Cat people are fascinating, with their poised way of walking and hilariously off-base projections about what cats, the most amoral and opportunistic of mammals, think and feel about their host species. I humored a bunch of them as they spoke about their hallucinations (but very, very cute hallucinations!) at a show the American Kennel Club and the Cat Fancier’s Association put together last weekend. It was less about animals competing to see who had the firmest rump or the hottest bedroom eyes and more about selling $1,000+ purebreds to already paying show goers. Think an industry trade show only with fewer drugs and way more bedazzled sweaters.

Helene breeds a big, handsome cat called the Russian Blue. She and her cohort were dressed up like tsarinas, with a backdrop of onion-domed palaces to drive home the point that their cats are descended from a long line of inbred Jew expellers and peasant rapists. “This is the Romanov Palace sitting room,” she told me, fondling her pussy, “and this is Mikhail Ivanovich.” Did all her cats have Russian names? “Why would a regal Russian not have a Russian name?” Fair enough. She then held up some of Mikhail’s modeling photos, including a Fresh Step ad in which he was photoshopped into a regal “hafta go potty” pose. Before I left, she lifted up her dress to show me her shoes. “What self-respecting tsarina would go without sneakers?” she asked. “You gotta run away from the people with the pitchforks!” So true.

Next, I checked out some “rumpy” Manx cats (that’s the actual name of the breed). This cat is known for its lack of tact and large, furry gunt. “I needed a cat I could feed,” explained the lady who runs the cattery (also a real term!). “I had other breeds, but I couldn’t keep ’em skinny. When these cats mature, they tend to round out, like women.” Maybe it was all the toxoplasmosis in the air, but I was starting to notice a correlation between the cats and their owners.

This lady had organized a cat fashion show to tell the history of the wrinkly, awesome breed known as the Sphinx. One was dressed like Cleo”cat”ra, one like a pharaoh, and yet another like what she imagined a Canadian might look like. “They’re very smart,” she explained. “They’re brilliant at problem solving, they like water, she fetches, and they have thumbs!” She held out a finger and Cleocatra grasped it with her little webbed foot like a human baby, sending a creepy shiver throughout my corpus. “Does she enjoy wearing the costumes?” I asked. “Oh yeah,” she beamed. “She’s been doing it since she was a little baby…some cats don’t like it, but she loves it.” The cat neither confirmed nor denied this.

“I always tell people who don’t like ’em at first, don’t think of it as a cat, think of it as Yoda!” she continued. “I think the Sphinx was George Lucas’ inspiration…he looks too similar for it to be a coincidence. I’d like to ask him sometime.”

“Bombay panthers” are specially designed to bring the sexy fear of the jungle right into your living room. You get all of the sweltering exoticism with none of the getting eaten. “We name them after black people who’ve made their mark on history,” the copper haired breeder explained. “That’s Nat King Cole. This here’s Barack Obama. His daddy is Colin Powell, who was born on 9/11. We call them the ultimate black cats.” Oh dear. Why was Barack Obama slumped against the back of the cage all comatose-like? “It’s tough being president.” I am assuming the Black Panther Party was so underrepresented because obviously if you name a mini black panther after an actual Black Panther, the ghost of Huey P. Newton will journey back across the river Styx just so he can bitchslap you.

This soft-as-butter cat can tell when his owner’s diabetes is acting up. “One night he woke me up from a dead sleep,” she recounted. “He was screaming at the top of his lungs and had his nose almost in my mouth. I took my sugar and it was 45, five points away from comatose. Turned out he can smell the amount of sugar in my system from my breath.” Wow! But aren’t cats too selfish to do a thing like that? “It depends on the bond you have with ’em.” In addition to saving her from imminent death, overachiever-cat rocks little outfits like the F.B.I. one he’s wearing here, and a “motorcycle outfit” of leather and studs that’s just purrfect for Pride.

This giant poster for “Zots” was not about banning people from message boards, but “Exotics,” a gullible breed with an eternal look of confusion on its round, stupid face. “The Exotic standard calls for a heavily boned, well-balanced cat with a sweet expression and soft, round lines,” the literature said. “A thick, plush coat softens the lines of the cat and accentuates the roundness.” I can’t tell if I want to eat this cat or drive it.

The last cats we looked at were Abyssinians, bred by the most (only?) debonair New York couple ever to participate in a cat show. The guy (not pictured) looked just like Phillip Seymour Hoffman and the woman managed to appear classy even as she quasi made out with Grand Champion Abykastle Sex and the City, a.k.a. Charlie. “Charlie rang the opening bell at NASDAQ the other day,” she told me. Of course he did. Someday, when I am rich and fancy, I’m going to shell out $900 each for some of these and stroke Duchess Frances Mad Men III and Comptroller Tristan Aquateen Hunger Force as I bathe in foie gras and sip blood diamond martinis. That’ll be the life.