This week, we have been mostly dealing with this kind of caper:
Not again!
In other news, I don’t know whether it’s a Weird Moon, whether the planets have aligned themselves in some unique way, never up be repeated again, or perhaps some other mystical force is at work here? But we appear to have solved a long-running Château mystery this week.
The mystery relates to the bird feeder and the fact that its fixing is buckled and coming away from the fence. Obviously it doesn’t help that Cat Daddy has now spent far more money on booster devices to deter the parakeets than he ever spent on the original apparatus, so it’s much heavier than it was when he bought it. But he was convinced that some beast larger than the goldfinches had been leaning on it and/or trying to rip it off the fence.
Oh dear.
Anyway, one fine morning, our weekend house guest managed to capture this:
What the actual HELL?
We have never seen Louis Catorze do this before. And, if I had ten Châteaux, I would bet the whole darned lot of them on him never being caught doing it again.
Next week’s mystery: how has our creeper, which once obscured the whole fence, suddenly fallen down in this one area?
In the U.K. last week, a person (who remains unknown, but I would bet Le Château on them being male) called the police to report that they were being followed by a cat. The story went viral in the media, leading the police to remind us, “Think before you dial”.
Despite being a nation of animal lovers, we Brits were quick to laugh at the story and/or condemn the caller. We may well live in a strange age of Amazon orders and takeaways arriving long before the police ever would but, even so, we don’t like the idea of anyone wasting their time.
But what if YOU were that hapless man? And what if the cat looked like this (below)?
You see? It’s not so funny now, is it?
“I’m sorry, caller, you want to report WHAT?”“Please secure your doors and windows. Uniformed officers will be with you soon.”
One of my international students, R, has lots of cats back home in Cyprus. Two of them are called, erm, Fluffy and Hitler. But the others don’t have names, nor is he even sure of how many there are. My mind is utterly blown at the thought of naming some cats but not others, and not knowing exact numbers.
Just a normal day at R’s house. (Picture from videostatic.com.)
Me: “What do you say if you want to call one of the nameless ones over to you?”
R: “I go “Pssspssspssspsss”.”
Me: “But then what if they all come?”
R, looking at me as if I’m an utter idiot: “That’s good. More cats coming to me.”
A good point, well made. More cats are always better than fewer cats. Unless they’re all this kind of cat:
It’s the summer solstice and, despite that we often refer to this time of year as Midsummer, it’s really the START of astrological (or maybe astronomical?) summer. I am firmly an autumn person, but Louis Catorze LOVES the summer – well, he is the Sun King, so it’s not surprising that he loves the long, bright evenings. Usually, I post something heartwarming and positive about him on this day. However, this year, I’m at my wits’ end because Catorze has rediscovered his lust for blood.
Last week the little sod caught three mice in a few days. Whilst most normal cats are taking it easy in the heat to conserve their strength, our old boy is finding the energy to hunt. Two of the mice – or, rather, what was left of them – were given the customary burial in the park bin across the road, and I successfully avoided That Neighbour (who disapproves of park bins being being used for this purpose*) during the drop-off. The third mouse was released by Catorze in the garden, before he could make it to the house, and it may or may not still be at large.
*That Neighbour may have a point: Hounslow Council say that we’re not supposed to put “domestic waste” in public bins. But what are we supposed to do if, for instance, the collection is at 7:00 and the bastard cat brings a mouse at 7:01? Should we really keep a mouse corpse rotting in a plastic bag for a whole week until the next collection?
Is one mouse “small scale”? Do two or more mice make it “large scale”?
1. It’s part of an involuntary natural instinct. 2. The mice/rodents are gifts borne out of love. 3. Cats think we are rubbish hunters, so are attempting to show us how it ought to be done. 4. Cats are little shits.
Somehow, despite the fact that one of those ideas stands out head and shoulders above the others, I didn’t come to any firm conclusions at the time and left the whole debate open. I know. What an idiot.
Now, the reason I refer back to this is because of what happened when Catorze released La Souris Numéro 3 last week. He was on his way indoors with it and, when he realised that Cat Daddy had seen him, he dropped the mouse and scarpered.
