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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.

  • Le Roi est affaibli: vive Le Roi

    Louis Catorze has been very unwell. It’s been the worst few days.

    Our cleaning lady returned, despite the horror that she suffered at Catorze’s paws, and he greeted her with two piles of puke. This wasn’t unusual, because he is always chewing grass. Also, as you know, Catorze is the master of absolutely terrible timing, so to have him puke during someone’s visit was shocking yet not surprising. 

    However, the puking took a really bad turn a couple of days later; it just seemed to be constant and, when I went to clean up one lot, I discovered/stepped in another lot that I didn’t know about. He just didn’t seem to be keeping down any food or drink, so off to the vet we went. And, worryingly, there was no fight when we shoved Catorze into the transportation pod, and deathly silence on the journey there, although started screaming when Kira came into the waiting room. 

    After finding out more about her, I wasn’t that surprised; Kira may very well be the one cat in the world who is worse than Catorze, so he was probably screaming to her for tips.

    Me, to Kira’s mamma: “Aww, what’s your cat’s name?”

    Her: “Kira. It’s the Japanese name for the god of death.”

    Me: “…”

    Her: “And she’s actually tried to murder me a few times.”

    Me: “…”

    Her mamma then proceeded to tell me about how Kira waited until she was asleep and then WENT FOR HER EYES. And, naturellement, Kira, looked as sweet as candy. You see, Mesdames et Messieurs? Demons walk among us, on four paws. 

    We were then joined by a five-week-old black kitten called Salem, who was small enough to fit into his mamma’s hand yet set our eardrums alight with his screaming. It was quite disconcerting being in a room with other cats and Catorze being neither the smallest nor the loudest nor the biggest psycho. 

    I had to hold Catorze in a vice-like grip to allow the vet to examine him, and my effort was such that my Oura ring registered it as “Pilates”. After recording another new Lowest Weight Ever (2.5kg), I left him there for a blood test and scan. Cat Daddy went back later that morning with Catorze’s overnight bag just in case (a blanket, some Orijen, a few sachets of Cool Cat Club and his meds), and he and I then spent an absolutely awful day preparing ourselves for the vet to tell us that Catorze wouldn’t be coming home at all. 

    It turns out that Catorze has pancreatitis. Because he was severely dehydrated after all the puking, they decided to keep him in overnight after all, but – MERCI À DIEU – it wasn’t immediately life-threatening. After some anti-nausea meds and pain relief, Catorze was “a lot more cuddly”. And they called again yesterday afternoon to say that they need to keep him for one more night, but that he’s “eating, purring and demanding attention”.

    Cat Daddy: “Well, I hope he’s enjoying his spa hotel break. I can’t believe we had to provide the bloody food, though.”

    Cat Daddy again: “At least we’ve had some peace and quiet. Although it would’ve been cheaper to go to the Premier Inn.”

    Le Château sans Catorze is a very strange place indeed. We can’t wait to see the little sod again.

    We miss you.

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

  • Le tigre qui s’invita pour le thé 

    A new species of wild cat has been discovered in the forests of Bolivia. The Tigrino – or Leopardus Tilcayo, if you are ever cross with it and want to shout at it using its full name – is an entirely new species to biological science. Humans have been aware of it for a little while, but originally misidentified it as a “lost kitten” (chortle).

    It turns out that our forests and jungles are teeming with tiny cats, most of whom remain below our radar on account of their tiny size and secretive ways. This one (below) is not a new species, but it’s rarely seen, and it’s so little that it could fit into the palm of one’s hand:

    This is Prionailurus Rubiginosus, the rusty-spotted cat native to Nepal, India and Sri Lanka.

    This has tremendous consequences for us. First, the feline army is actually stronger in number than we had originally anticipated, which is bad news for humans when The Uprising happens. 

    Also, I have always had a feeling that Louis Catorze isn’t a normal cat, and this discovery means that I was probably right all along. How many more of us are living with these freakish halfling beasts, knowing full well that something feels off yet unable to prove it?

    Nope, Mothra can’t think of any suitable test subjects.
    All perfectly normal here. As you were.

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

  • Il n’y a ni mauvaises herbes ni mauvais chats

    I’ve been seeing a homeopathic doctor who recommended that I drink an infusion of fennel seeds every night. I rolled my eyes at first, but I’m actually enjoying it. However, Louis Catorze seems to be enjoying it more because, as the infusion brews, he approaches the mug and nuzzles it. 

