Some years ago I went to a one-ring circus in Barcelona with tigers and bathing suit girls on giant beach balls. The night was a little balmy and the lights rang out across the water. My husband and I were trying to have a good time. The tiger came up to say hello in the parking lot when we were talking to its owner who had it on a not very tight leash. We were trying to have a good time in the way you do when you secretly think your marriage is in trouble. Circuses are way more common in Europe, that kind, the small kind with a family atmosphere and the tightrope lady manning the bar at breaks. My favorite act were the housekitties, whose first trick involved jumping through rings of fire. They mostly were pretty into it although the trainer had to give them a treat and pets immediately after each jump, and a couple did decide they just weren’t in the mood that day. The finale was when the best cat climbed into an iron star ringed in Christmas tree lights and rose into the top of the big top. The star dipped and rose, the cat standing and complacent in the center. Even as it swung further and further out, the cat remained exactly calm and standing in the center of a star, a star shining and not real.
