For the royal feline, catty is as catty does

Hate to be catty, but how come everything is about dogs? Fancily dressed Westminster Dog Show judges, preened – and pruned – poodles, and sporting dogs with their tongues hanging to their blocky chins.

Why is it a dog’s world and not a cat’s?

Not that cats are our favorites; in fact, we generally don’t like them; we never had one as a childhood pet and, frankly, never intended to have one until our persuasive young daughter chose a calico kitten on a Maine May day long ago.

That cat, dubbed Callie May, lived with us 21 years, without causing near as much fuss and commotion as the dogs she outlived.

But she was always “poor Callie May.” While the Springer spaniel got petted, rubbed, brushed, entertained and swooned over, Callie lay curled in some basket out of view and attention, surfacing only when her food bowl rattled with Friskies.

Half the time, we didn’t even notice her, while the yellow Lab bounded to the door, jumping and almost knocking us over with his eagerness, otherwise known as bad manners. Poor Callie May lay behind the wood stove, barely glancing up.

Cats are like that: poor cats that don’t bark to be noticed, that don’t lap your cheeks or crowd the bed. Cats just move around silently, slowly, like dust mites, inhabiting your home but not disturbing it.

The famous Man’s Best Friend, on the other hand, amuses everyone by catching a tossed Frisbee, or shaking hands or bringing in the slippers – or the ducks – with such gusto everyone is forced into spontaneous applause.

While the cat – poor Callie May, to be exact – lolls in the sunroom, studying her nails, flicking her tail occasionally, and licking her fur.

Cats aren’t in the category of goldfish or turtles. They do sometimes jump up into your chair for some cuddling and purring, but they don’t catch anything when you throw it.

And they certainly are too proud to prance around a showroom ring before judges who prod and poke – and, honestly, fondle way too much. Cats such as Callie May would have not tolerated such intrusion.

Poor old Callie did have to endure a certain terrier that forced her underneath the Morris chair where he yipped and nipped incessantly till she hissed and swiped with her convincing claws.

That terrier, Callie declared, should be committed to doggie hell, which is where he undoubtedly resides. She may have put up with a German shorthaired pointer, which pointed her to distraction.

As we watched the Westminster Kennel Club parades – and palavering – we agree that dogs are winners in our book, regardless of how the fight between the Calico Cat and the Gingham Dog ended.

But, we also know that there are no “poor old cats.”

They may not be court jesters as are our beloved dogs all over this land. But, what’s more important, they’re not poor at all. They are royalty, albeit on their own thrones.

Poor Callie May, indeed!