It was time to de-flea Louis Catorze the other day and, naturellement, he had disappeared.
Cat Daddy: “Have you done the deed yet?”
Me: “I don’t know where he is.”
Him: “I thought you said he’d gone into the guest room?” [This is his new favourite sleeping spot.]
Me: “He did. But he’s not there now.”
Him: “Maybe he’s in our room, or in the attic?”
Me: “I’ve looked. He’s not. And it’s really annoying because I’ve taken the stopper off the Broadline and, once it’s off, you can’t put it back on again. So I’m going to have to balance it precariously upright until we find him again.”
15 minutes later:
Cat Daddy: “He *is* in the guest room. Go and look again.”
I went to check and, after some effort, discovered Catorze asleep on a pile of Cat Daddy’s just-washed cycling gear, nestled into a black top where I couldn’t see him. LITTLE SOD HAD CATMOUFLAGED HIMSELF.
Anyway, he was most displeased when I got him, letting out his raspy old man scowl. And, of course, he has now rolled both the Broadline and his own cruddy self onto the cycling clothes, so we are going to have to wash them again. He could do with a bit of a wash himself, too, because nothing is more icky than a freshly-Broadlined Catorze who has tried to roll off the liquid.
I once described the post-Broadline Catorze to a friend as “looking as if a fish has crawled onto his back and died there”. And I think these photos – taken when he tried to also roll the liquid onto the attic bed – confirm it: