When I came downstairs yesterday morning, Louis Catorze was out cold on the sofa in the kitchen. I talked to him, to make sure he was still alive, and he lifted his head and let out a breathy, feeble “Mwah”, before going back to sleep again.
Don’t worry, he wasn’t ill. In fact, I knew exactly what had happened: the little sod was exhausted after an extended, late-night Boys’ Club the night before. And nothing, not even Armegeddon, was going to shake him out of it.
I did my usual early morning kitchen things, including using the coffee maker, which is loud enough to rouse most people from a catatonic state. NO REACTION FROM CATORZE. It then dawned on me that, perhaps, this would be a good opportunity to give him his thyroid medication.
I crept around like a stealthy ninja, opening cupboards and assembling my arsenal of thyroid medication paraphernalia in absolute silence. Then, when I laid the rubber glove on the kitchen worktop, it made a barely-perceptible flick sound.
Oh dear.
In an instant, Catorze’s head whipped around like a Jurassic Park velociraptor. And he was off, out through the cat flap and into the Zone Libre, where he knew perfectly well that I’d never be able to catch him.
Remind me, for long do we have to keep doing this? What? For the rest of his life, y’say?
For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com
louiscatorze.com 
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