It is 28°C right now. To British people, this is hotter than a thousand suns. And, naturellement, now is the time that my fur-covered pet, who ordinarily couldn’t give a shite whether I live or die, wants to cuddle me.
At the beginning of the day, I thought Louis Catorze was dying. There was no sign of him at breakfast or lunch, and I finally found him in the spare room, almost lifeless and barely able to lift his head to emit a breathy, feeble croak. But, later that day, when the heat hit its height, the little sod was mysteriously rejuvenated by some hidden force (I don’t know what it was, but it certainly wasn’t food or water as he declined both) and that was when he wanted to sit on my lap.
He won’t sit on bare legs because he doesn’t like the feeling of lying on skin, so it’s a firm NON to shorts and mini skirts. His preferences, in order, are a fluffy blanket, denim jeans or compression gym leggings, merci for asking.
So there I was, in stifling heat, sweltering under a blanket and a heat-radiating cat. Luckily it wasn’t peak hay fever time, otherwise I would most likely have had a beeswax candle burning, too.
It’s also going to be hot tomorrow. And, no doubt, the same thing will happen again. So please check on your British cat freak friends. We are not ok.
For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com
louiscatorze.com 
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