La lune du chasseur

There’s a full moon tonight. And, mon Dieu, do we know it: Louis Catorze’s screaming has been building up for days and has now reached what we really, really hope is its peak. Although, knowing him, now that I’ve said that, he will probably dig deep and find more from somewhere.

During the day Sa Maj screams for any number of the following reasons:

⁃ Wanting to be let in from The Front (after Cat Daddy kicks him out for a few minutes’ respite)

⁃ Excitement at having Cat Daddy all to himself

⁃ Excitement when visitors come (especially men), leading Cat Daddy to recite his usual spiel of “No, he’s not distressed, that’s just his normal voice …”

⁃ Disapproval of the cleaning lady’s methods

⁃ Disapproval if it’s been more than 0.3 seconds since Cat Daddy last stroked him

⁃ Liking the sound of his own voice

⁃ Just for fun

⁃ Whatever

It would be reasonable to assume that his day-long screamathons wear him out, allowing us a more restful evening and night. Nope: the little sod follows Cat Daddy around, screaming, right through to late afternoon/early evening when I come from work. He then goes out for Night Patrol at both The Back and at The Front – with creepily accurate timekeeping still in operation, bien sûr – and wakes us up at least twice during the night with more screaming/whining/bouncing around.

Cat Daddy: “This is what it’s like ALL BLOODY DAY when you’re at work. It’s starting to feel like bullying.”

As I have said many times before, at his age he should be slowing down. But he isn’t. We have no idea from where he is getting this energy, but my guess is that he’s drawing from either the moon, The Mothership* (although some have theorised that the moon and The Mothership are one and the same thing), or – most likely of all – Lucifer himself.

We cannot cope. Please send help.

*The Mothership is the invisible alien vessel that controls all cats by beaming instructions to them via their chips. We cannot see her, but we know she is there.

Message received and understood: when you give le signal, we will attack.”

Le Roi me casse les oreilles

Cat Daddy and I have just come back from a weekend on the south coast, leaving Louis Catorze in the hands of Oscar the dog’s family. Whenever they take over Roi duties, we always return to find him glossier and more healthy-looking than he was when we left him, so clearly life under their care suits him. (And, yes, we have checked that it’s definitely him.)

In other news, Merci à Dieu et à tous ses anges (or perhaps, as we are leading up to Hallowe’en, it would be more appropriate to say “Merci au Diable et à tous ses démons”): Catorze’s ear fur is growing back.

Nobody knows why it’s coming back. In fact, nobody knows why it went away in the first place. BUT IT’S COMING BACK.

Obviously we would love Catorze whatever his physical appearance (Cat Daddy: “[Indiscernible muttering]”) but we couldn’t be happier that he looks set to be back to his beautiful velvety self (Cat Daddy: “[More indiscernible muttering]”) in time for his big day on 31st October.

Here is a photographic record of his, erm, earvolution (you’re welcome) since the summer:

22nd June: ugly piggy ears.
13th July: a slight improvement.
26th August: much better.
21st September: as normal as he’s ever going to be.

Il y a des chiens qui ont vraiment de la chance

Borrow My Doggy, if you aren’t familiar with it, is exactly as it sounds: people who don’t have dogs walk the dogs of people who have them but aren’t able to do it. A couple of our family members, who like dogs but don’t have their own at the moment, use the service to walk a cute little sausage dog named, erm, Rod Stewart. (And he only responds to his full name; none of this “abbreviating to save face” business.)

As is often the case when dog innovations come along, Cat Daddy and I got talking about whether or not this idea would work for cats.

Cat Daddy: “Is it even possible to borrow someone’s cat?”

Me: “Not really. Cats don’t do fun days out with strangers.”

Him: “So if a catless person wanted to spend time with a cat, what would they do?”

Me: “I don’t know. If they knew where it lived, I guess they’d just go to its house?”

Him: “So the owner would have to host random people who wanted to visit their cat? That’s just stupid. Who would do that?”

[Silence, tumbleweed, crickets]

Anyway, Borrow My Doggy appears to be a win-win for all. But what would happen if relations with your partner-dog were less than harmonious?

