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Je crie, donc je suis

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Sa Majesté Louis Catorze, Le Roi Soleil, supreme ruler of Le Château, sworn enemy of canine foe and scourge of Ocado delivery drivers.

  • Tu ne sais pas à quel point tu me rends malade (Partie 2)

    Sorry, everyone, for the weird posting yesterday. The system has been glitching like crazy, publishing some material too early and unpublishing other, already-live material. I don’t know what’s going on but I blame Mercury Retrograde.

    In other news, Mesdames et Messieurs, we had yet another puke incident last week. And, whilst there’s never really a good time, could there be a worse time than when I’m tucked up in bed, and when Cat Daddy is awake but drunk? 

    One night, the hork-hork klaxon wrenched me out of my almost-sleep. I called Cat Daddy, who obligingly came to my rescue with the spray and kitchen towel, only to find Louis Catorze sitting innocently on the landing, with no sign of any puke.  

    After a minute or so of searching, we found a small pile and Cat Daddy duly dealt with us using his arsenal of cleaning weaponry. I was able to then go back to sleep, happy in the knowledge that my house was a puke-free zone. 

    I imagine you can see where this story is going, non? 

    The next morning, about 50cm from the original pile (although round a corner, hence why I had missed it the first time), I discovered a much bigger pile of puke. I was late for work so I didn’t have time to clean it up, so I had no option but to message Cat Daddy and ask him to do it when he got up. 

    I would have felt bad enough sending such a message anyway but, when I opened up my WhatsApp to send the message, I discovered that Cat Daddy had sent me a lovely drunk message the night before, saying how much he was looking forward to us going away for the weekend. 

    My reply: “Yeah, same. By the way, there’s another pile of cat puke in the front bedroom. Would you mind cleaning it up, please?”

    It’s just non-stop nonsense here at Le Château. And, somehow, Catorze seems to do all right despite being the one who causes most of it. 

    Just behave yourself.

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • Tu ne sais pas à quel point tu me rends malade

    Cat puke: never fun to deal with, but even less fun when you hear the sound but then fail to find the evidence immediately. I’m still haunted by the time I heard Louis Catorze puking in 2018 (or maybe 2016, I don’t remember anymore) yet the puke remains undiscovered, to this day. 

    One peaceful morning, when I was happily sipping my coffee and minding my own business, this horrible history repeated itself. I heard the telltale “hork-hork” klaxon, went to investigate but found neither cat nor puke. 

    After turning over ever last cm² of tile and floorboard on the ground floor of Le Château, I eventually discovered it on the second most undesirable surface in the house: the front doormat, whose textured, honeycomb surface doesn’t lend itself well to being cleaned with a spray and kitchen towel. 

    I guess at least it wasn’t carpet (again). But why in the name of sweet baby Jesus can’t the little sods do it on the floor? 

    After the spray and kitchen towel failed dismally, I was forced to take the mat outside for a heavier-duty clean with boiling water, then I left it there to dry. 

    Cat Daddy, later: “Why is the doormat outside?”

    Me: “Because SOMEBODY puked on it.”

    Cat Daddy: “What an absolute ****ing ****. I bet he walked up and down for ages, deciding where to do it.”  

    Yes. That sounds like the sort of thing Catorze would do. 

    Here he is, utterly unrepentant. And I bet he would do it again tomorrow, if he could. 

    Bastard cat.

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • Miel à la bouche, dard à la queue (Partie 3) 

    Mothra is home! The little sod made it through her surgery, and she was a little lethargic but otherwise fine.

    She and her brother Rodan are segregated for now, for the good of Mothra’s recovery. And, according to my source, “Neither one is happy about this”. This is sad but we can’t trust either of them not to stealth-groom the surgery wound, fight, plan a prison break, or whatever other activities they can think of which are unbecoming of those recovering from an operation. So they’re only allowed together under supervision, and Mothra is kept in protective custody overnight. 

    Here she is, sporting her new faux-Manx look:

    Pictured on the day she arrived home, having a drink in her favourite cardboard box.

    And here is Rodan, highly displeased at not being able to go into the front room to say hello to his sister: 

    Not today, Rodan. Tomorrow’s not looking good, either.

    Hopefully it won’t be too long before Mothra will be allowed back into the Gen Pop full-time. Thanks again to everyone who has wished her well. 

    They’ve had to deploy Le MegaCône, because she was able to slip out of the watermelon one.

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • Miel à la bouche, dard à la queue (Partie 2) 

    What is the biggest challenge you will face in the next six months?

