knew."

By midnight, Pearl Squeaky would be crowned South Africa's top cat. Earlier that day she was just one of 81 pampered kitties on show in a hall in Randpark, Joburg, to compete whisker-to-whisker for the ultimate in feline accolades.

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It's taken Steyn 26 years to bring home the title. "You play all the games and you can win those, but winning Cat of the Year is the game that matters. It's like winning Wimbledon," she says in the lounge of her house on a Midrand smallholding. Instead of paintings, cat-show rosettes decorate the walls.

A breeder, Steyn lives with 70 cats (as we speak, a kitten almost splashes into my cat-motif mug), and her husband of 27 years.

"He's had to learn to live with the cats. I love my animals more than I love my family and I tell them that. The cats come first. They don't have credit cards. They can't just go to the shop and buy a hamburger."

There is something almost cat-like about Steyn's own confidence. "I'll say my age," she growls. "I don't care. I'm 53." She doesn't wear a smudge of makeup: Squeaky is the one in the limelight.

"People who don't make the effort don't win," says Steyn. "That's what it's all about. The will to win. You have to be ready to walk onto that court and pick up your racquet." She admires the trophy on her mantel. Squeaky gives it a cursory sniff.

CATTINESS COMES OUT BACK STAGE

Saturday, August 8. Judging for Cat of the Year 2015 starts in 10 minutes. Charmaine Danziger is in a flat spin. "This light is so bad," she says, doing last-minute touch-ups to Yum-Yum, one of her Persians. "I was up until 1am. A cat like this takes two hours to bath."

Yum-Yum's grooming kit overflows with combs, makeup, eye drops ... and rescue remedy. For you or your cats? "Both." Danziger is tearful. "My nerves are shattered. This means a lot to me. Everyone dreams of winning Cat of the Year. These are our cats, our hard work."

Contenders are the country's most eligible felines, who have dazzled their way through regional cat shows to land here on all four paws. "You're competing against the cream of the crop," says one owner. "It's cut-throat. Only one cat can win."

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Cattiness is everywhere. Michelle Bolton, here with her Siamese, says: "Some people might even question" - she lowers her voice - "breeding."

"You overhear things like 'How did that cat make it here?'" says Sher Singh. His cat is a pavement special named Mazzouri. She was found, cold and clinging to life, under a flooded bridge. "When we got her, she was unkempt." Now she's a beauty queen sporting a tiara. "Hopefully this will encourage more people to adopt rescue cats," says Singh.

His hands get clammy every time Mazzouri is about to strut the catwalk.

"The anticipation is torture," says another owner, at the dreaded Holding Table where a few cats and their humans are waiting to be ushered to the judging panel.

Deep breath. Yum-Yum is up. Danziger whispers a few final words: "I'm proud of you. You're looking great."

CATS, JUDGES AND OWNERS CAN BE A DANGEROUS MIX

Ngiao Crawleytrained for nine years to earn her seat on the judges' bench. She kneads the Persian from top to tail. "With practice, you can tell if a cat is in balance purely by touch," she says. She has a trick to avoid complaints from cross and disappointed owners: "I write my comments in Spanish."

Yum-Yum endures having her face stretched and tail pulled, with aplomb: she's been a showgirl since she was a kitten. Other cats are not so amenable. "We've had cats savage people," says judge Ingrid de Wet. Once, a cat exploded off the judging table. "Everyone tried to catch him," says De Wet. He was an import with a hefty price tag. "He took out seven people who had to be hospitalised."

Cats get edgy, she says. "A cat is not a show animal but we've turned it into one. A show hall is noisy and they're being handled by strangers."

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Sometimes the owners are the biggest problem. "We live in a competitive society. People get rattled, and cats pick up on our stress."

To add to all this, it's mating season. "The boys are sniffing hormones." One owner gasps and grabs her cat out of the way of a libidinous Abyssinian. There'll be no shagging without breedingpermits.

After individual judging comes the Line-Up, the feline equivalent of the bikini pose. One woman feigns a smile while trying to hold 5kg of wriggling, clawing fur. "Oh I'll smile all right. I'll smile big."

The five judges frown. "Look at their faces," De Wet whispers. "Their brains are like supercomputers. And this is only the first 10 cats."

Cats are graded according to how well they fit their breed's gold standard. Exhaustive guidelines cover everything from a cat's tail ("tapering and whip-like" for the Siamese), to its size (no bigger than a man-bag for a Devon Rex). Some desperate owners have sent their cats for plastic surgery to better their chances.

Charmaine Turner of ChaCha cattery, one of many breeders here to exhibit their progeny, says showing is one way she gauges whether her chromosomal masterpieces are setting the bar. "We don't just manufacture cats. We breed cats to better the breed."

OWNING A SHOW CAT TAKES REAL COMMITMENT

The show hall is a genetic lucky-packet. Long-haired. Short-haired. Large-boned and petite. And that's just the humans.

