A couple of days ago I saw Louis Catorze sitting at the back door, screaming, because he couldn’t get in. And, when I say, “couldn’t get in”, I mean that the cleaner had just mopped the floor and he didn’t want to get his feet wet.
I know.
So he just sat at the back door, screaming himself senseless, presumably until either the floor dried or someone picked him up and brought him in, whichever came first. I would have videoed it had I not been mortally embarrassed because the cleaner was there. (And no, I refused to pick him up.)
No less than twenty minutes later, Cat Daddy cleared some fox poo from the garden, then poured water on the area so that we would know not to tread there. (It’s just non-stop glamour here at Le Château.)
You know where this is going, don’t you?
Oh yes: Catorze happily walked through the fox-shitty water without even flicking a whisker. He then tried to settle first on my lap (denied), then on Cat Daddy’s (also denied), and finally had to make do with here:
So, a clean-but-damp floor: non.
Fox-shitty water: OUAIS.
The thought of Catorze in my bed with those gross feet makes me want to die. Not as much, however, as the thought of the YEARS he’s already spent in my bed with those gross feet. But what can we do about it, other than investing in a cat-sized one of those germ-zapping foot baths that you walk through before getting into the main swimming pool?
For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com
louiscatorze.com 
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