I imagine if there were an actual incident, you could just say to the owner, “I’m afraid your dog bit a small child / pulled so hard on the lead that he dislocated my shoulder / barked at an old lady and sent her into cardiac arrest” (or whatever it was) and the owner would take him back and say, “Oh dear, I’m sorry about that. No hard feelings. I hope the next dog works out better.” But what if you just DIDN’T LIKE THE DOG? Breaking up with an animal seems pretty low, and ignoring it and not returning its calls is even lower. And as for continuing to spend time with it because you’re too cowardly to do the honest thing and find a better animal … well …

Cat Daddy: “You get used to it. Trust me on this.”

Here is Rod Stewart (below) having a little rest after the excitement of a long walk with his chien-sitteurs. And Louis Catorze is available here for anyone who wishes to start a Borrow My Kitty group. I’ll take a seat in case I’m in for a long wait.

Do ya think he’s sexy?

Le fief du Roi

Cat Daddy just called the patio “the catio” by accident. He claims that he yawned in the middle of saying the word, which caused it to come out the way it did. Whatever.

The thing is, I don’t think he knows what a catio is or is even aware that it’s an actual thing. (For others like him: a catio is a kind of wire mesh outdoor conservatory attached to one’s house, so that cats think they’re outside but remain secured and out of mischief.) My belief is that, rather than having this particular structure in mind, Cat Daddy’s subconscious intention was to rename our outside space as something that belongs, and has always belonged, to Louis Catorze.

I think his version is better.

Here is Catorze, relaxing in/on his catio, and he certainly looks as if he owns the place:

He loves his space almost as much as he loves himself.

Les araignées de la nuit

*WARNING: CONTAINS POTENTIALLY TRIGGERING SPIDER REFERENCES AND A (PRETTY RUBBISH) DRAWING OF ONE*

The autumn equinox is here, and this time of year always fills me with deep, deep joy. The one thing I don’t like about it, however, is the fact that it’s spider season.

I know, I know, they help us out by catching flies. But still … *shudder* …

Despite living opposite a park, we don’t seem to have encountered too many of the little critters as yet. I can’t help hoping that the summer heatwave dried them all to a crisp but, in reality, it’s probably because it’s uncharacteristically warm. So they must still think it’s summer and just haven’t thought to creep into our houses as yet.

Although I spent much of my childhood and early adulthood with crippling arachnophobia, these days I don’t mind sharing my space with a spider. Given the choice, I would obviously rather not. But I can cope, as long as it’s small and it stays the hell away from me. Plus we have a cat who kills and eats creepy crawlies. So, all is good, oui?

Not quite.

Of course this is Louis Catorze we’re talking about, so there’s a little twist to the tale.

Catorze is the Happy Gilmore of spider hunters. In case you haven’t seen the film, it’s about a baseball-player-turned-golfer who can manage a hole in one from miles away, but not a short, easy putt of a few centimetres. This is the perfect analogy for Catorze and spiders. He is great at spotting faraway spiders who are just minding their own business at the other end of the room, and he will happily leap off laps to eat said beasties straight off the wall or the floor, even in the dark. But a spider that is right in front of him: nope. If I place him next to a spider he just looks straight through it, then looks gormlessly at me and pitter-patters off.

I hope that the spider population will keep a respectable distance this autumn. And, if not, I hope that I will have some success with my arachno-tutelage of Catorze. The picture below shows my ingenious scientific spider-eating training in action, and naturellement it takes into account the cat’s innate predisposition towards doing the opposite of whatever is expected or wanted:

Yes, those big spider eyes are cat biscuits.

Le banquet du pêcheur

Lily’s Kitchen have renamed Fabulous Fish as Fisherman’s Feast. I know. I’ll just pause for a minute or two to let that bombshell sink in.

This is such a big deal that even Cat Daddy has an opinion on it.

Cat Daddy: “I like Fabulous Fish much better than Fisherman’s Feast.”

Me: “So do I.”

Him: “I mean, it’s not actually a fisherman’s feast at all, is it?”

Me: “It isn’t.”

Him: “No fisherman would want to eat that.”

Me: “They wouldn’t.”

According to Lily’s Kitchen the formulation remains unchanged, so Louis Catorze should be able to continue to enjoy it as normal. But we are mildly irked by the name change, especially as the dogs’ version of the same food is called Salmon Supper, which is far more accurate and dignified than Fisherman’s Feast.