    I posted at the weekend about Louis Catorze’s cat-cousin Mothra, who had injured her tail in a scrap with a mystery cat. (The vet confirmed this from teeth marks in the wound – definitely another cat, not a fox or a dog or anything like that.)

    The jury is still out as to whether Mothra’s brother Rodan did it in an over-zealous play-fight, but we can’t prove this.

    Rodan says he’s innocent. Do we believe him?

    Although things initially seemed positive when Mothra came home from the vet, because there was some movement in her tail, it has since transpired that the vertebral damage is too great. This means, unfortunately, that Mothra will have to lose her tail. 

    So her biggest challenge in the next six months will be adapting to life as a tailless cat.

    Mothra is due to have the procedure later this morning, and I will update you in the next few days regarding how she’s doing. Thank you so much to those of you who have already sent her good wishes. 

    Le Cône also doubles as a convenient pillow.

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • La vigilance est le chemin au royaume immortel 

    I know that I must be getting old, because I love going to bed. We are conditioned to fear the dark and the creatures that lurk within its depths but, as soon as the eerie blue twilight period descends upon us, I start to feel cosy and cocooned. (Plus I know that the creature of darkness who resides within my house is far worse than anything that could possibly be lurking outside.)

    It’s also comforting to know that, as night falls, there is a security guard on duty outside our house: 

    5:36pm and all is well.

    No, this isn’t Louis Catorze, although I’m sure that, when temperatures start to rise, we won’t be able to tear him away from the outdoors. This is Blue the Smoke Bengal. 

    Blue doesn’t live here. Nor does he live in the property where he is stationed (that’s Family Next Door’s place). However we’re not about to refuse a free night watchman, so it’s fine by us. 

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • Miel à la bouche, dard à la queue

    A little while ago, I posted to say that I wouldn’t want more than one cat because I didn’t want the little sods ganging up on me. This remains true. However, another reason why a multi-cat situation wouldn’t suit me is because, if it’s not one needing veterinary treatment, it’s the other. You’ve seen what a complete farce it is with just one cat; can you imagine two or more?

    I am happy to report that Rodan is now sans Cône, having fully healed. Thank you to everyone who sent him good wishes. However, now it’s Mothra’s turn, because the poor little sod has hurt her tail. 

    She was unusually subdued last week, refusing food, and hissing when picked up. When my sister took her to the vet, she discovered that Mothra had a cut at the base of her tail, and a couple of separated vertebrae. The vet’s theory is that a cat fight caused this (although my sister hopes that it wasn’t with Rodan). 

    Just arrived at the Gates of Hell.

    Mothra is currently on antibiotics and two types of painkiller, but she’s eating again. The following few days will tell us what needs to happen next.

    Get well soon, Mothy.
    The camera seems to have caught Rodan just as he was shapeshifting.

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • Allez venez, Minou, vous asseoir à ma table

    Last week I sent this meme to a friend, because she also has a cat called Beans:

    Winner winner, chicken dinner. (Picture from Facebook.)

    Truly, there was nothing more in it than a casual, “Look, this cat has the same name as yours!” It wasn’t supposed to be a command, nor a premonition of the future.

    However, the Cat Universe had other ideas:

    THAT SAME DAY, Beans’ little sister, Minou, came clattering through the cat flap with a fried chicken leg in her mouth. She then proceeded to hide under the bed, where none of the humans could reach her, to feast, undisturbed, on her prize. 

    How did this happen, a mere few hours after I’d sent the original meme? Who is the hapless diner (or, rather, non-diner) in the south-west of England, whose chicken was stolen? Is there some innocent cat or dog out there, being blamed for the theft, or has the non-diner somehow managed to gaslight themselves into thinking that their meal preparation was all a dream? 

    “Laissez-vous faire, Minou …”
    “Et prenez bien vos aises …”

    It wasn’t even a full moon or Mercury Retrograde at the time, so the little sods don’t even have those extenuating circumstances.

    People of the south-west, if you see any of these reprobates* on the rampage in your neighbourhood, lock up your lunch. 

    *Having learned that crime DOES pay after all, Minou will, no doubt, have passed this information to her brother and sisters.  

    Minou milords it over her siblings: Byron (grey), Floydette aka Dettie (black) and Séverine aka Beans (fluffy cow-cat).

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • Il est plus facile de ne rien dépenser que de dépenser peu 

    Write about your approach to budgeting.

    1. The cat gets the absolute best of everything, no questions asked. 
    2. The humans manage with whatever meagre scraps of loose change may be left over afterwards.
    Have you ever wondered why it is that you never have any money? Nope, neither have we. We know exactly why.

