Louis Catorze really has surpassed himself this time with his dark arts and sorcery.
It was 6pm and, once again, he had eaten around his pill leaving it untouched in his bowl, so I had no option but to dig it out from inside the Pill Pocket and Greco it to him. I decided to grab him whilst he was on our bed – better a static target than a moving, screaming one – and this was the sequence of events that unfolded that terrifying evening:
1. First Greco attempt: spat out.
2. Second attempt: spat out.
3. Third attempt: little sod not only spat it out but rolled on top of it. And there was no unrolling him.
Yes, I know that he only weighs 3.5kg (or thereabouts). Yes, I know that I weigh considerably more. But this is Catorze we are talking about; if he doesn’t want it to happen, it won’t.
4. Fake-stroking in an effort to make him unroll.
5. Purring but no unrolling.
6. More fake-stroking.
7. Purring but no unrolling.
Eventually I gave up and decided to go back downstairs. At this point Catorze decided to join me and stood up to stretch.
The pill was nowhere to be seen.
I. Looked. Everywhere. It was neither in the folds of the duvet, nor on the floor, nor stuck to Catorze’s fur (and I made sure of this, patting him down like a prison officer searching an inmate for a concealed shank). Rien, nichts, niente, nada.
THE SPOOKY LITTLE FREAK HAD MADE HIS PILL DISAPPEAR. And we still haven’t found it.
I am nowhere near competent enough to take on this kind of devilry. And Catorze knows this perfectly well.