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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.

  • La blessure est l’endroit où la lumière entre en vous

    Louis Catorze has just walloped his head badly on the tiled floor. 

    The little sod was playing with his pink butterfly on a string when it happened. Bizarrely, he wasn’t leaping for the toy. That actually might have made a bit of logical sense but, as you are probably aware by now, logical sense isn’t something that we do here at Le Château. 

    Catorze had actually caught the toy between his front paws and was standing with both back feet firmly on the ground. Then, for reasons that I will never understand, he decided to do a somersault, landing on his head. 

    The clunk was so loud that it even stopped Cat Daddy in his tracks, diverting his attention from the Derby della Madonnina for a good minute or so. Catorze himself looked quite shellshocked but then scratched his ear, shook himself down and pitter-pattered outside. 

    Me: “Oh God. What if he’s gone outside to find a quiet place to die?”

    Cat Daddy: “He’s probably just embarrassed.”

    Me: “Don’t be silly. Cats don’t know or care what embarrassment is.”

    Him: “It’s that toy. It’s probably got him stoned as hell. I bet he didn’t even know what he was doing, like those rock stars who OD on coke and stuff.”

    Erm, the toy didn’t have any catnip in it, but good try. 

    I have a really busy few weeks at work, so it’s absolutely the worst time to be checking Catorze every few minutes to make sure he hasn’t died from a bleed on the brain. And, in the event that I have to take him to the vet, would they even believe that my geriatric cat aged almost sixteen just randomly decided to do a somersault, for no reason?

    UPDATE: Catorze pitter-pattered back indoors again and has seemed normal (by his own pitifully low standards) ever since.

    The Sun King is fine.

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

  • Je suis bien dans ma peau, car elle est juste à ma taille

    What is the last thing you learned?

    Cat Daddy and I know that Louis Catorze is tiny. We’ve always known this. But, over the years, the little sod has mind-controlled us into using him as the benchmark for how all cats ought to be. And, recently, it has dawned on us just how much his freakishly small stature has skewed our world view on cat size. 

    We have just visited a dear friend in North Yorkshire, who has six cats. These were our reactions to each of them:

    Harley and Hendrix, the tux and cow-cat: “Rangy, meaty boys!” It turns out that they’re not. Harley is 4.1kg and Hendrix, 5kg, making them Normal Cats. 

    Normal.

    Their sister Snoodle was a little shy and spent much of our visit under cover, so it was quite difficult to see exactly how big she was. But when she dashed out from under one blanket to seek a second hiding place beneath another, we gasped, “She’s quite a meaty girl!” Nope. 5kg makes her also a Normal Cat.

    Nervous but still Normal.

    Ponder, the gigantic tabby: “Oof! What a hefty beast!” At 6.7kg, despite being over double Catorze’s weight, he is still a Normal Cat, albeit at the upper end of the range. 

    Normal.
    Oh my word, my hand looks tiny on him. But still Normal.

    Marigold and Treacle: “Ahh! Normal cats!” Well, yes and no. Both are at the lower end of the weight spectrum, at 3.5kg and 3.1kg respectively but, being older ladies with health issues, this is about right for them. Conclusion: Normal Cats. 

    Marigold: Normal.
    Treacle: Normal.

    So it turns out that Catorze, who was 2.92kg at his last vet visit, is the only one who isn’t a Normal Cat. 

    I know. It’s shocking news. Please sit down and take some time to absorb this.

    This is how we were greeted when we returned from our trip. Not Normal (although Normal for him).

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

  • Tu ne sais pas à quel point tu me rends malade (Partie 3)

    *WARNING: CONTAINS GRAPHIC REFERENCES TO CAT PUKE.*

    What are three objects you couldn’t live without?

    Rubber gloves, antibacterial spray and kitchen towel, it seems.

    Cat Daddy: “Where’s the hallway doormat gone?”

    Me: “I had to put it outside to dry.”

    Him: “That was ages ago. I thought I’d brought it back in?”

    Me: “You did.”

    Him: “So what’s it doing back outside?”

    Me: “…”

    Him: “Oh God. He didn’t … did he?”

    Me: “…”

    Him: “AGAIN?”

    Yes, and this time it was worse: as I came downstairs I could just make out, in the half-light, a convenient sausage-shaped package of puke on the hallway floor. Not great, but at least I would be able to easily clean it off the wooden floorboards, in one sweep.

    Then, when I switched on the light, the full  horror of the situation became apparent. There was a lot more than I thought, and most of it was, once again, on the textured doormat. The convenient sausage-shaped package told only half the story, with the other half being a complete fright-fest of random splatters all over the mat.

    So there I was, back outside with a steaming kettle. Again.

    Cat Daddy then did some spewing of his own, except that his consisted of the customary Unrepeatable Expletives interspersed with, “He’s on his way out, you know. It’s the beginning of the end, and it’s going to cost us a fortune in vet bills.”

    No, it’s not. He’s eaten a bit of grass. But if it makes you feel better to be dramatic about it, fine. 

    Anyway, Catorze appears to be completely fine now. However, as the weather warms up and he starts spending more time outside, I expect there will be more of this. 

    Absolute bastard cat.

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

  • 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