Let us, if you will, consider the above four theories once more, with specific relation to this highly suspicious action:
1. Were hunting an involuntary natural instinct (i.e. cats are evolved to catch rodents for food), it would have made far more sense to scarper WITH the mouse. Why lose your dinner AND potentially allow the taker-by-surprise to grab it?
2. Were hunting a thoughtful, selfless gesture, Catorze would, surely, have approached his papa to deliver it, rather than running?
3. Were hunting merely a helpful demo for the benefit of us humans, again, wouldn’t Catorze have approached Cat Daddy to say, “Voilà! This is what you need to do, papa!”?
This only leaves number 4. And we’ve all seen enough heinous crime documentaries (haven’t we … or is it just me?) to know that innocent individuals don’t run when confronted.
I hereby conclude that the “Why cats hunt” debate, which pre-dates time itself, is over. Although we knew the answer anyway, didn’t we?
Joyeux Solstice. May all cat freaks spend this glorious day – and this season – sans souris.
The football fixtures for the next season were announced last Thursday. I had been looking forward to that day for weeks and was up early, sitting eagerly with my phone. (They don’t release the dates until 9am so I know that it’s a waste of time expecting anything to happen before then, but such was my excitement that I can’t help it.)
Packing for the next away game. I think that’s everything?
If you know anything about football, you will know that each club has a mascot. Brentford FC is known as The Bees, so it will be no great surprise to know that our two mascots are Buzz Bee and Buzzette. I find them quite terrifying, and I’m always trying to dodge them at matches when they come at me with their creepy hands. (Picture not shown on account of the creepiness.)
Our bitter West London rivals, Queen’s Park Rangers, also have a mascot. And this is it:
Erm …
I know. The fact that a Chat Noir would work for the opposition is bad enough, but Louis Catorze is quite outraged by the fact that it appears to be a vampire Chat Noir.
“Excuse-moi?”
The mascot is based on a real-life black cat by the name of Jude, who used to live at Loftus Road (as it was then called, before its name changed to the Kiyan Prince Stadium). I haven’t been able to find much information about Jude, other than the fact that the club’s then-new owner decided in 2007 that Jude should leave the stadium and move in with a member of staff. “No official reason” was given for the move, but there were rumours at the time about anti-black cat superstition and fear.
Given that Jude had apparently lived at the stadium for TWENTY YEARS until his eviction, perhaps there was some truth behind this. Could Jude be an otherworldly shapeshifter who is still alive and well and annoying the merde out of some poor person in W12? Has he outlived the person who originally took him in? Will he outlive the whole darned lot of us?
Although it’s highly unlikely that a QPR supporter will be reading this, I can’t help hoping that someone will reply and answer our questions.
Describe one simple thing you do that brings joy to your life.
We’re finding them anything but simple, but Cat Daddy and I are enjoying our guitar lessons and, happily, there have been no further Code Brun incidents. We have lost all sensation in our left hands, but at least we are now 0.1% less dreadful than we would have been had we not practised. And we are having great fun discovering all the songs we can play using the same few chords over and over. I don’t suppose our neighbours are having quite so much fun with this, but tant pis.
Whilst I accept that we aren’t great, and that it will take us years to become even passable, Cat Daddy is unbelievably impatient; he wants to be Dave Gilmour tomorrow. I have tried to explain that even Dave Gilmour took time to become Dave Gilmour, but he won’t listen.
Louis Catorze can’t stand the guitar. I am mystified as to how he can sit through hours and hours of pounding Led Zeppelin during Boys’ Club yet, after just hearing a single note of my guitar, he’d had enough. And I don’t even mean a single chord; I mean A SINGLE NOTE. I plucked one string one time and, after flatlining his ears and glaring at me in absolute horror as if I had just set fire to the last remaining pack of Orijen on this earth, the little sod was off.
I found Louis Catorze’s mouse on the afternoon of that incident. Luckily I didn’t have to search under the bed because, erm, the flies very helpfully guided me to where I needed to look. And it had no head, which either means that he has a taste for them (ugh) or I need to start shaking out every single under-bed item (much worse).