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • Nous heureux peu nombreux, nous bande de frères

    When I make tea in the morning and take it up to Cat Daddy, more often than not I find Louis Catorze occupying my spot in bed. My arrival displeases him so much that he jumps down and leaves the room. (Catorze, I mean, not Cat Daddy.) 

    However, last week I refrained from bringing tea because I had a cold and didn’t want to be handling cups and teaspoons with my lurgy-hands. This meant that Catorze had an in-bed Boys’ Club with no interruption from me. 

    The little sod absolutely lost his mind and couldn’t believe his luck at having his favourite person all to himself. Here are a few photos of just how much fun he had: 

    “Mon papa!”
    “Mon papa!”
    “MON PAPA!”

    Next time, I fear I will be told to just leave the tea and go. 

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • La réussite de l’équipe

    I often ask Cat Daddy if we can have another cat (and he always says no) but, in reality, I know that it probably wouldn’t work. This is not only because Louis Catorze has been the lone sovereign for all his life with us, but also because I couldn’t handle a team of the little bastards arsing about and conspiring against us. 

    Rodan, who is under house arrest due to Le Cône, managed to escape outside. This happened because his sister, Mothra, upon realising that he wanted to go out, stood by the Sureflap, activating the lock release in the process. 

    Luckily Rodan didn’t have the brains or the inclination to make the most of it, and came back when he was called (?). But that’s not the point. The point is that having more than one of them can only end badly. So, if you have two or more cats, you’re doomed. But I expect you probably knew that anyway. 

    Bonnie and Clyde.

    So thank God I only have one. Well, perhaps gratitude isn’t the right sentiment. And God probably doesn’t have much to do with it, either. 

    God has very much forsaken us.

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • Mon verre s’est brisé comme un éclat de rire 

    When I want Louis Catorze to approach me so that I can administer his thyroid medication, the little sod is skittish and suspicious. I do my best to Act Normal, pretending to move around doing random household things so that he will let me slither ever-closer to him, but it doesn’t work; the slightest wrong move from me and he’s off, never to be seen again. 

    However, in a state of emergency when I absolutely do not want him to approach me, he’s there, bug-eyed and screaming. And he won’t go away. This is exactly what happened the other day, when Cat Daddy dropped a Kilner jar of chutney on the floor. 

    Now, you’d imagine that the stickiness of the contents would somehow prevent thousands of lethal shards from scattering around the kitchen. Sadly, this was not the case. And, as I scrabbled around desperately trying to clean up (saving Cat Daddy the job on account of his bad back and knees), Catorze appeared, like Bloody Mary in the mirror on a full moon Hallowe’en night.

    Me: “Nooooo.”

    Catorze: “Mwah!”

    Me: “Go away!” 

    Catorze: “Mwah!”

    Me, trying to do lots of sudden pouncing movements with one hand to scare Catorze away, whilst also trying to scrape up glass with the other hand: “Please. Go. Away.”

    Catorze, pitter-pattering even closer and actually KICKING a piece of glass, sending it sliding across the floor: “MWAHHH!”

    I even thought about reaching for the syringe of thyroid medication, because I knew that the sight of that would have him racing off. But it lay out of reach, on the other side of the ocean of broken glass. 

    Given that the little sod is neither limping nor bleeding, I have assumed that the precious Catorzian paws managed to survive, unglassed. But how, and why, are cats always the kings and queens of not doing what you want them to do, and of doing the one thing that you really DON’T want them to do?

    Bastard cat.

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • Le Cône est de retour  

    Do you need a break? From what?

    If I were to mention an itchy black cat in a Cône, you would be forgiven for thinking that I were talking about Louis Catorze. However, this time it’s his cat-cousin Rodan who has come a cropper. 

    Rodan could do with a break from scratching. However, the only person who can decide this is him, and he ain’t stopping. 

    Not only did poor Rodan scratch himself to smithereens, forcing deployment of Le Cône, but, once healed, he did it again less than a minute after Le Cône’s removal. And not only did he unheal all the just-healed skin, but he also managed to scuff up a whole load of new areas which were fine before. 

    Mothra says, “Stop it, bro.”

    Poor Rodan HATES Le Cône. Whilst no animal really loves it, Catorze was quite stoical and never really got depressed about it, instead channelling his energy into all manner of Cône-bearing misadventures*. (And it was just as well, really, because, during lockdown, he spent a hell of a lot of time wearing it.)

    *If you ever thought that a Côned cat couldn’t get up to much mischief, you’d be mistaken. We had rodents, altercations with bird life, getting stuck on plants and shrubs, you name it. 

