louiscatorze.com

Je crie, donc je suis

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Sa Majesté Louis Catorze, Le Roi Soleil, supreme ruler of Le Château, sworn enemy of canine foe and scourge of Ocado delivery drivers.

  • Un anneau pour les tous gouverner (Partie 2)

    Having an Oura ring is both a blessing and a curse. Not in a 50-50 kind of way, though. More like 30-70. Maybe 35-65, on a good day. 

    I wanted an Oura ring mainly for tracking my body temperature and my sleep. The fact that it also tracks, amongst other things, my stress levels, is very handy. However, being able to pinpoint the moments – and therefore the causes – of my stress, by the minute, yet not actually do anything to stop them, only makes me more stressed. 

    This is a reading from a couple of days ago: 

    Just a coincidence? Ahem.

    The part I’ve circled was when Louis Catorze was screaming and screaming at the two gentlemen who had come to fit our new washing machine. It was excruciating. Cat Daddy and I hid in the living room and just pretended we couldn’t hear it. Then, when the machine was all installed, Cat Daddy gave the fitters a generous tip and we all pretended the screaming hadn’t happened. 

    The fitters said something about using the tip money to buy “breakfast” between jobs. But, by that time, it was long past breakfast. After enduring Catorze’s insufferable screaming all the way through their job, they probably ended up heading to the nearest pub for vodka shots.

    And anyone who says ten o’clock in the morning is too early for vodka shots has never had to live though the pain of Catorzian screaming. 

    Oh my goodness, you can add “Pets” as a tag, to remind yourself of why you were stressed. Maybe “Noisy” would work too.
    “Event end”? What’s if it’s never-ending?

    Cat Daddy, later: “Cats are supposed to give you pleasure. Ours just causes pain. Bastard cat.”

    Indeed. WHAT a bastard cat. 

    The screaming just won’t stop.

    *EDIT: I have now had my dental surgery (general anaesthetic) and, would you believe, my stress levels rose when I CAME HOME from hospital. I wonder why that might be?

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

  • Un nouveau mode de vie 

    Louis Catorze’s thyroid test result – the additional £67 one which was conducted a little after the others – is in, and it turns out that he has hyperthyroidism.

    Cat Daddy suggested some time ago that the constant screaming might be anxiety, and I said, “Of course it’s not. He has no reason to be anxious.” But anxious screaming is one of the many symptoms of hyperthyroidism, almost all of which are the same as those of feline dementia. 

    The poor little sod – Catorze, I mean, not Cat Daddy – was trying to tell us that something was wrong, and I didn’t listen. I feel so bad that all the signs which I thought were him just being an annoying, attention-seeking shite, were actually symptoms of something genuine. 

    (That said, I still stand by my belief that he is, at heart, an annoying, attention-seeking shite.)

    So what’s next for Catorze? 

    Firstly: daily medication. Oh dear God. 

    We were offered the options of an ear gel, an oral pill and an oral liquid. Pilling Catorze is awful, and syringing liquid into him is even worse. As for the gel, it isn’t allowed to touch human skin, so we’re going to have to wear gloves to apply it. Catorze’s cat-cousin Alfie had the same treatment and he hated it – in fact, his ears would flatline when he heard the snap of the gloves going on, and then he’d be off – so I don’t hold out much hope for Catorze. 

    Secondly: a food audit to weed out anything that bad for him (because I don’t want him to eat shitty vet-prescribed thyroid food – and, even if I did, he wouldn’t eat it). I’ll post more details another time but, in short, his favourite treats are off the menu.

    Life is about to get bleaker for Catorze, and right before his birthday, too. We will just have to give him more cuddles to distract him, and ourselves more vodka to numb it all. 

    Oblivious … but not for long.

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

  • On connaît le diable à ses griffes (Partie 2)

    What place in the world do you never want to visit? Why?

    Louis Catorze’s cat-cousin Rodan probably doesn’t want to go to the vet again, for obvious reasons. But, if he keeps up with his silly behaviour, that is exactly where he will end up. 

    Sulking in his least favourite place.

    Rodan was doing quite well in his recovery, after going out scrapping and sustaining injuries to his face. However, on the day of his follow-up vet appointment, the little sod somehow managed to wriggle out of Le Cône. 

    In the time it took his human brother to shout, “He’s scratching himself! and my sister to reply, “Well, grab him then!” (about twenty seconds in total), Rodan had scratched up his wounds absolutely ferociously, making them 9,622 times worse than they were to begin with. 

