I have just arrived home after the football.
In the time it took me to go upstairs, take off my make-up and change my clothes, Louis Catorze managed to produce a mouse from somewhere and place it in the usual trophy cabinet at the bottom of the stairs. When I came back downstairs he was sitting proudly next to his prize, licking his gross little chops.
The positioning of the mouse was such that there was no way I could have missed it when I arrived home. Yet how he could have found it in those few minutes after my arrival, is beyond me.
Catorze is fourteen. FOURTEEN. How in the name of Benjamin Button is he managing this kind of caper? Not to mention the fact that he is chubbing up so, if anything, you’d think the extra podge would slow him down a bit.
Oh, and he’s also been trying to roll off his spot-on onto some manky outdoor surface, because he now has crud stuck to his neck:
Anyway, I am far too tired to trudge outside to the park bin – yes, I know it’s only a few metres, but that’s not the point. So I have left the mouse in an Ocado bag on the doorstep outside and sent a message to Cat Daddy, who is still out at the pub, asking him to do the deed when he gets home. I just hope he doesn’t get so drunk that he ends up stumbling home after dark, sticking his foot through the bag and treading squashed mouse all over Le Château.
Bloody cats. Remind me again why it is that we bother?
EDIT: Cat Daddy is home, having successfully disposed of the mouse in the park bin where all Catorzian kills are laid to rest. However, as he came in, Catorze dashed out at The Front. So now we have the arduous task of herding him back in before he goes screaming outside That Neighbour’s window.
louiscatorze.com 
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