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We have had a Code Bleu emergency: Cat Daddy used all the ice for cocktails, leaving none for our holiday chat-sitteur to use on Louis Catorze. Neither Sainsbury’s nor the organic shop had any ice when we looked. 

However, merci à Dieu for the mighty saviour that is Lidl: 

(Incidentally, we only buy ice from the organic shop if we happen to be buying other stuff too, to save us from having to schlep to a second shop. We don’t do it because Catorze is so fancy that he can only have organic ice. In fact, can ice even BE organic?)

The chat-sitteur stopped by to collect keys and for a Château reorientation, not that a great deal had changed since her last visit other than different television remotes, a new coffee machine and a smaller Roi. Naturellement the conversation turned to cats and their exacting, unreasonable nature, and we were astounded to discover that Catorze is actually not her biggest pain in the arse client. (This is mostly because he behaves for chat-sitteurs, to make us look like delusional liars.)

One client, whose name has been withheld, requires feeding one teaspoonful at a time; any more than that gives him enough opportunity to decide that he no longer likes the food. In his fridge are four open sachets of wet food of different variants, and the chat-sitteur has to alternate between them throughout the visit, knowing that any or all could be jettisoned at a moment’s notice. 

Another client, who shall also remain anonymous, went missing for the entire duration of the chat-sitteur’s stay. We’re talking posters up in the local area, social media alerts, trawling the streets daily looking for her, the works. The little sod came back eventually but, to this day, nobody knows where she went for TWO WHOLE BLOODY WEEKS. 

The chat-sitteur revealed that, after reading about Catorze’s ice cube massages, she decided to try them on another of her clients, also a Chat Noir. She then messaged his humans to let them know how positively he had responded. 

The humans replied that they knew this, having already tried it themselves.

Oh. Mon. Dieu.

So it turns out that it’s not just us; there is a whole subculture of feline ice cube massage going on. I don’t know what stopped the Chat Noir’s humans from listing it on their Cat Manual. Perhaps they didn’t realise, before they went away, just how hot it was going to be? Or perhaps, unlike us, they actually care if others think they’re massive freaks? 

Anyway, the freezer now has plenty of ice, and Cat Daddy and I will be spending the next couple of days packing and getting the house ready. Catorze, however, doesn’t have much to do, other than greet his chat-sitteur politely and not be a shite. 

I know that he will manage at least one of those very well. 

For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com