    Before.
    After.
    Even through the mesh you can see that this is bad.

    Naturellement this now means that he will have to spend far more time in Le Cône than originally anticipated, and my sister has to bathe his wounds twice a day and apply ointment. He is as miserable as hell about this state of affairs, but it’s his own silly fault. 

    Oh, and a plot twist that none of us expected is that my sister busted Rodan’s sister Mothra licking her brother’s wounds. So is she expected to Cône the pair of them?

    You don’t exactly help, Mothra.

    Come on, Chats Noirs (and Chats Tigrés, if we count Mothra among the trouble-causers). Give us – and yourselves – a break.

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

  • Il n’y a pas de poisson sans arête (Partie 3) 

    Nobody has the slightest clue what he was doing here.

    When I told Cat Daddy that Louis Catorze didn’t eat his premium fish sautéd in goat’s butter, I thought he would be absolutely livid, with the Unrepeatable Expletives flowing like a burst dam. 

    Won’t eat premium fish, but happy to lap up the dregs of my collagen yogurt, apple and maple syrup.

    However, instead he said, “Did you season it?”

    Sorry? So this is MY FAULT for creating a bland meal for our cat?

    Me: “I don’t think you’re meant to give salt and pepper to cats.”

    Cat Daddy: “Maybe not salt and pepper. Maybe those nori seaweed flakes that you use?”

    Me: “…”

    Him: “Or maybe he only likes fish if it’s smoked? We should buy one of those smoking machines, like they have on Great British Menu?”

    Me: “…”

    I think the craziness of everything that’s going on in the world has dulled the part of my brain that understands what’s a joke and what’s not. 

    Anyway, perhaps a smoking machine would be a good birthday present for Catorze, who will turn fifteen at the end of this month. All we have to do is work out whether to go for the premium or the “budget” model, and where on earth we will put it.  

    Special offer! There is a God!

    *EDIT: I ended up making fishcakes out of the remaining freezer pieces of fish. It took me 9,632 hours and they weren’t very nice, 5/10 at the most.

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

  • Il n’y a pas de poisson sans arête (Partie 2) 

    What is your favourite restaurant?

    Louis Catorze favours any establishment which will allow patrons to send back their food limitless times, without explanation. Right now, that establishment is us.

    Although … can a place even call themselves a restaurant when the one and only customer refuses to actually EAT?

    Having watched Catorze attempt to eat his Pet Picks fish, I actually don’t think his rejection is wholly because he’s a massive arse. Well, that is part of it. But I also think he’s losing his sense of smell and struggling with chewy foods. 

    So here I am, cooking – COOKING – premium fish for my cat. Incidentally, it was Cat Daddy’s idea. 

    Yum.
    Yes, he was mid-scream here.

    Catorze was happy to eat it once it was cooked. However, this was his plate afterwards: 

    A pathetic effort.

    There is not a chance in hell that I’m spending my time sautéing fish in goat’s butter (no joke: this actually happened) for a thankless little shite who won’t even eat it all. 

    So our Pet Picks idea has died a death, although Cat Daddy is tempted to buy it again, for us. Yes, eating our cat’s rejected food. That’s how low we have stooped. 

    You just relax whilst we all skivvy around for you.

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

  • Le sang, c’est la vie 

    Louis Catorze scratched up his face again, right after I said to someone, “Thank God he hasn’t scratched up his face again.” 

    Noooo.

    Luckily it didn’t seem to be bothering him; right after doing the evil deed he went absolutely psycho, racing around, pouncing on random objects, leaping onto the shutters and so on. He even knocked this picture wonky after trying to pull it off the wall – yes, he actually reached out with both his paws and pulled it:

    My OCD hurts looking at this.

    The little sod was due to see the vet anyway for his steroid shot, so I thought I may as well try to squeeze some value for money out of the pips by asking them to check his scar too. As it turns out, that was the least of our worries; the more pressing matter was the fact that Catorze is now down to 2.73kg. 

    He has been on and off his food for a few weeks, but recently it’s become more off than on. There’s nothing wrong with his teeth – the vet said they looked good, which you’d bloody well hope, too, after £1,000 worth of dental treatment. There’s nothing wrong with his abdomen, either. So I finally decided to bite the bullet and do the dreaded blood test, just to make sure Catorze isn’t on the brink of that awful kidney thing that happens to old cats. 

