Before I leave, I make sure Juliet has food and water and that her litter box is set up. She and James are curled up watching My Cat from Hell on the television while the last bloody bites of a rare burger and a few forlorn fries stare at me from the ketchup smeared plate beside him.
Is there a show called My Brother from Hell? I could write, produce, and star in it with one hand tied behind my back. I kiss Juliet on the head while James bats my hair out of his face so he can see.
“I’m going to the hotel bar for a drink,” I tell him. He grunts. A grunt is one of his favorite replies.
I breathe deeply, calming myself and my blood pressure, as I stand in front of the elevator door. The mirror on the wall to my side, hanging over a fake potted plant, shows me that the few extra minutes I took to primp had paid off. My wavy, waist-length hair frames my pale face, and a magenta leather jacket pops against my light-wash denim jeans. Fringed pink ankle boots top off—or bottom off—the outfit. I feel good, ready to meet some other cat lovers and have a good time. Without James.
The Peaks Lounge is on the twenty-seventh floor of the hotel with spectacular views of downtown Denver and the Rocky Mountains to the west. The sun sinks slowly toward the foothills but still casts a beautiful glow. I step to the window to admire the panorama and then turn to find somewhere to sit.
People cram the place and clearly most are here for the convention. It’s not hard to tell. They wear cat pajamas, cat onesies, necklaces with cats as pendants, pants with tiny cat silhouettes on them, and at least one pair of furry orange cat slippers. I’d read they’re expecting over twenty-thousand convention-goers this year. I slip on my own pair of sleek black cat ears from my bag and relax for the first time since I got James in the car almost three hours ago. These are my people.
A barstool opens up, and I slip onto it. The female bartender, a woman in her mid-twenties with purple streaks in her braided hair, pushes a menu in front of me before hurrying off.
Oh, how cute. They’re offering cat themed drinks especially for CatFest. When the barkeep returns, I order a Kitty Royale, which promises to be both delicious and a deep pink. Then, I check Juliet’s Instagram account, @julietcatulet.
A direct message waits for me from one of her fans who goes by the Instagram account name of @pigletandpink. I know from previous exchanges the person is actually two women. They ask what time I’ll be in the lounge. I type quickly that I’m here and what I look like. I don’t ever post pictures of myself on Juliet’s account. She’s the star; I’m only her manager. And stage crew, costumer, producer, and purchasing agent.
I peer around, and spot two women headed my way who stop a couple feet away.
“Hey! Are you Juliet’s owner?” One of the women, a curvy Latina, asks me. She has black hair to her waist, tattoos, and multiple piercings in her ears, eyebrows, nose, and lips.
I twist in my stool to stand and greet them. “Yes, I’m Kathleen. Are you Piglet or Pink?” I hold out my hand, but the woman who spoke grabs me in a bear hug instead of shaking it.
“Piglet! Good to finally meet you. I’m Viviana, but you can call me Viv. And this is my girlfriend, Jess.” I shake Jess’s hand, too. She’s Asian, has equally long hair, and exactly one dainty hoop eyebrow ring. I’m guessing she’s Pink; her hair is a vivid shade of flamingo.
These women are Catulets, what Juliet’s most loyal fans and supporters call themselves. They often jump in to defend her when that hateful Romeo Meowtague leaves snarky comments on my posts.
“I love your account,” I say. “Thanks so much for always supporting Juliet and me.”
I’ve gotten used to my cat’s sometimes unusual fans. They’re men and women of all ages and from all walks of life. They don’t even all seem to be cat owners, although most probably are. Piglet and Pink are visual artists who happen to really love cats. Their apartment looks like a rainbow exploded across the walls, and they have a maelstrom of mousers at home.
“Are you excited for the meet and greet tomorrow?” Jess asks.
“Yes! I just hope Juliet cooperates.”
“She’s going to do great,” Viv says. “She seems like such a love. We can’t wait to meet her.”
“You’re coming?” I ask.
“We wouldn’t miss it. And we have a few things to say to Romeo’s owner. That twit,” Jess adds. “Did you see his latest comment on your pre-convention post?”
“No, I haven’t had a chance to read them.” Typically, comments take a while to read through. I usually get hundreds after I post. When a cat has over one million fans, every post tends to get plenty of attention.
I open the app again. My last post was of Juliet with her miniature long blonde wig and a spring green silk dress on. She’s lying on a low cat couch that I had covered in gold taffeta and a tiny suitcase sits beside her. For the caption, I’d written:
“My horse, my horse! My kingdom for a horse!” - Richard III (Act 5, Scene 4) Juliet’s ready for #CatFestDenver! See you there!
My cat’s stage name of Juliet Catulet is a variation on the famous Shakespearean character, Juliet Capulet, of course. I scroll down and spot the comment right away. My lips thin.
romeo.meowtague: See you at #CatFestDenver #IGCelebriCat meet and greet tomorrow. Let the best cat win. Which will be me, of course.
I shake my head. “He’s such a jerk.” My gaze slides around the bar. “He could be here right now. I don’t know what he looks like, do you?”
Viv shrugs and shakes her head. “But you’re right. He’s so rude.” She pats my shoulder. “Don’t worry, the Catulets have your back. We’ll make sure Juliet wins Best Newcomer tomorrow night. We’ve all voted.”
I swallow hard and smile gratefully at them. “I hope you’re right. You two did a great job getting the word out about the award.”
Jess pulls her hair over her shoulder. “Juliet has it in the bag. Listen, we’re headed to dinner. We’ll see you tomorrow at the meet and greet.”
I consider asking if I can join them as Viv takes Jess’s hand. It would be fun to hang out with fans, but I chicken out.
Viv waves. “Have a good night and make sure you and Juliet get your beauty rest.” They wind through the tables and out of the lounge.
I sigh and read through the post comments. Several Catulets have commented on Juliet’s account to say they can’t wait to meet her tomorrow or Sunday at the official Instagram CelebriCat meet and greets. I type out enthusiastic responses, and then I respond to Romeo’s owner.
julietcatulet: @romeo.meowtague Whatever. Go hide under a rock. I’m the feline queen and everyone knows it. #CatFestDenver #IGCelebriCat #julietforbestnewbie
Several fans pipe in quickly, backing me up. I know it’s childish to fight like this. Part of me means what I say, and part of me panders to my fans, who seem to love Romeo and Juliet’s catfights. The fact that the cats, or at least their owners, are not only clearly not in love, but actively feud, seems to delight them more.
For fun, and only after I’d realized Juliet loved it, I’d started taking pictures of her in handmade silk or satin medieval dresses and posting them on Instagram with Shakespearean quotes as captions. As her fandom grew, I’d posed her on my porch swing in the moonlight or with James dressed as her Nurse. Which I’d paid him well for and which he’d hated doing. Which had made me want to do it more often.