Le livre rose

Sometimes you have to ask the question, even if you already know the answer. This is one of those times.

We don’t really need to think about this one.

I snapped up the very last copy of this book from Amazon and, once again, I forgot that the order notifications go through to Cat Daddy’s phone. The conversation that ensued was quite interesting, but this is the abridged version:

Him: “Why are you buying this? You hardly need a book to tell you if he’s gay or not.”

Me: “…”

Him: “And anyway, don’t you already have this book?”

Me: “No, of course I don’t. Why would I buy two of the same book? That would be ridiculous.”

Him: “I’m sure I’ve seen it in the house.”

Me: “You must be thinking of, erm, ahem, my “Poetry for Cats” book which has very similar illustrations.”

[Silence, tumbleweed, crickets]

Anyway, after several weeks of no book, the supplier eventually contacted me to tell me it was out of stock and to refund my money. Then, last week, having been refunded, the book arrived … and, the same day, a friend revealed that she had also bought me a copy.

So now I have two of the same book. Which is ridiculous.

Interestingly, Louis Catorze has not (yet) displayed any of the criteria mentioned in the book. However, I think a reprint is due as the book fails to mention two huge Catorzian pink flags: hanging out with unneutered male cats (Ginger Impinger Dosti, Beefy Tabby Tigger and Donnie, to name but three) and aggressively demanding attention from human males, whether or not they want to give it.

Here he is, scouring the horizon for more men:

“Où sont les hommes?”

Franchir le temps

It’s a full moon and, once again, Louis Catorze’s energy is through the roof, so much so that Cat Daddy has had to kick him out at The Front a couple of times, just to get some peace. Don’t worry, we always remember to retrieve him again (eventually), usually when his screaming becomes embarrassing.

We try to avoid leaving the house when Catorze is on the rampage at The Front. However, sometimes, if he escapes as we’re on our way out and we can’t grab hold of him to drag his arse back in, we don’t have much choice. Luckily he never roams far and, when we come home, he always greets us, screaming himself hoarse, rolling on the pavement and making a spectacle of himself.

One day he escaped as we were leaving to go out but, luckily, some guests were due to arrive later that evening and they had keys to Le Château. So we messaged them and asked if they would mind looking out for the little sod when they arrived, and shepherding him in if possible.

When we arrived home we found our guests engrossed in trashy reality TV, with Sa Maj happily pitter-pattering and chirping around them. We thanked them for letting him in and asked if he’d come willingly or whether he’d had to be forced/tricked.

You know what’s coming next, don’t you, Mesdames et Messieurs?

“He was already in when we arrived.”

Oh. Mon. Dieu.

As you are aware, once he is out at The Front there is no way of re-entering Le Château unless through a window, or by pitter-pattering many, many houses to the left or the right, then hopping over a fence and cutting through many, many gardens to come back again. The former was not available as an option at the time, and we have no evidence that he has either the brains or the inclination to do the latter.

HOW DOES HE DO THIS?

Leaping through space and time.

La farine d’avoine

Louis Catorze’s dandruff has been deteriorating, and I noticed that it looked especially bad just before a friend was due to visit. We couldn’t have him looking scaly and gross in front of visitors so I tried to brush it out, but each brush stroke seemed to just dredge up more crud. I then decided to deploy the colloidal oatmeal powder.

This was probably the right idea. However, I should have executed it a lot better.

Rather than tipping out the powder and letting him roll around in it or his own accord, for whatever stupid reason I decided, instead, to tip it straight from the pack onto his body whilst he lay on my lap. Instead of the light dusting for which I had hoped, huge lumps of oatmeal fell out, each one breaking into a zillion pieces when it hit la personne royale. Each one of those zillion pieces then hit me, breaking into a further zillion pieces as they did so.

Extracting the oatmeal most certainly was not a piece of cake.