    Anyway, after scaring the shit out of an already-nervous chihuahua with his screaming in the waiting room, Catorze took both his injection and his blood test like a gentleman (which surely means that Armageddon is nigh). And he is now proudly strutting around sporting a stylish bald patch on his chest, from where they extracted his blood, looking, from a distance, like a tuxedo cat.

    A less-than-flattering shot from below.

    Now, £348.49 lighter (consultation plus blood test plus Felpreva plus steroid shot), I am wondering what on earth Cat Daddy will say, all the way from America, when this transaction shows up on his phone. 

    *EDIT: the results came in the same day. Apart from one reading indicating that his thyroid might need checking (at a further cost of £67, of course), there’s absolutely bugger all wrong with him.

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

  • Il n’y a pas de poisson sans arête 

    Describe one positive change you have made in your life

    The fancy place from where we buy our Michelin-starred hot-smoked salmon, has just started selling fish offcuts for pets. And, unbelievably, it was Cat Daddy’s suggestion that we buy some for Louis Catorze.

    Cat Daddy probably didn’t read the “favourite pet” bit.

    When it arrived, we were astounded at its quality: no skin, no bones, very little gross sinew, just lovely fish, almost too good for a little sod like Catorze. I’m pretty sure we’ve served far inferior fish to dinner guests at least once or twice (sorry if you were one of them). 

    Anyway, Catorze now has a whole selection of little portions in the freezer, ready to be sniffed and rejected deployed the next time he’s good and deserves a treat. 

    We’d better take a seat, because we could be in for a long wait. 

    *EDIT: after screaming and screaming for his fresh fish, he ate three mouthfuls and walked away.

    Absolute bastard cat.

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

  • On connaît le diable à ses griffes

    Merde, merde and thrice merde. You are not going to believe this. 

    The VERY DAY that I posted about Rodan going out scrapping and injuring his face, Louis Catorze decided to go out to the Zone Libre looking normal (well, “normal” by his standards, anyway) and return home looking like this: 

    What the absolute WHAT?

    This wasn’t caused by fighting. I would almost – ALMOST – have a wispy filament of admiration for Catorze had he been standing up for a noble cause, such as defending his fiefdom. This was self-inflicted, which is probably a sign that the little sod needs another steroid shot soon. 

    Feline bullshittery is so much easier to deal with when there are two of us here, but Cat Daddy left for New York half an hour after we discovered Catorze’s wound. (This was a planned trip, by the way; he didn’t decide to cross an ocean just to get away from Catorze, although I wouldn’t have blamed him if he had.) I really don’t want to have to deal with vet visits, Cônes and medication by myself, yet I may not have much option. 

    Oh, and I’m due to have another surgery (wisdom teeth this time) next week. This was meant to be my peaceful week preparing for it. 

    Bastard cats, the lot of them. And Chats Noirs are the worst. 

    That thing on his back is actually my Pilates socks hanging in the background, but it looks remarkably like his budding demon wings about to unfurl.

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

  • Mon ring, c’est la rue (Partie 2)

    What animals make the best/worst pets?

    I don’t know about the best. However, I’m a lot more certain about which are the worst. 

    My sister and her family are going away for a few days. So, naturellement, Rodan chose now to go out scrapping and sustain injuries to his face. Not only is the little sod in Le Cône, but he needs antibiotics for the next ten days.

    Totally milking it.

    And, when it comes to being pilled, he’s an absolute demon, worse than Louis Catorze by a mile (scratching, biting, drawing blood, fighting to the death, turning humans to stone with one baleful glance, you name it). 

    So the chat-sitteur’s once-straightforward job is now going to be pretty awful. And Rodan’s humans will be spending the duration of the holiday worrying about whether they’ll return home to find the chat-sitteur slowly bleeding to death on their kitchen floor. 

    I’m shocked but not surprised. After all, Catorze did this to me nine years ago, and I still remember it as if it were yesterday.

    Bastard cats. Remind me again: why is it that we put up with them? 

    *EDIT: The chat-sitteur has reported that Rodan was fine with his first pill; he took it “like a pro”, apparently. My sister is both relieved and grossly insulted.

    Catorze congratulates his cousin on a job well done.

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

  • La boîte de Pandore (Partie 2) 

    Cat Daddy is complaining that he “can’t” put this cardboard box out for the bin men, and so we’re stuck with it forever more.

