Merde: in all the holiday rush and drama, I completely forgot to post about Louis Catorze’s blood test results.
Why, yes, that is a blob of thyroid medication on his left ear (our right).
The little sod’s kidney readings are inexplicably normal, although I’m fully expecting all that to turn to shite at a later stage. But his thyroid readings, although lowered, are still not within the healthy range. So the vet has asked us to increase his dosage from 0.05ml to 0.06ml, twice a day.
I’m pretty sure that I could easily draw up 0.06ml of liquid into an empty syringe. However, releasing that much, twice a day, from an already-full syringe is another matter entirely, because it requires me to do Maths. I can’t do Maths. And Maths that involves subtracting rather than adding makes it even worse.
1ml minus 0.06ml … multiplied by … to the power of … OH FOR GOODNESS’ SAKE I DON’T BLOODY KNOW.
Furthermore, the increment from 0.05 to 0.06 is so teeny-tiny that I’m not sure I could dose it that accurately anyway. I’ve probably already given Catorze that much – or more – by accident, maybe multiple times, just by being clumsy.
Because we came away on holiday immediately after receiving the blood test results, it’s been the chat-sitteur, and not us, who has had to deal with the accursèd Maths. We will be arriving home on Sunday so, hopefully, something miraculous will happen on that day to make me suddenly develop the ability to work BACKWARDS in increments of six and not five.
If you had to be an animal for a week, which one would you be and why?
I think most of us would choose to be a cat. But, of all the cats, I would want to be this one. And, after reading this post, I think you probably would, too.
A few weeks ago, sadly, we lost Boots, usurper stepbrother of Antoine, Louis Catorze’s frère-from-another-mère, and wearer of the Chelsea cat collars.
(He actually turned out to be a Crystal Palace fan, as you will see below. However, the fact that he went through enough collars to exhaust the Chelsea Megastore of all supplies – and, to this day, they remain out of stock – means that I will always remember him for his Chelsea collars.)
Boots was a massive arse. All cats are massive arses, of course – and, if you don’t believe this, clearly you have never met a cat – but Boots really was up there among the arsiest of them all.
Arse.
That said, perhaps we ought to be pointing our fingers at the human enablers, not at Boots. He turned up randomly one day, at the house of those who later became his humans. He made his presence known by being mean to the incumbent furry overlords, scrapping with all neighbourhood wildlife and generally being obnoxious. Yet, instead of telling him to sod off, the humans went “Aww!”, took him in and gave him the best of everything. So who is really at fault here for his entitled, shitty behaviour?
Here are my favourite Boots stories over the years, in no particular order:
Wherever he may be, we are pretty sure he’s not resting in peace, and neither is anyone who happens to encounter him on the Other Side. Much love to the big sod (who, despite everything, will be sorely missed), and to his humans.
*SPOILER ALERT: THIS POST REVEALS THE MAIN PREMISE OF STEPHEN KING’S PET SEMATARY.*
Horror fiction doesn’t usually lend itself well to repeated reading – not for me, anyway. However, I may well end up reading Pet Sematary again because I binge-read it (?) in two days, and we’re out in the wilderness with no bookshops around.
Good, but now I need more.
I brought this book to Scotland with me, and I am surprised at just how much it reminds me of Louis Catorze. Obviously Catorze was the first thought in my mind when I saw the evil-looking black cat on the front cover. However, the main character is called Louis, and his neighbour Jud once lived in a place in New Jersey called Bayonne.
On a non-Catorzian note, the biggest surprise of all was discovering that “sematary” is, in fact, NOT the way that Americans spell “cemetery”. The book title is deliberately misspelled to replicate a sign hand-painted by a child. I’m very glad to know this, because I have seen more online debates than you would believe about American versus British spelling, and I have been very tempted to wade in with, “Well, at least we don’t spell “cemetery” as “sematary”! Who DOES that?”
(Nobody, it seems. Well, apart from Stephen King and the fictional kid who painted that sign.)