The next twenty minutes or so were spent chasing a white cat around the living room and attempting to brush/beat the oatmeal out of him. It only half-worked. When my friend arrived, rather than being dandruff-free, Catorze was still grey in some areas and peppered with both dandruff AND oatmeal, and I was worried that his attempts to groom it off would leave him with stomach cramps or constipation. Luckily this turned out not to be the case, and, because our friend knows the little sod very well, she didn’t bat an eyelid when we said there had been “an oatmeal incident”.

Post-groom mess.

We can’t think of any reason why Catorze’s skin would suddenly deteriorate and, as with the mats, we will check with the vet just in case. Happily, Le Roi is utterly unfazed by it and is continuing to live his best life.

L’épice effrayante

A few nights ago I prepared some fish with a potent herb, spice and salt rub, then I washed my hands and went to cuddle Louis Catorze.

With hindsight, I should probably have done those tasks the other way around – maintaining the hand wash in between, naturellement – because my hands clearly still smelled of the rub and Catorze was confused by this.

His actions and facial expressions were as follows:

1. “Je voudrais des cuddles!”

2. “Merde, it’s her. I didn’t want her. I wanted mon papa.”

3. [Sniffs hand] “What the absolute merde is this?”

4. [Glares] “Does the rest of her smell like this, too?” [Sniffs whole arm]

5. “What even WAS that?” [Goes back to hand again]

7. [Accepts cuddles in an insincere and resentful fashion, in the same way that I do when small children offer me pretend food from their pretend café and I’m secretly wishing it were real food]

This wasn’t quite as bad as the time I decided to make my own green curry paste, and the bashing of the pestle and mortar outraged him beyond belief. But it still serves him right; after those torturous months of having to water his Orijen, throwing away countless portions which didn’t meet the required standard, it’s about time the tables were turned and that HE was inconvenienced by the preparation of OUR food.

“Have you SMELLED yourself lately, salope? Also: feed moi.”

Le salon de coiffure

What the flamin’ flip is all this?

Ugh.
Ugh.
Ugh.

More mats, that’s what. They are materialising from nowhere, like crop circles. It’s almost as if simply being touched by a matty hair is enough to mattify a previously-normal hair, a bit like turning into a zombie when another zombie bites you.

The largest of the three mats quite literally appeared overnight. As in, there was no trace of it in the evening and then, suddenly, the next morning, it was there. I am puzzled and concerned, yet also strangely satisfied that I am getting such good value out of the Dematting Rake.

Apparently there are many reasons for an older cat not grooming efficiently, including arthritis, bladder issues and simply not being as bendy as they were when they were younger. Dental problems are also listed as a reason, although l’m pretty certain that Louis Catorze no longer has them. And it’s just as well, because this was the advice given by one website:

“If they have a painful mouth, they obviously won’t want to use their mouth to groom their fur, causing them to become more matted. Like people, cats need dental cleaning and regular mouth care. If you can, start brushing your cat’s teeth.”

BRUSHING YOUR CAT’S TEETH. Nope, nope and thrice nope.

Anyway, since removing these mats (with some difficulty, I might add), more have appeared, as has Catorze’s unsightly dandruff, and all I can do is continue brushing and raking. To be on the safe side, I’m going to tell the vet about them when we go for his next steroid shot.

Hopefully this is all part of a general spring-summer purge and not a sign of anything more ominous.

This kind of crazy caper probably doesn’t help.

Les pèlerins sont de retour

Me: “So … [our new neighbours next door] have a guest coming for the weekend, and they’d like to know if they can bring her over to meet Louis?”

Cat Daddy: “…”

Me: “Did you hear what I said?”

Him: “…”

Me: “…”

Him: “Are we some sort of tourist attraction now, or something?”

Me: “…”

Him: “Maybe we should put Louis on TripAdvisor? “Come to Brentford and visit the stadium, the steam and water museum and Louis Catorze’s Château”?”

Me: “Erm … so can I say yes to the meet-up, then?”

Him: “You’ve already said yes, haven’t you?”