    He CAN, of course. He just doesn’t want to, because Louis Catorze has claimed it as one of his numerous beds. The bit about us being stuck with it forever more is probably true, though.

    Yikes.

    This is the reaction that we get when we approach the box:

    Oh dear God.

    It’s like having a hornets’ nest in your house, or a demonic possession, or some such thing: messing with it, when you don’t really know what you’re doing, will just make it worse. So we’ll probably just leave him be, and tiptoe quietly if we want anything from this room. 

    Catorze is truly the king of his Château. And he knows it. 

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

  • Que le jour commence

    The clocks went forward on Sunday, so it’s now officially British Summer Time. Weirdly, nobody says “British Winter Time” before the clocks go forward. It’s either British Summer Time or, erm, it’s not. 

    Fun things to do when it’s British Summer Time: arse around on the clean towels drying outside.

    Cat people often complain that their furry overlords, seemingly unaware of the change, continue to wake them up for food at the old time. Louis Catorze, however, rather than waking me an hour early, wakes me when he thinks I’ve had the sleep that I deserve. 

    A couple of nights ago I was feeling unwell, so I went to bed at 9pm, unusually early for me. My aim was to get a good ten or more hours but, at 4:50am, Catorze decided that enough was enough and said, “Non”. 

    Obviously I didn’t get up and feed him because that would have taught the little sod that he was correct to wake me, condemning me eternally to 4:50am wake-up calls until either he gave up or one of us died, whichever came first. But I know people who actually do get up to feed their cats at excruciating hours. Yes, you know who you are. You are in a hell of your own making, and I have no sympathy. 

    The next night I went to bed at 10pm and, this time, Catorze’s alarm call came at 5:50am. So clearly his internal clock has decreed that a just and reasonable portion of sleep for me equals seven hours and fifty minutes, no more and no less. 

    Who needs the Oura ring when you have Catorze? 

    Anyway, ACTUAL summer is just around the corner. And I’m hoping that, with all the joys that it brings – bright mornings, long evenings, bugs, Rodent Duty, that kind of thing – Le Roi will soon be having far too much fun outdoors to care about how much sleep I’m having or not having. 

    British Summer Time goals.

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

  • Chaque nuage, si noir soit-il

    How would you improve your community?

    Cat Daddy and I try to have a date night every so often. And last week it was, erm, an environmental meeting at a local church hall, to discuss climate change, green spaces and biodiversity. 

    When one of the speakers informed us of recent research indicating that noise pollution contributes to heart disease, Cat Daddy turned to me and whispered, “We’re going to have to get rid of HIM.”

    He didn’t mean the speaker. He was talking about Louis Catorze. 

    On the walk back home from the meeting, Cat Daddy continued his rant: 

    “He’s noise pollution. He’s basically a heart attack waiting to happen. We’ve always known it, but now it’s been proven. I actually try to creep in really quietly when I get home, so that I won’t disturb him and set off that constant, bloody annoying “Mwah! Mwah! Mwah!” He’s RUINING our lives.”

    Right. 

    I suppose the one silver lining in all this is that having Catorze live with us saves someone else the anguish. We’re improving our community, non? If this isn’t doing our civic duty, then I don’t know what is. 

    Bastard cat.

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

  • Hurle, sers, mange, répète (Partie 4)

    Louis Catorze hasn’t been eating much lately. In fact, after initially leaping onto his wet food and devouring it like a starving savage, he’s now only moderately keen when I dish up. He’s the same with his Orijen too: he’ll tuck in eventually, but there’s a definite reluctance. 

    One morning, he lapped up a couple of mouthfuls of the juice from his wet food, then left it. I offered him dry food, which he refused. Overcome by complete blind panic, I then dished up, erm, a plateful of prosciutto from the organic shop, and he chugged down the lot. 

    Cats aren’t supposed to have large quantities of prosciutto. I know this. But I would happily have let him eat however much he wanted, if it meant that the little sod were eating something. Something is better than nothing, non? However, the bigger problem is that I have now painted myself into a corner and the bastard cat wants organic prosciutto all the time. 

    I should have seen this coming, shouldn’t I? 

    Cat Daddy, without looking up from his phone: “You created this. You need to fix it.”

    “Feed moi. No, not THAT. I want organic prosciutto.”

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

  • We will rock you

    What makes you laugh?

    A lot of things, most days.

    Today, however, it’s Louis Catorze purring so hard that it makes his whole body rock back and forth:

    Silly cat.

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