Luckily Catorze remains unaffected by this life-changing news, plus we decant the food into a dispenser before it reaches him, anyway, so nobody need know. Here is the little sod’s assiette royale, on his spring-summer serving mat, waiting for him to tuck in:

“What a feast!” said no fisherman ever.

La complainte du jeune marin

Football is a big part of my life. So are cats. Sometimes it’s hard to know where one ends and another begins, and it seems that my brain can’t deal with loving both as much as I do.

Me: “There’s a League 2 footballer called Louis, and the commentators on EFL have just called him Louis-boy.” (This is one of Cat Daddy’s more polite nicknames for Louis Catorze, hence why I thought this story would be of interest to him.)

Cat Daddy: “I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t talk about a player like that.”

Me: “THEY DID.”

Him: “Why would they do that? Why wouldn’t they just call him Louis? Or by his surname, like they do with all other footballers?”

Me: “I don’t know. Maybe because he’s only fifteen and so he actually is a boy? I think it’s cute. Louis-boy. Awww.”

Him: “…”

Me: “Google it if you don’t believe me. Type in “footballer Louis Grimsby”.”

[Cat Daddy taps away at his phone whilst muttering indiscernibly ]

Him, looking at his phone: “Louis BOYD. He’s called LOUIS BOYD. They were calling him by his ACTUAL NAME.”

[Silence, tumbleweed, crickets]

Him: “It’s a good thing we found this out before you repeated your idiotic story in front of any Important Footballing People.”

[Stonier silence, more tumbleweed, noisier crickets]

Oh dear.

Ok, so I may have made myself look stupid, but I still think Louis-boy sounds adorable. And suddenly I’m keen to know all the goings-on at Grimsby Town FC in League 2.

Our Louis-boy concurs, although he will always be a Black Cat at heart.

A Mariner? Or the albatross?

L’estomac sensible du Roi

*WARNING: CONTAINS REFERENCES TO CAT PUKE*

I came downstairs on Monday morning to the far-more-familiar-than-I’d-like sound of indignant screaming at The Front. Sure enough, Cat Daddy had dropped the ball again whilst on late-night Louis Catorze duty and the little sod had been shut out all night.

I let him in, hoping that the screaming would stop once he was safely indoors. Nope: he wasn’t done. He circled my feet and continued to scream and scream, all wild-eyed and outraged.

Catorze raced to his water, then to his food. And, because he bolted each one far too fast, within minutes he had projectile-vomited across the living room.

Now, I am not good with puke. I am fine with other bodily secretions – well, not “fine” at all, but you know what I mean – yet something about puke offends me deeply. Most likely it’s the fact that it’s puke.

Our first cat, Nimbus, used to vomit in very convenient, scentless sausage shapes which one could simply lift away. (We did clean underneath, obviously, but we didn’t have to scrub as the solid sausages left no trace, not even on carpet.) Luther only ever puked once – when he ate a snail – so we didn’t have to deal with it habitually, although I did step in the lukewarm, vommed-up snail remains with bare feet which wasn’t very nice. But, whilst Catorze isn’t a frequent vomiter, we barely have any carpet in the entire Château yet he always manages to land on it. I know that he is doing this on purpose. I can’t prove it but I know it.

The plumber arrived when I was mid-clean. He had only ever met and dealt with Cat Daddy until then, and I’m not sure he even knew anyone else lived here, so the poor man must have had an almighty shock when the door was answered by me, hair tied up in a big pineapple shape on top of my head using a pair of knickers as a hair tie, sleeves rolled up and with a bottle of Method cleaning spray in one hand and a puke-encrusted kitchen towel in the other.

And, when he went upstairs to fit the new part to the boiler, Catorze followed to annoy him whilst he worked.

Cat Daddy slept through the whole sorry saga. And he found it very funny that I was the one left to deal with the screaming and the puke when it was his fault for shutting Sa Maj outside in the first place.

It really is a laugh a minute here at Le Château. Unfortunately it’s people laughing at me, not with me.

“You missed a bit, salope.”