Me: “…”

Narrator: “So the Sun King bestowed his blessings upon another devotee. And all was well with the world.”

“The world revolves around moi.”

Les herbes folles

Oh. Mon. Dieu. I have just found this among our condiments in the kitchen:

I don’t think the good people of Italy would approve of this in their lasagne.

This is the sachet of catnip that came free with Louis Catorze’s spring-summer bed. And the fact that I found it where I did suggests that a member of our household has been using it in our food.

Now, when someone asks you whether you used the cat’s gear for cooking, there really is only one correct answer. I was, therefore, utterly dismayed when I asked Cat Daddy and he replied, “I’m PRETTY sure I didn’t”.

Oh dear.

Luckily for Catorze, drugs that are given as a free gift with a purchase are nothing special, and his really good shit is safely hidden at the back of the cat cupboard. However, the next time Cat Daddy makes dinner, I’ll be making sure I don’t drive or operate machinery afterwards.

Photo taken by our friend Emily after consuming his birthday edibles. (Catorze consuming them, I mean, not Emily.)

Fixer le regard

A couple of days ago, Cat Daddy and I spent the afternoon in separate rooms watching different television programmes; I didn’t want to watch whatever dull sports thing he was watching and he didn’t want to watch gruesome documentaries about serial killers.

Naturellement Louis Catorze chose to sit in the kitchen with his papa but, after a short while, he came into the living room, where I was, to creepy-stare at me for food. It wasn’t long before I felt so uncomfortable that I succumbed to his sinister mind control, like a brainwashed cult devotee.

Me, to Cat Daddy, as I opened the Orijen tin: “I can’t believe you’re sitting in the same room as the food, yet he came to creepy-stare at ME. Why didn’t he creepy-stare at you?”

Him: “He did.”

Me: “What? And you didn’t feed him?”

Him: “No. I just ignored him. That’s why he went to you.”

Me: “For goodness’ sake. It would have been so much less effort for you to do it. I’ve just had to get up and move rooms.”

Him: “Well, that’s your own fault. You give into him too easily.”

Me: “…”

I have friends who get up at 5am to feed their cats because they can’t stand the physical bullying and intimidation, and I used to think they were pathetic. Yet here I am, being given the runaround just because this tiny, toothy little despot LOOKS at me in a certain way. He doesn’t make a sound. Mainly because he doesn’t need to.

What a look, though. I challenge anyone to remain in the same room with this (see below, with bonus tongue on this particular occasion) and not be desperate to make it stop:

“Feed moi.”

Les invités d’honneur

Louis Catorze had a magnificent birthday weekend and marked it as follows:

1. Stole a hair band from a guest’s bedroom whilst she slept, then rampaged around the house with it during the early hours, eventually dropping it downstairs in the living room.

2. Indulged in some herbal edibles.

3. Had some mystery fun with unknown individuals in the Zone Libre.

4. Played with the toy that he received from Disco the dog:

So. Much. Fun.

Two never-seen-before members of the Chat Noir contingent stopped by a couple of days before the big day, to bid their comrade a Joyeux Anniversaire. We thought this first visitor WAS Catorze until we realised that the little sod was indoors, eating his Orijen in front of us.

Look at the little sod’s tail, and the enthusiasm with which he runs to greet his nouvel ami.
“Bonjour.”

However, Sa Maj was less happy about the appearance of this absolute colossus, who sloped away after Catorze flew at him and told him to get lost:

And you are …?

The only reason he didn’t leave with his tail between his legs is because it didn’t fit. LOOK AT THE SIZE OF IT:

“Dégage!”

The photos aren’t the best because they were taken through grubby glass, but any attempts to go outside would have ruined the photo opportunity, with one or other party scarpering. You get the idea, though. Cats galore. It’s most apt that our place is called the CHAT-eau.

Thank you so much for all your birthday wishes. It’s wonderful to know that Sa Maj has friends around the world.

Official 12th Birthday Portrait.