"Sometimes it all seems a bit arbitrary," says an owner. "I mean, who decides these standards? But you still follow the rules." He plumps up his cat with treats before a show. "A Sphynx has to have a round tummy." And the more wrinkles it has, the more beauty points it earns.

Jacketless, Sphynx Veni Vidi Vici shivers on a judging table. He resembles a Martian rat, with surprisingly large, human-like paws. "He won Kitten of the Year last year," says his owner, Wilma Hyman. "I don't do this for the glory. I just want my cat to do well."

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Once, a judge spotted a speck in his ear. "He didn't make it to the finals. I couldn't believe I missed that." De Wet huffs. "I once placed a cat stone last because his paws were dirty."

Maintenance is year-round. "I have to watch his diet. Only lean proteins," says Bolton of her Siamese, a breed that should be svelte. "And no rough play with our other cats. I can't afford for him to get a scratch."

But kitty boot camp has its rewards. "He's completely spoilt," says Bolton. "My daughters say, 'Mom, do you love me as much as that cat?'"

One Persian gets regular de-stress massages and pawdicures. "He's grown up with the sound of blow-dryers," says the owner, whose own hair is dishevelled. "He's far more pampered than I am."

Show-time calls for extra attention. "Whenever my cat is at a show, he gets cooked ham," says Ivo Huisman, who introduces me to his Ragdoll cat. "His name is Waterlee Mattewis of Rasasayangrags. We call him Matt."

An engineer, Huisman started showing cats in his 50s as a hobby. "I just love the beauty of the animals. I also collect Harley-Davidsons." Yes, it's addictive. "All show people are obsessed. That's why they show."

"Give a man a show cat and it's the same as putting him in uniform - suddenly he's got attitude," says Steyn. "Their cat gives them status and recognition. Friends come to their home, admire their trophies and rosettes and have a different level of respect for them."

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Shinji, a Siamese, has wooed many judges. "I've won Cat with the Biggest Ears," says his owner, Grant Bacon, who is wearing a blue suit for the occasion. "I specially chose the colour to bring out Shinji's eyes." They travelled here from Cape Town. Is that your suitcase? "Oh no. That's my cat's."

I notice a woman wearing a fur coat, then the coat moves. "He's feeling a little insecure," says the owner. She works as an office lackey; her cat is a triple supreme champion.

"Travelling is very stressful for owner and cat," says Danziger, who attends cat pageants around South Africa. Only the best will do. No flea motels, and only bottled water. "You can't risk it. A lot of cats won't eat at shows." Today, she'll feed hers mineral water from a syringe. You wonder if some cats start out like cutesy television child stars. Before you know it, they're caught drinking underage - from the toilet bowl.

AND THE WINNER IS...

It's been five hours and the atmosphere has turned from trading floor to waiting room. Alexander the Great of Wentworthz, a Maine Coon, stares out from his show cage, bored.

"The worst is yet to come," says Singh. The winner is announced only tonight, at a gala dinner. After three courses. "They drag it out deliberately. It gets tense."

"I was so overwhelmed when they announced Squeaky had won," says Steyn. "My heart was racing." I hear they flew the Cat of the Year trophy first-class from Durban to Joburg. When Steyn arrived home with it after midnight, Pearl Squeaky was waiting at the door.

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"After her win, she got her own roast chicken," Steyn says. "Oh, here's Squeaky now. Come baby."

Squeaky has the aspect of a small lioness, with muscles that bunch up as she prowls the house, hissing at fawning kittens. "It's strange, but when cats do well at a show, they walk around here with a big attitude," says Steyn.

Squeaky, who is just over a year old, has been to 15 shows in her career. "She loves it," says Steyn. "She enjoys the paparazzi."

Steyn says breeding top cats is an art. "It's rewarding but also taxing. You bring them up, place them in good homes, and then they get run over."

She knew Squeaky was special. "The day she was born, there was an instant bond between us. I knew this kitten wasn't going to another home. Squeaky and I have an attachment. We communicate on a soul level.

" I give her what she wants. She's my pride and joy.

"Living with animals is an emotional thing. They are our children in many ways." Her human kids are grown up. "If someone criticises your cat, it's the same as saying your child is ugly or fat. It's a punch in the stomach."

Winning Cat of the Year makes her feel rewarded. "It's the time and effort and the passion you put in. That to me is motivation in life. I've been able to breed the near-perfect cat."

But it hasn't been without sacrifice. "I may be an accountant, but I'm yet to make money out of cat breeding," she says. "A Caesarean birth for a cat can cost up to R7,000. It's a flat-out loss." So why do it? "I love the cats. They fill a space in my life. I wouldn't be without them."

Some cats are more equal than others. Squeaky curls up, content, on her owner's lap. "In a multi-cat household, she's elevated, and she knows that."

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