Two nights later, there was a further altercation: a squirrel (I think?) was scrabbling around in the wisteria outside my bedroom window, making the most infernal chattering racket. Sa Maj, perched atop my feet in bed, was deep in conversation with it.
And, yesterday afternoon, another mouse. Good grief.
So I’m not too happy with the animals of TW8. However, at least I don’t have to deal with live rat visitors, like my friend in India who has named her most recent house guest MonsterRat Caballé. She is quite the behemoth (the rat, I mean, not my friend).
In very slightly less awful news, hay fever season is upon us and, because I’ve been a bit useless at remembering to take my daily dose of local honey from Hen Corner, I haven’t fully escaped the symptoms. And I’ve had it with the “Can’t you take antihistamines?” brigade. Wow, I never thought to try antihistamines! Thank you for your insightful help!
Cat Daddy: “You get all the ailments, don’t you? You must be a little runt, like Louis.”
Me: “Sorry, what?”
Him: “Not that that’s a bad thing. I mean, I took him in, didn’t I? I took you in, too.”
Me: “SORRY, WHAT?”
[Silence, tumbleweed, crickets.]
Anyway, Le Roi does not approve of my symptoms.
If he is on my lap when I sneeze, he swiftly departs. In fact, even when he feels me do the deep intake of breath that leads to a sneeze, he’s off, doing the bird-chatter noise as he goes. (Yes, I know this is weird beyond belief, but, y’know, Catorze an’ all.)
The last time I sneezed, the little sod took off, muttering obscenities under his breath. He returned but, when I sneezed again, he decided that enough was enough and went to sit on another sofa, glaring balefully at me.
Now, it may not sound surprising for a cat to dislike sudden noises such as sneezes. However, Cat Daddy has a a sneeze so monstrous that it sonic-booms birds from trees several miles away. He even apologises when he can feel one coming because it’s THAT offensive. And, would you believe, when Catorze is on his papa’s lap, he doesn’t even flinch during this absolute beast of a sneeze. Not so much as an ear-flick.
Clearly boys can do no wrong in Catorze’s eyes. But then we knew this already, didn’t we?
Boys’ Club. And what looks like a piece of grass seed shrapnel on Catorze’s arm.
I am prepared to cut Louis Catorze some slack when it’s a full moon; there’s no way that a black vampire cat CANNOT be affected by it so, sometimes, maybe he just can’t help it (whatever “it” may be). However, when the moon is in its NEW* phase, it’s more difficult.
*This is not a new moon in the way that most selenophiles would understand; in this household, NEW stands for No Excuse Whatsoever, meaning it’s not full yet the cats are still pissing us off.
On Saturday morning, at 4:15am, I was awoken by galloping and squeaking. I realised that Catorze was under the bed, and that he had company. This is never good.
I nervously pointed my phone over the edge of the bed like a periscope, and captured this:
Cat Daddy, much later: “Maybe he was chasing one of your socks around?”Me: “Does this LOOK like a sock?”Cat Daddy: “…”
By the time I had fully registered what was going on, both Catorze and the mouse had darted under the bed and were right in the middle, so I couldn’t reach them. I then decided to, erm, shut the door and leave both gladiators to fight it out in the amphitheatre, with the survivor being declared the winner. At that stage I didn’t care which one it was.
Cat Daddy was asleep in the attic bedroom (because we sleep very badly together), so I went to join him.
Me: “Louis has brought a mouse in and released it under the bed.”
Him: “Oh. So you thought the best thing to do was wake me?”
Me: “…”
Him: “Where is the mouse now?”
Me: “Still under the bed. I’ve just left them until one of them dies.”
Him: “We can’t just leave them there. We’ll have to try and catch it ourselves.”
We shuffled downstairs and Cat Daddy went to fetch a dustpan and brush. Catorze was still under the bed, tail swishing.
Cat Daddy: “We won’t be able to get the mouse out if he’s there. Can you grab him from that side?”
Me: “I can’t reach.”
Him: “Try! Grab his tail!”