    Oui, Mesdames et Messieurs: Catorze likes to get high on fennel, in the same way that most normal cats do with catnip. Once again, whilst we know that this isn’t normal, it’s probably still not the weirdest thing about Catorze. 

    Here he is, in the zone. (We don’t know which zone. Just … not the same one as the rest of us.)

    Apologies for the dramatic music, from whatever we were watching on TV. The fennel snort wasn’t that dramatic in reality.

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

  • Le bizarre incident du chat pendant la nuit 

    Remember when giving Louis Catorze extra food at night made him behave himself? Yeah, well, it doesn’t work anymore. I had a feeling it wouldn’t last forever, but I hadn’t expected it to come to an end so soon. 

    Last night Catorze was an absolute hell-beast. First, he knocked over my water bottle and, because I hadn’t put on the lid properly, the contents spilled everywhere. Then he managed to find a plastic bag that I didn’t even know was in the room, and spent half the night thrashing around trying to get into – or perhaps out of – it. When I switched on the light there was no sign of him, nor of the plastic bag. Then, when I tried to go back to sleep again, the thrashing around would resume. 

    It’s starting to sink in that this is just the way he is. It’s not because of full moons or thunderstorms or Hallowe’en coming or Mercury Retrograde or any other such excuse. Our cat is just a massive shite, and age doesn’t seem to be wearying him. 

    Here he is, taking a brief break from his evil deeds and wondering what more he can dream up tonight: 

    Absolute bastard cat.

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

  • Ta maison reflète ton état intérieur

    Our cleaning lady has left the UK permanently (and, no, it wasn’t Louis Catorze’s fault, although it would be understandable for you to blame him after that other fateful incident involving her predecessor) so we had a new one start on Thursday. I was at work so Cat Daddy was left to show her around Le Château. 

    When the lady arrived, Catorze wasn’t around. But she saw his igloo (which we never put away after last winter) and excitedly asked about the cat. Cat Daddy warned her that Catorze could be a bit, erm, full-on, and she didn’t appear unduly concerned by this.

    Cat Daddy then popped out to the local bakery. When he returned, he discovered that Catorze had cornered the lady in the living room and was screaming absolute bloody murder.

    The poor lady turned to Cat Daddy and said, desperately, “What does he WANT?”

    We’ve been asking ourselves the same question for YEARS. We don’t know. Nobody knows.

    By the end of her visit she had progressed to picking up the little sod and cuddling him, but I wonder if that was part of her Fight, Flight, Freeze or Fawn survival instinct? (I always thought it was just Fight or Flight, but there are also Freeze and Fawn, the latter of which involves being super-nice to the threatening party in the hope that they will spare your life.)

    With Cat Daddy still not being fully recovered from his surgery, we really could do without another cleaning lady resigning and leaving the country. Will we ever see this one again? 

    Bastard cat.

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

  • Prête l’oreille à tous

    Louis Catorze’s morning dose of thyroid medication is relatively easy. Well, the Maths isn’t, but the application is, since 0.07ml isn’t drastically different from 0.06ml. 

    However, his evening dose is rather more difficult, because 0.11ml is hugely different from 0.06ml. In fact, it’s a surprisingly enormous amount. And, whereas 0.06ml could be blobbed onto his ear in less than a second, 0.11 requires a kind combined blob-and-smear move, otherwise it just sits on his ear and doesn’t absorb. And Catorze is not a fan of the blob-and-smear move. 

    This is not what we needed at all. That said, it’s either this or pilling the little bastard, and we don’t need that, either. 

    Let’s hope that it’s all worth it when he has his next blood test. 

    Matching tattooed forearms.

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

  • Grogner, couiner et piailler avec les animaux

    If your pet could talk, what is the first thing he would say?

    Oh, come on. As if he’d bother speaking to me.

    Who, indeed, Louis Catorze?

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

  • La guerre de la planète des oiseaux 

    At the risk of sounding like a world-weary elder from a remote forest tribe, what a relief it was when the rains came. I was starting to think it would never rain again. 

    Obviously I couldn’t be more delighted that our poor, parched plants and trees have been watered, and that our filthy streets had the good wash that they desperately needed. However, one thing that I didn’t quite bargain for is that this weather seems to have reignited Louis Catorze’s feud with the parakeets.