Me, myself and HIM: guest blogger Cat Daddy on his woeful life

When I retired, I fully realised that I’d be at home on my own for a lot of my time as Cat Mummy (AKA Cat Freak Wife or simply CFW) plans to carry on working for some years to come. To be honest, that didn’t worry me at all. In fact I was quite looking forward to “time on my own” with the freedom to do whatever I want, whenever I want, without interruption. Bliss.

I’d clearly forgotten one thing: HIM. Le Roi, as we all know him.

For some inexplicable reason and despite my consistent approach of complete indifference towards HIM, I appear to have become the human in the house that HE is most attached to. Lovely as that might sound to some, it’s certainly not what I had contemplated when considering my future time at home.

There are too many annoyances to mention in one blog, so let me try to take you through a very “average” day spent in retirement. With HIM.

CFW leaves for work. I sleep in. I’m awoken by HIS screaming at the bedroom door to come in. Some cats have a meow that soothes. HE doesn’t. HIS meow is caustic, sounding like an elderly Verruca Salt not getting her way. “Meoaaawww.” And so begins the day. I usually give in and let HIM into the bedroom. We cuddle until I get bored. Not long.

Breakfast used to be an ordeal as HE would meoaaw around me and try to barge into my hand for more cuddles whilst I’m trying to drink my tea. So I have developed a new routine: I make a point of putting out our recycling at The Front. HE follows me. I shut the front door once he’s out and settle down for a relaxed breakfast alone and get on with stuff retired people do.

Surprisingly, this trick works every day. I think HE forgets. When HIS screaming at The Front eventually becomes a threat to our good neighbourly relations, I let HIM in. We cuddle.

I’ve learned that I must get out in the mornings to do stuff that retired people do. HE sees me preparing to go out, looks me in the eyes and lets out a very pitiful meoaaw.

Undeterred, I escape. Freedom.

By the time I return HE is usually doing what cats do best: sleeping somewhere in the house. I tiptoe around so as not to wake HIM, doing retired people’s stuff and, weather permitting, escape to our backyard.

Shortly before retiring I asked one of our neighbours, who is a carpenter, to build some seating at the back of our yard. He named it my “retirement bench” and it has become just so: a lovely tranquil place to sit and read. Until HE appears out of nowhere with an excited meoaaw. We cuddle.

Alternatively, if the weather is rubbish, I’ll listen to music indoors which obviously alerts HIM to my presence so HE joins me for a boys’ music club. Thankfully, the music tends to drown out his meoaaw. We cuddle.

My solo time with HIM ends when CFW returns from work, usually much to HIS disgust. HE sulks a bit, maybe disappears off somewhere but eventually returns.

“Meoaaw!” Group cuddle.

Pre-trickery breakfast.
Cuddles.
Retirement bench interruption.
“Don’t leave me!”

La panthère noire vit

At the end of last month, Cat Daddy, Cocoa the babysit cat’s daddy and I went on a farewell tour of Griffin Park. Brentford FC’s last season at its iconic stadium should, of course, have ended in celebration, with Brentford winning the play-offs and a huge party, and, sadly, it wasn’t to be. But a tour was the next best thing.

Our group was led by a lovely lady called Sally, and she took us through the section of the stadium displaying fans’ photos on giant banners. If you missed the story about the banners, here it is: https://louiscatorze.com/2020/06/22/un-chat-sur-un-maillot/

As we walked through, Sally stopped mid-sentence, pointed to a face on one section of the banner and said, “Oh my God, look. There’s a cat.”

Me: “Oh. Erm, yeah. That’s … mine.”

[Silence, tumbleweed, crickets from the rest of the tour group, and laughter from Sally]

Oui, Mesdames et Messieurs: Louis Catorze’s picture made it past the censors:

Où est Le Roi?

The only thing is that the stretched, angled nature of the final printed version – presumably to give the best appearance on television from the overhead cameras – has given poor old earless Catorze a somewhat, erm, phallic shape. This is rather more apparent in some photos than in others:

Le Roi est … long.

I’m disappointed that I wasn’t able to spot him during any of the televised matches, but how lovely that Brentford FC were such good sports.

The league matches of the new football season start today. Let’s hope that the new stadium brings us good luck, and that it won’t be too long before we’re watching football in person.