A few days ago, I was woken by the sound of the council mowing the grass in the park at The Front.
As I made my way downstairs the hum of the mower suddenly changed pitch, and my first thoughts were: “That mower must have just run over some rocks, or they need to oil it or service it or SOMETHING.” I then realised that the change of sound was not the mower but Louis Catorze, screaming his little lungs out on the doorstep outside, having spent the whole night out at The Front.
It turned out that Cat Daddy, after a few too many glasses of Mâcon Villages, had not seen him dart out when he was putting the empty wine bottles in the recycling. Luckily the little sod was neither hurt nor hungry nor thirsty nor frightened, just affronted at the inconvenience of it all. And, better yet, this did not take place during the road resurfacing, as Catorze would most likely have clambered into one of the trucks left overnight and pressed random buttons for fun.
Cat Daddy, when I told him later on: “Oh dear. He actually DROWNED OUT THE MOWER with his screaming?”
Anyway, Le Roi has had cuddles galore and the entire incident has been forgotten. The one benefit of him being this dim is that nothing upsets him for very long. However, since each new memory that he makes erases a previous one, I fear that he will, most likely, do it again.
He will, won’t he?