Anyway, the story is about a patch of unholy ground in the town of Ludlow, where family pets are buried and miraculously come to life again. However, they don’t come back exactly as they were during life. There’s always something weird, a little off, whether that be a different way of walking or something decidedly worse.
Winston Churchill, aka Church, the main character’s cat, comes back from the dead having lost the ability to purr, but with a new-found love of hunting. Despite Louis and his neighbour being the only ones to know that the cat died and was reanimated, everyone can still feel that something is wrong with Church.
Suddenly it all makes sense. Someone buried their sweet little black cat and is waiting for them to come back. Meanwhile, somehow, the slightly-off zombie changeling found its way to us and, eleven years later, he’s still here.
At least we’re not having to deal with him at the moment. Our poor chat-sitteur, however, has reported that, in the mornings, he stands on her chest and screams. Oh dear.
Cat Daddy and I are on holiday, in our favourite hideaway in the Scottish Highlands. Louis Catorze is someone else’s problem in the care of our chat-sitting friend, and she reported massive screaming within a short time of her arrival. To be honest, since she’s chat-sat him before and, despite everything, willingly come back for more, that’s on her.
Can you pinpoint when we left Catorze? Take your time.
As you are all aware by now, noise reduction is something we could really do with at Le Château. So the question is: do we shut Catorze in the car? Or ourselves?
Whilst packing, Cat Daddy placed three coats on the sofa. Catorze slept across all three.
Honestly? Book a two-week holiday miles away from Louis Catorze and his nonsense. In fact, that’s what we’re doing, as from today, which is fortuitous timing as his Steroid Psycho is kicking in AND we’re just coming off a full moon AND it’s Mercury Retrograde.
He chickened out of this jump before, to make us feel sorry for him, but he’s perfectly fine now.
We will probably have the best sleep of our lives over the next two weeks, in the beautiful, temperate Scottish Highlands. And our poor chat-sitteur, on the other hand, will probably have the worst.
Yesterday, we had to return to the vet for Louis Catorze’s blood test. As you are aware, the previous one was an utter cirque de merde due to the little sod fighting off the vet staff so, two hours before this appointment, I had to give him Gabapentin to sedate him.
The thought of this absolutely terrified me. And it didn’t help that the vet, having massively overestimated both my competence and Catorze’s compliance, had supplied the exact amount required in the vial, no more, so there was zero margin for error. I also had horrific visions of Catorze escaping from me before the Gabapentin had kicked in, darting out to the Zone Libre and then losing consciousness in the middle of the school playing field, with scores of concerned kids surrounding him and me having to shout over the fence, “It’s ok, he’s not dead, just drugged!”
Catorze was fast asleep on my bed when I launched my stealth attack, and the poor little sod was so shocked that I don’t think he knew what to do with himself. Anyway, most of the Gabapentin seemed to go into his mouth and, over the next couple of hours, he just grew slower and heavier, with each step appearing laboured. Astonishingly, he followed me downstairs afterwards and sat on my lap, took two long drinks of water, had a good old puke outside and came back to my lap again.
I have often wondered what cats think is happening when we medicate them. Do they think we’re like Henry from Stranger Things, whose voices in his head randomly tell him to do bad things? If so, you’d think they’d stop being such arseholes and treat us a little better to keep us sweet, but tant pis.
Taking a limp, mute cat to the vet was a very eerie experience indeed, but it achieved the desired aim and Catorze has now had his blood test. We will have the results in a few days, although we still don’t really know what we will do if they tell us that he needs to eat that shitty renal food. This is a cat who eats jamón Ibérico but refuses jamón Serrano, after all. (No, we don’t understand it, either.)
Not a single word, there or back.
Anyway, Catorze now has a new lowest weight ever – yes, another one! – which is 2.71kg. And he’s sporting a bald patch on his throat that looks like a prison neck tattoo. But he’s ok. Don’t worry, the trademark scream that we all know and love will be back before we know it.