    However, Rodan is really down about it. Everything about his Côned body language screams sadness. Oh, and his eyes are a bit manky, presumably due to him not being able to groom. Yet whenever anyone tries to clean them, he is – how can I put this? – not compliant. 

    Please send Rodan healing, stop-scratching wishes. 

    Get well, silly boy.

    UPDATE: Rodan has been to the vet and, in the few minutes sans Cône whilst the vet treated him, he scratched with such ferocity that the vet binned the plan to give him steroid tablets and decided on the heavier-duty injection instead. He has also been prescribed antibiotic eye drops (due to the mess he’s made of his eye), and he will need to remain avec Cône AND have his eyes cleaned daily for the next two weeks. Oh my. 

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • Le voyage aux portes de l’enfer

    Describe your most ideal day from beginning to end.

    Anything that doesn’t involve a vet visit is perfect. Even if I have to go to work. Even if I’m sick. Alien invasion, zombie apocalypse, whatever. Just not the vet, please. 

    Louis Catorze has just been for his steroid jab. His last one was on 5th December, so he’s done quite well to string out this one for almost two months. 

    Once again, I had to Act Normal on the morning of his visit, but the jig was well and truly up when I exited the front room and closed the door on him. 

    Me: “He knows.”

    Cat Daddy: “Oh no. You TOLD him?” 

    Catorze fell eerily silent when we hit the A4 but, as soon as we arrived at the Unholy Place and he realised where we were, the screaming resumed, with extra ferocity. In attendance in the waiting room were Pedro, a large cow-cat who stared at Catorze in alarm, and a little white Bichon Frisé, name unknown, who started shaking violently upon hearing the screaming, despite having been perfectly fine before.

    Usually, when Catorze kicks off in the vet’s waiting room, the other (human) attendees strike up some sort of friendly small talk, in a “There, but for the grace of God, go I” kind of way. I have often ended up chatting to people after conversation openers such as, “Ooh, he’s a noisy one, isn’t he?” or some such thing. However, on this occasion, nobody spoke. And that actually made things MORE, and not less, awkward. So we all sat there, saying nothing, with Catorze’s screams ringing out into every corner of the waiting room.

    I didn’t know where to look: at Pedro the alarmed cow-cat? At the terrified doggie about to have a seizure? Or at Catorze, who was to blame for the chaos and disorder? In the end I just looked at the floor and tried to pretend he wasn’t my cat, even though everyone had seen me walk in with him.

    And this wasn’t even the most embarrassing vet trip. Not by a long way.

    Catorze has lost a little weight (he’s now 2.92kg) due to still being in summer mode and only eating after dark. Yes, I know it’s the middle of winter, and that the summer was some time ago, but that’s Catorze for you. And, apparently, his left kidney is larger than the other. But his so-called heart murmur has vanished without a trace, like frost in the morning sun, so clearly he was faking that. 

    £267 later, we left. Yes, that’s right, it cost us that much even though there was nothing new wrong with him, no emergency to fix; we were just having his usual standard treatment, plus paying for the consultation and his next supply of thyroid medication. And, when we arrived home, Catorze sloped off to some unknown place to sleep off his trauma. 

    So it seems we managed a full house: 

    • Screaming during the journey: check. 
    • Abject humiliation in the waiting room: check. 
    • Fleeced of lots of money for no good reason: check. 
    • Utter feline ingratitude upon returning home: check. 

    What a time to be alive. And the best part of it is that we will be back for more in a couple of months’ time.

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • La télévision a chassé l’âme du foyer

    Our front room television never works first thing in the morning, with some unseen force appearing to have pulled cables loose. Now, I know that Louis Catorze may have previous when it comes to this kind of caper, but that was a long time ago and he’s calmed down since then, right? RIGHT? 

    I tried using Blu-Tac to secure the slippery wires but to no avail, so I suggested to Cat Daddy that perhaps they were faulty and we needed to buy some new ones. He refused, saying that some of them were quite new, and accused Catorze of causing the problem. 

    Non. Not Catorze. I don’t mean that in a Dot-Cotton-from-EastEnders “My Nick’s a good boy” kind of way*, but he just doesn’t have the energy or the inclination. Now that he’s an old man of fifteen and a half, surely he has better things to do than to arse around late at night with a bunch of wires? (And it would have to be late at night, since the little sod is under our supervision for pretty much the entire time that he’s in the house.) 

    *Younger, non-British followers: ask your older British friends. 

    Then Cat Daddy sent me this (the text is his, too). The shapeless shadow, circled, is Catorze: 

    “Mess It Up, y’say, Sir Mick? D’accord.”

    Oh dear. Is it too late to roll out the old “It must have been some other black cat” line? 

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com