Obviously I wasn’t going to pull Catorze’s tail in case it came off in my hand, but I managed to get my fingertips to his rump, haul him out and shut him out of the bedroom. However, we then realised that we needed him in order to locate the mouse, like a water-divining rod, so we promptly let him back in again.
Unfortunately, due to the amount of stuff under our bed, we had no way of actually seeing the mouse. So we reverted back to my original plan of shutting the bedroom door and leaving them to it, gladiator-style.
After a couple of hours of strange dreams involving all manner of dead and undead mice, I cautiously tiptoed back into the bedroom, hoping to find a dead mouse tastefully presented in the middle of the floor. However, all I saw was a sleeping Catorze on the bed. No mouse.
“Nothing to see ici, mes amis.”
Did Catorze eat it (unlikely, but then he’s all about the element of surprise, especially if it’s a surprise that nobody wants)? Is it living it up in the box containing Cat Daddy’s cycling gear? Has it managed to squeeze underneath the floorboards? Is it decaying acridly in the June heat, ready to be discovered by our easily-scared cleaning lady, like that other time when she found a rat that Catorze had saved for later?
Tune into the next episode of Le Blog, when the answers to all of the above will, erm, most likely still not be revealed.
If you have a spare 729 hours, type “Fluent Pet Buttons” into YouTube. (Merci, Raven. This is all your fault.)
If you are sensible and daren’t do this, don’t worry; reading this post will give you enough information whilst also saving you from the abyss. (I am reluctant to call it a rabbit hole because, despite their labyrinthine twists and turns, rabbit holes have exits. Abysses – that word looks so wrong but I think it’s right – don’t.)
In short, Fluent Pet Buttons are devices onto which we can audio-record different words, and pets learn which one to press according to what they want. The entry level kits contain four buttons and suggest basic instructions such as “Outside”, “Play” and “Bed” although, as you will see from the YouTube videos, it seems that one can’t stop at four buttons. The more you get, the more you want, rather like cats themselves (obviously not mine, though).
Picture of Billi from news.vin.com.
Would I buy these for Louis Catorze? Probably not. Firstly, erm, I don’t think he is heavy enough to apply the required pressure; they claim to be easy to press “even for small learners”, but his “small” isn’t like most animals’ “small”.
Secondly, Catorze already has us under his spell with his powers of mind control; we have come to know what he wants. So why exert himself by pushing stupid buttons when he can just THINK about what he wants and get it?
Thirdly, and most importantly, Cat Daddy already complains about Catorze’s stuff every time he goes into a room. He would never condone adding such tone-lowering baubles to an already-extensive collection of garish cat playthings, and I’m not sure I could cope with the Unrepeatable Expletives that would ensue if I bought them without telling him.
What do you think would be the four sets of words recorded, in the highly unlikely event of Catorze losing his powers of mind control and me having to buy the starter kit? Certainly “Feed Moi”, “Boys’ Club” and “The Front”, but what else?
After a week or so of assaulting Louis Catorze with hands covered in coconut oil – which he really didn’t like – his fur was 88% greasier than before, and the dandruff was 0.01% better. However, when I gave him his spot-on treatment, things miraculously improved.
Not quite there, but better.
A friend told me that her cats had a tendency towards dandruffiness when their flea treatment was due, and it seems that this is the same for Catorze. As you can see from the photo, he tried immediately to rub the liquid off his body and onto whichever surface happened to be available (the more expensive and/or absorbent, the better). And, on this occasion, he somehow managed to also rub it all the way down his spine, making himself look like a Rhodesian Ridgeback dog for the rest of the day. However, if spreading the liquid around means dispersing its magical, dandruff-busting powers, I am ok with that.
Now, however, this begs the question of what actually caused the dandruff. Was it a reminder from his skin that the flea treatment was due? Or could the little white specks have been – shudder – flea eggs? Having barely got to grips with the fact that fleas have shat on his body, the thought of them reproducing on it is almost too much to stomach.
Meanwhile, whatever shenanigans may or may not be going on within the depths of that fur, and for reasons that I cannot fathom, I am still letting Sa Maj sleep on my bed. I woke up a couple of mornings ago with him like this (below). I know. I need help.