    During our many summer heatwaves, Catorze spent a lot of time outside. However, because he tended to be well out of sight, sleeping in the shrubbery or under the tarpaulin cover of Cat Daddy’s outdoor bike, he probably didn’t bother the birds too much. When he was asleep on the outdoor sofa, in plain sight, clearly he wasn’t that much of a threat to them.

    However, during storms, when Catorze is resting on his plinth underneath the outdoor table, he doesn’t sleep. He is very much awake and alert, ears upright, listening to the rainfall around him. And that, I imagine, is far more bothersome to the birds than an apex predator who appears to be unconscious or dead. 

    The parakeets are not happy about the new, vigilant Catorze. I found this out by hearing the God-awful screeching one morning and, when I went to investigate, there was an ARMY of them assembled on the telegraph wires at The Back, all glaring down at him. 

    There were no parakeets – in fact, no birds whatsoever – on the wires overlooking any of our neighbouring houses. Yes, I did actually go to an upper floor window to look. 

    Most of them flew away when I approached, but this handful of hardcore ultras remained behind to keep shouting abuse at Catorze. Oh dear. I hope this isn’t going to be the start of something unpleasant. 

    Not the best photo as I took it through the glass, but the avian and feline culprits are all visible here.

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

  • Le démon dedans

    What’s the most annoying trope in books or films?

    It’s only annoying because people don’t heed the warning: if an animal is unduly agitated by someone or something, it’s bad news. Most likely, that person or thing is haunted. RUN.

    Unless, of course, it’s the animal itself who is haunted. And, if you allowed them into your house, you only have yourself to blame. Sorry.

    What are you waiting for? RUN!

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

  • Saint Jérôme et le lion

    What’s the bravest thing you ever did when no one was watching?

    Erm … gripped a writhing hell-beast of a cat between my knees and shoved sharp metal up their nose? Here’s a throwback from the summer of 2017:

    Louis Catorze started sneezing and snorting late on Friday evening, and this went on at regular intervals throughout the night. At first I thought he was coughing up hairballs, but he hardly ever has them because we are so rigorous with his brushing routine. Plus the sound was more nasal than throaty.

    He seemed otherwise content – shouty, silly etc. – so, after checking his face and mouth and finding nothing untoward, I phoned the vet rather than taking him in, and I described his symptoms as “snorting, sniffing, lots of lip-licking and shaking his head as if trying to get something out of his nose or throat.” They confirmed my feeling that it wasn’t a medical emergency – possibly a seasonal allergy – and recommended a small amount of Piriton if he became too uncomfortable, but told me to monitor him and take him in on Monday if things didn’t settle.

    Hay fever was probably the one, single ailment that Catorze had never had, and I couldn’t believe that we would now have to add it to his extensive list of problems. I ordered some allergen-busting beeswax candles online as I had run out, and I attempted a dose of Piriton but the combination of super-strong, spring-loaded syringe plus unhappy cat meant that it didn’t end very well. The little sod screamed bloody murder, writhed, clawed, drooled like a rabid wolf and then took off to hide in the Forbidden Greenhouse, wearing most of the Piriton on his face and chest.

    After an uneventful afternoon, by evening things hadn’t settled at all: the gurning, spluttering and head-shaking were just as regular. As I went to bed, mentally preparing for the battering that Le Royal Sick Fund would take when I called out the emergency vet on a Sunday, I saw that Catorze had followed me, still snuffling and staring at me as if pleading for help, so I decided to have one last go at checking his face. I put him between my knees, pulled his head right back … and caught sight of what looked like a grass seed sticking out of his right nostril. BINGO.

    I tried to pull it out but the darned thing wasn’t budging, and Catorze was becoming increasingly agitated at my picking and poking. But I held on and persisted, finally succeeding in dislodging the offending item … and, to my horror, I saw that it wasn’t a grass seed at all, but a whole blade of grass (see photo, with a 20p coin for scale). Oui, Mesdames et Messieurs: THE ENTIRE THING HAD BEEN UP HIS NOSE THE WHOLE TIME.

    Ugh.

    I cannot fathom how it could have got up there in the first place, let alone how it stayed there for 24 hours. I don’t think I could get a blade of grass to stay up my nose for more than a few minutes, even if I glued it there. But, thankfully, it’s out now. And, as soon as it was released, the ungrateful little weasel uttered not a word of thanks, instead pitter-pattering off to his papa for Boys’ Club cuddles.