Over the weekend we had a raging storm in the early hours of the morning, loud enough to wake me up.
When I came downstairs at 5:30am, having been boiled awake (thank you, Jessica, for teaching me this brilliantly descriptive expression) by the heat, I saw that Cat Daddy hadn’t put away the outdoor cushions after Boys’ Club the previous night. Not only were they soaked through, but water had actually POOLED on some of the squishier cushions. And, perched haughtily atop the drenched cushions, was an equally drenched Louis Catorze.
I wish I’d been quick enough to take a photo but, as soon as he saw me, he came bounding indoors, chirping and squawking. But I will never forget this sight. Had he actually … sat outside, exposed to the elements, during the storm? ON PURPOSE?
I know that the answer is probably yes. Yet it still wouldn’t be the weirdest thing about him.
He was actually wetter than this.Maybe not quite as wet as this, though.
My mum came to stay with us last week, for a few days. Her cat, Zelva, rarely meows, something which my brain cannot even begin to fathom, so it was quite a contrast for her to spend time with a cat who is the exact opposite and never shuts up.
When my mum arrived, Louis Catorze was outside, snoozing in a shady spot. When she went outside to say hello to him, he screamed hello back.
Her: “Aww. It’s so nice to hear him speak. Zelva hardly ever does.”
Me: “Be careful what you wish for.”
As expected, the initial hello-scream then broke the seal, triggering an unstoppable torrent of screaming. And it went on. And on. AND ON.
Astonishingly, my mum thought it was cute. Even when Catorze went quiet, she couldn’t resist giving him little squeezes as he lay between us on the sofa, knowing that he vocalises when stroked. Although in Rest Mode, Catorze loved the attention and let out a little chirp with every touch.
When Catorze’s Night Mode was activated, it was as if he’d taken amphetamines. Watching people getting ready for bed was the most exciting thing in the world, despite him not usually being interested. And, between the hours of 6:20am and 6:40am, he went back and forth between my room and my mum’s, screaming and screaming. (Cat Daddy, however, was left to sleep peacefully and remained completely oblivious of all the drama.)
My mum wasn’t even annoyed by the screaming. In fact, not only did she engage with it by replying to Catorze and cuddling him, but she gave him a get-out by claiming that she was awake anyway. Even if true, this was not the point. The point was the PRINCIPLE of being screamed at, over and over again, from 6:20am onwards, when it could have been avoided.
Oh, and, when I went downstairs and checked Catorze’s bowl, he had plenty of food, so he wasn’t screaming with hunger. We suspect he just wanted attention, but it’s more likely that we will never find out the exact reason.
By the time my mum went home, I expected her to be heartily sick of Catorze’s noise. But, instead, she said she would happily live with such a screamy cat. No, we don’t understand it, either, but we’re here if she ever fancies a cat swap.
Louis Catorze didn’t come to be fed yesterday morning, which is highly unusual for him. I went about my usual morning routine, expectantly looking out for his up-tail sailing past and listening out for his voice, but there was no sign of him.
Catorze doesn’t tend to wander far, and we have learned from experience that, if he goes missing, we should give it at least three days before we start to worry. However, wandering into a searingly-hot greenhouse during a heatwave is exactly the sort of thing he would do; in the back of my mind was the displeasing vision of him on a neighbour’s premises, having dried up into a brittle crisp in an outbuilding somewhere.
I messaged Cat Daddy from work and asked him to send me proof of Catorzian life. And it didn’t take long. I probably should have looked here first:
Ha!
Catorze was never missing; the little sod had overslept because he and Cat Daddy had stayed up late together to watch Scotland v Brazil.
And, naturellement, upon finding his boy, Cat Daddy then opened the awning so that Catorze would be protected from the sun.
Here he is again, having just had his SECOND ice cube massage of the day. You won’t be surprised to know that he’s now started to scream, headbutting and claw us when he wants them:
Which languages do you speak, and how does that impact your life?
