Leo had faced down spiritual anomalies, sarcastic squirrels, and incompetent ghost hunters, but nothing could have prepared him for the unique horror of his mother's enthusiasm.
A pet show.
A public event. With judges. And an audience.
It was his worst nightmare, wrapped in a festive blue ribbon.
"Absolutely not," he'd told his mother over the phone. "Milo is not a show cat. He's… shy. And artistically inclined. He finds public performance crass."
"Nonsense, dear," Sarah had chirped back, utterly implacable. "I saw him with that vase! He's a prodigy! Besides, I already paid the entry fee. It's non-refundable."
And so, Leo found himself backstage at the community center, surrounded by the chaotic symphony of yapping poodles, preening parrots, and a terrifyingly large Maine Coon that looked like it could bench-press him.
The air was thick with the scent of pet shampoo, nervous energy, and shattered dreams.
Milo, sitting in his carrier, looked utterly, profoundly unimpressed. He surveyed the other, lesser creatures with the disdain of a king forced to mingle with commoners.
Whisper, who Leo had brought along for moral support and who was now clean, fluffy, and healing nicely, sat quietly at his feet, taking in the scene with his calm, observant eyes.
"And now, for our talent portion," the overly cheerful announcer boomed over the speakers, "give a warm welcome to Mitzy, the tap-dancing terrier!"
Leo peeked through the curtain. A small terrier in a sequined vest was frantically tapping its paws on a tiny wooden stage. It was a train wreck. It was adorable.
He felt a wave of nausea.
"Okay, Milo," he said, opening the carrier. "We're up after the lizard that plays the tiny banjo. Please, for the love of all that is holy, just... be a normal cat."
Milo stepped out of the carrier, stretched, and proceeded to sit down and groom himself, pointedly ignoring Leo.
"Milo. Come on. We talked about this," Leo pleaded in a low whisper.
Milo paused his grooming to give Leo a look that said, We did not 'talk'. You issued a series of increasingly desperate pleas, which I found vaguely amusing.
The banjo-playing lizard was receiving polite, baffled applause. They were next.
Leo was panicking. He leaned close to Milo's ear.
"If you do this," he whispered frantically, "I will buy you an entire, whole, sushi-grade tuna loin. Not the canned stuff. The good stuff."
Milo's ear twitched. His licking stopped.
"And," Leo added, going for broke, "a feather toy made from the plumage of an endangered, spiritually-awakened bird of paradise." He was just making things up now.
Milo looked at him. Then he let out a soft, considering meow. It was the sound of a deal being struck. He stood up, shook out his fur, and strode towards the stage with the swagger of a rock star.
"And now," the announcer chirped, "we have Leo with his American Shorthair, Milo, who will be performing a series of… advanced tricks!"
Leo walked onto the stage, a forced, pained smile plastered on his face. The stage lights were blinding.
Milo sat in the center of the stage, looking bored.
"Okay, Milo," Leo said, his voice a squeak. "High-five!"
He held out his hand.
Milo looked at his hand, then at the audience, then back at his hand with an expression of withering contempt.
Utterly beneath my dignity, his gaze seemed to say. Unless… unlimited salmon is on the line. Fine. But I will do it with maximum disdain. These peasants shall witness true feline superiority, even if they don't understand it.
He crouched.
Then he leaped.
It was a perfectly controlled, suppressed version of his gravity-defying jump. He floated upwards, just a hair too slowly, hung in the air for a fraction of a second too long, and gently tapped Leo's hand with his paw.
The crowd gasped. It looked like an impossible, perfectly executed trick.
Leo's family, sitting in the front row, applauded wildly.
"That's my grandson's cat!" David boomed to the person next to him. "Unbelievable agility! He must have trained it relentlessly."
Alex, sitting next to him, wasn't clapping. He was leaning forward, his eyes narrowed, a look of intense, analytical concentration on his face.
Next, Leo tossed a small, ribboned toy onto the top of a five-foot pole. "Fetch, Milo!"
Milo yawned.
Then, in a movement too fast to follow, the ribbon was simply… in his mouth. He hadn't appeared to climb the pole. He hadn't jumped. He was just sitting there, the ribbon dangling from his jaws.
He had, of course, used a micro-teleport, a tiny application of his 'Silent Stroll'.
The crowd went wild.
"How did he do that?" Sarah whispered to David, her face a mask of proud confusion.
David shook his head. "Trick pole. Must be magnets."
Alex just stared, his brow furrowed. "Leo," he mouthed silently from the audience, "did Milo just… float?"
For the finale, Leo set up a small, open-ended box. "And now, for his disappearing act!"
Milo trotted into the box.
He sat there for a moment.
Then he vanished. A faint shimmer, and he was gone.
A second later, he reappeared on the other side of the stage, licking a paw.
The applause was deafening. The judges were scribbling furiously on their clipboards, their faces alight with wonder.
Leo felt a bead of sweat trickle down his back. He had to get off this stage.
As the applause washed over them, Leo scooped up the triumphant, and now very demanding, cat. He took a bow, his smile feeling like a cheap plastic mask.
He looked out at the crowd, at his beaming parents, at the amazed faces of the strangers.
Then he looked at Alex's face—not full of pride, but of deep, analytical suspicion. The 'magic tricks' hadn't fooled everyone.
And that, Leo realized, was a far bigger problem than winning a blue ribbon.