    The moral of this story: cats are ungrateful idiots. But we still move heaven and earth for them to be comfortable and happy, don’t we?

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

  • L’esclave qui se sait esclave

    What’s something you do completely differently from how you were raised?

    When I was growing up, we loved our cats. That goes without saying. But we didn’t pamper them to the same degree that we do now. This is partly due to having fewer resources at the time, but also different attitudes; cats were simply our pets, and we did our best to make sure they were looked after, but we didn’t debase ourselves or compromise our own wellbeing or financial security on their behalf. These days, of course, it’s different. 

    Cat care in the 1980s was super-straightforward: in addition to food (of which there were probably only about four brands) and water (which was always placed next to the food – none of this separation nonsense), all you needed were a flea collar or flea powder, a brush, a cat bed and maybe a few toys. That was it.

    My first cat, Misha, had his likes and dislikes in terms of food – although his diet was supplemented by ferocious hunting and by the ability to open the fridge – but he wasn’t keen on rabbit-flavoured Whiskas. He still ate it, but he didn’t scoff it down with enthusiasm. When my mum discovered this, she simply stopped buying the rabbit variant, and that was the end of that. 

    The idea of any cat, especially one like Misha, going on hunger strike because they didn’t like their food, was utterly laughable. (I was going to add a line here about Louis Catorze and his food ridiculousness, but you know all about it already.)

    Ironically, despite disliking rabbit-flavoured cat food, Misha would hunt rabbits like a stealthy ninja, eating every part of them apart from the gall bladder and the little fluffy tail. Figure that one out. 

    Misha’s favourite party trick, however, was eating pieces of string. If he ever got hold of string, he would take one end in his mouth, then chew until the piece grew smaller and smaller and the other end slowly disappeared into his mouth. (Imagine the spaghetti scene in Lady and the Tramp and you’ll know exactly what I mean.) Instead of keeping him away from all string-like objects, like normal people, my sisters and I thought it was hilarious to give him more string and watch him eat it. Misha would happily oblige every time because, y’know, he just REALLY LIKED STRING. 

    Astonishingly, Misha never required a vet visit because of the string. He barely had any ailments throughout his life apart from, erm, a wound from an air gun pellet (which, at the time, my mum told me was a “bee sting” – I only found out the truth about eighteen months ago), but intestinal stringage was never one of them. Figure THAT one out, too! 

    My youngest sister cooking up some mischief with Misha, circa 1982.

    Louis Catorze has a fondness for rubber bands in the same way that Misha liked string. I warn all chat-sitteurs to be careful with their hair bands, and any rubber bands that enter Le Château are counted in at the end of every day like sharp tools in a prison workshop. If I suspected that he had eaten one, or even been in the same room with one, I would be whisking him off to the vet faster than I could blink. 

    We now have a huge array of cat paraphernalia that wasn’t available to us in the 1980s: cat trees, hypoallergenic food, comedy Hallowe’en cat beds shaped like coffins (or, as Catorze calls them, “beds”), those weird bowls that slow down their eating, Feliway, red dot laser pointers, scent-swapping, cat psychologists … I could go on. All these are relatively recent inventions, and the likes of Misha managed to do just fine without. Catorze, however, is welcome to take his pick, no questions asked.

    The 1980s weren’t THAT long ago. How have we gone from that, to worshipping cats as the kings/gods/autocratic dictators that they now consider themselves to be? I can think of no other explanation other than that the little sods have worn us down over time, and now we have been reduced to this state of servility. 

    It’s both tragic and embarrassing. 

    He knows he’s in charge.

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

  • Les résultats de la prise de sang 3,0

    Louis Catorze went to vet visit last week, for a blood test following the increase in his Methimazole dose. I’d originally booked him in for mid-September; however, since he was starting to itch, I decided to bring forward the blood test and give him his steroid injection at the same time. 

    I gave Catorze the prescribed dose of Gabapentin prior to the appointment, as he can’t be trusted do it sober. The poor little sod was quite meek and compliant throughout the initial examination – I’m sure that it helped to have a male vet – but, when it was blood test time, any prior goodwill that he may have had vanished into the air like dew on a summer’s morning, and he fought the vet with every ounce of his being. YES, DESPITE BEING DRUGGED. 

    The vet couldn’t believe it when I told him that Catorze had been Gabapentinned. He really is the Michael Myers of the cat world (Catorze, I mean, not the vet).