Louis Catorze is a highly-skilled polyglot, able to communicate with humans, dogs, foxes, squirrels and birds. However, they don’t usually want to hear what he has to say, so it impacts his life by gaining him enemies. This isn’t great.
One day, I was lucky enough to be able to witness this communication in action, although I don’t believe that anything good was being said by either party.
I follow a writer and influencer on Instagram who specialises in female hormones, and recently she recommended spending the first half hour of the morning without your phone and, instead, going outside and getting a few minutes of sunlight. Apparently early morning sun in your face helps to regulate your sleep-wake cycle, something which has really gone to merde lately due to the heat.
I decided to give this a try one morning and, naturellement, it resulted in one of those classic “Dammit, I wish I had my phone on me” moments. This would have been INCREDIBLE to capture on video because nobody will believe that it actually happened, but tant pis.
I settled on the outdoor sofa with a blanket and was soon joined by Catorze. It was beautifully peaceful out there … until a parakeet landed on one of the telegraph wires overhead and stared, dead-eyed, at Catorze, who was on my lap.
Then the screeching started.
If you live in London, you will know what a God-awful thing it is to hear the parakeets screeching. The little bastards start before sunrise and stop whenever they want (or not at all). However, this time, Catorze decided to reply back to the feathered aggressor. And, at one point, they were actually alternating sounds, as if having a proper conversation:
“Screech!”
“Mwah!”
“Screeeech!”
“Mwah!”
“SCREEEEEEECH!”
“Mwah!”
It really was as literal as that, with each avian utterance followed by a feline one. And, whilst Catorze’s mwahs remained gentle and low, the parakeet’s screeches rose progressively in volume and pitch, as if he were becoming angrier and angrier.
If you’ve ever been in an argument with someone, only for them to mutter something after you thought YOU’D had the last word, this is exactly what it was like. The parakeet was the Last Worder and Catorze, the Post-Last-Word Mutterer determined to make him madder (and doing a fine job, I might add) by remaining irritatingly nonchalant and saying random shit when the argument was supposed to be over.
And all of this took place with Catorze on my lap, therefore drawing me into the conflict whether or not I wanted to be involved.
I don’t know whether parakeets, like crows and magpies, remember the faces of those who have pissed them off. I’m really not in the mood for all-out war with the parakeets, so let’s hope that this one will only remember Catorze and forget that I was ever there.
For all those who believe that cats only mwah at humans, have a look at the video below. THERE IS MWAHHING.
Merde: we have another heatwave this week, with severe weather warnings in London today and tomorrow.
What the absolute NOOOOO. Also: why do 30°C and 35°C warrant warnings but 37°C doesn’t?
This week, Cat Daddy will be spending a whole day babysitting a two- and a five-year-old. I will be teaching teenagers and taking a group of them on a theatre trip. I don’t know which of us will have the worse time – I think probably him – but we are bracing ourselves for the most horrendous week of our lives.
Meanwhile, Louis Catorze will be snoozing in shady spots all day then, when we return home, enjoying ice cube massages. Despite heatwaves being bad news for black animals covered in fur, his week will be far from the most horrendous of his life. In fact, he will have a blast.
Something about this arrangement doesn’t quite seem fair, yet here we are. And I bet you have a similar sort of deal with your furry overlords, don’t you?
Cat Daddy, to Louis Catorze: “Why are you lazing around indoors when it’s such a beautiful day? Why aren’t you outside, enjoying your last summer?”
Me: “What do you mean, “last summer”? You think he won’t have any more? Not even one?”
Cat Daddy: “SEVENTEEN, though? Come on.”
Why not? After all, we didn’t think sixteen were a possibility, yet here we are. And, aside from old man white hairs, extra neediness, and a lesser desire to scale the garden fence every evening, we aren’t really seeing any signs of his age.
Considering making the leap … then NOPING the hell out of it.
Joyeux Solstice à tous. Hope you and your furry overlords/ladies have a wonderful weekend.
louiscatorze.com 