I’m starting to wonder whether we should just give black cats one Cône to share between them because, as soon as one of them stops needing it, a different one does something stupid. If it’s not one, it’s another. Bastards, the lot of them.
Cat Daddy and I went away on Friday, to different places, for two nights. And, naturellement, a couple of hours before we were due to depart for our respective weekend breaks, Louis Catorze decided to rock up looking like this:
Obviously it was too late to find a live-in chat-sitteur or to set House Arrest plans in motion, so we had no option but to leave him to it and pray that he wouldn’t make it any worse. Neither we, nor Blue the Smoke Bengal’s mamma (who was feeding him), could do anything about it. When we returned home and discovered that God had forsaken us, we booked an appointment to see the vet.
Luckily the vet thought the facial injuries were only superficial. However, we have had to deploy Le Cône to prevent him from scratching his face any further, until the steroid starts to work its magic. This will be fine if it really is just for the prescribed one day, but I have horrible memories of lockdown when “just a day or two” turned into a couple of months.
But at least Catorze has chubbed up to a whopping 2.92kg. So there’s that silver lining among all this fire and brimstone.
Anyway, at the time of writing this, he is laying his vengeance upon us in the worst possible way: constant attempts to escape the garden over the fence, accompanied by gut-wrenching screaming, on an evening when all the neighbours are outside (and I think Family Next Door may even be entertaining guests). And, when Catorze discovered that Cat Daddy had bricked up his exit into the Zone Libre, the screaming worsened.
Repeat after me: “It’s only for one day … it’s only for one day …”
For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com
louiscatorze.com 
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