    As a result of his fightiness, they couldn’t extract blood from the first choice site (his neck) and were forced to take it, instead, from his arms. This has left Catorze with a very impressive set of prison tattoos: a neck one and two matching sleeves. 

    Anyway, the results came in the next day, and his thyroid readings are down but still not at a normal level. Catorze has also broken his own record of Lowest Weight Ever and is now 2.68kg. Any chubbing up that he previously did has also evaporated like that morning dew.

    We have to repeat the blood test in a few weeks, this time after a stronger dose of Gabapentin. Until then, his dose of Methimazole has changed from 0.06ml morning and evening, to 0.07ml in the morning and 0.11ml in the evening. Yes, DIFFERENT MATHS (as opposed to the same Maths repeated), with even more hideously unround numbers than those previously used. Good grief.

    So both the males of the household currently require medical attention and, somehow, I have keep the pair of them in order. The fun never stops here at Le Château. 

    His next tattoos are going to be two teardrops on his face (one for me, one for the vet).
    A clearer shot of the neck and the sleeves.

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

  • Le sommeil nourrit celui qui n’a pas de quoi manger

    This is probably an obvious, entry-level part of cat care (or sanity preservation), but we have started leaving food out for Louis Catorze overnight, in the hope that it will make him less of a pest in the early hours. And, so far, it seems to be working, which is great news because he’d just discovered that clawing the inside of my wrist makes me react. 

    (Yes, he’s like a toddler when he wants attention: he doesn’t care if it’s good or bad.)

    The little sod has dramatically reduced his pre-dawn screaming/attacking since we, erm, gave him a never-ending supply of food, and he appears to be satisfied with just one two servings of Cool Cat Club wet food for breakfast, instead of demanding more and more. 

    Cat Daddy and I have agreed that, after 9pm, it’s Orijen only for Catorze. And, astonishingly, he has been eating it without issue, which shows that he was clearly lying when he made me think that there might be something wrong with his teeth.

    We have also had to start letting Catorze out at The Front for an hour or so every night, like letting a rambunctious toddler run off his excess energy to wind down before bed. We can tell when he starts becoming restless and agitated and, as soon as we get up, he gallops to the front door and waits to be let out. Just like the extra food at night, this is also an act of sanity-preservation as it gives us a full sixty minutes without being screamed at, headbutted and clawed.

    So now Catorze is well-fed and well-exercised and we get some peace at night, so everyone’s happy. I wonder how long this new-found harmony will last?

    Here is Catorze out at The Front, enjoying the waxing August moon last week:

    A very bad moon rising.

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

  • Sous la lumière de la lune

    When you think your cat has hung up their hunting boots for good, there’s no really good time for them to prove you wrong. However, the evening AFTER the bin men have been, whilst you’re cosy on the sofa watching the football, is probably the worst time of all. 

    It was Cat Daddy who noticed that Louis Catorze had something in his mouth when he casually strolled in. As he is still incapacitated due to his knee, it was up to me to catch the murderous Catorze and pass him to his papa, who restrained him whilst I looked for a plastic bag. Might I add that I was DEEPLY displeased to have to leave the cosy sofa. 

    “Hurry up, he’s starting to go all strong,” Cat Daddy warned, as he struggled to hold onto an increasingly agitated Catorze. Luckily, by the time Catorze broke free from his designated prison officer, the poor hapless mouse was bagged up and ready to be deposited in its final resting place: the park bin across the road. And, even more luckily, it was dark, so I was unlikely to be seen by anyone. 

    One person who did see me, however, was Foxy Loxy, who was in the park on Important Fox Business. For a moment our eyes met in the half-light, at which point I decided that I might as well drop the the contents of the plastic bag on the ground for him. 

    So the mouse has been disposed of in an environmentally-sound fashion, Foxy Loxy has had a snack and Hounslow Council will be minus one piece of rubbish for landfill. Everyone’s happy. Well, Catorze isn’t happy that his prize was taken away, although he did seem to – shudder – enjoy licking the area of floor from where I’d picked it up. (Don’t worry, it has since been thoroughly cleaned.)

    I shall say this again: how is our creaky, ancient cat still managing to do all this? I would put it down to full moon madness (although shouldn’t an eclipsed moon mean very slightly LESS bad juju?), but you all know that he’s capable of stupid shit anyway, moon or not. 

    What moon madness?

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