I’m sure I’m just imagining the feeling of things crawling.
How do you know when it’s time to unplug? What do you do to make it happen?
Unplug what? My internet router? Well, this incident brought me pretty close:
Naughty naughty, very naughty.
On Saturday I received a yellow card from the Facebook Gestapo for a comment that contravened The Rules by “inciting violence”. They were referring to my statement that Louis Catorze needed, and I quote: “a kick up the arse”.
Cat Daddy: “Oh dear. You’re worse than Kurt Zouma.”
You know when unjustly-accused suspects tell the police, “While you’re wasting time on me, the real perpetrator is still out there”? Yes, that. Exactly that. I once reported some random Instagram user for writing “Send him back to Africa” on a black (English) footballer’s page, only to be told that the comment did NOT break the rules. In fact, that day, I reported countless comments expressing similar sentiments, and was repeatedly told exactly the same thing. Yet here they are, coming after ME for stating – on a closed forum, with no impressionable kiddos present – that my cat needed a kick up the arse.
Might I add, too, that Catorze absolutely DOES need a kick up the arse. Everyone knows this. Even people on the other side of the world who have never met him, know this.
So now it seems I’m not allowed to state facts about this coercively-controlling furry psychopath who rules our house, leaches our money and hastens our march to the grave. And it wouldn’t surprise me to discover that he had something to do with all this.
If a tree falls in a forest and nobody is around to hear it, does it make a sound?
Similarly, if Orijen is placed in a cat’s bowl and he is not around to witness the serving, does the food even exist? Having given this question the lengthy consideration that it deserves, Louis Catorze says NON.
I know that he was hungry, because he was creepy-staring long before I took this photo. I dutifully went to the kitchen and refilled his bowl. But, because the silly sod didn’t follow me and watch as I did it, he doesn’t know his bowl is full. And I’m not getting up again just to lead him – or, worse, CARRY HIM – to his feeding station just to say, “Voilà!”
So it seems as if we are stuck here for a while until someone blinks first. Which one of us will it be?
Louis Catorze’s fur collects everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, whether animal, vegetable or mineral. Part of the appeal of black cats is that their fur supposedly doesn’t show up the dirt in the same way that white cats’ fur does, but Catorze’s coat attracts crud just as a magnet attracts iron. Here is just one example of the delights that can be found within:
Ugh.
At the moment the crud du jour is, regretfully, dandruff, and, the more I brush, the more he churns out. It improved when he switched to the most expensive cat food on the planet (well, you’d hope so, wouldn’t you, since, gram for gram, Orijen is more expensive than cocaine and gold combined?), but now it’s back. And we don’t know why, although we strongly suspect it’s because his outdoor gadding about takes him away from the clean, crud-free environment of Le Château and into all manner of grossness that I daren’t even think about.
In the past the vet has suggested fish oil supplements, but the silly sod won’t eat them; we tried two types and it was a hard NON to both. We also tried blobbing it onto his fur so that he would groom it off, but he just left it to air-dry on his body, stinking out the entire Château in the process.
The next weapon in my arsenal is coconut oil, supposedly good for this kind of thing but without the smell of rotting fish guts. And, luckily, we have it in plentiful supply, since it’s my favourite cooking oil. The only thing is that we are supposed to rub it onto “the affected area” – so, erm, the WHOLE area? His entire rump?
EURRRGH.
I had intended to start with a fingertip of oil applied to the base of his tail, which seems to be the epicentre of it all. But now, naturellement, Catorze is nowhere to be found, despite having been right here a minute or two ago. So I guess I’m left with sitting here with one oily finger raised aloft until he appears, or alternatively I will have to conduct an intensive search of Le Château for him and hope that I don’t daub oil everywhere in doing so. Neither option is particularly attractive to me.
EDIT: I found the little bastard eventually, by which time the coconut oil had all sunk into my skin and/or just melted away. He had somehow broken into the spare room that I had just prepared for an overnight guest – and which I had shut to keep him out – and stomped/rolled both his dandruff and his dirty paws all over the once-clean sheets and pillows. Merde, merde and thrice merde.
louiscatorze.com 