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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.

  • Les fleurs du mal

    Our plans to buffer Le Château’s perimeters have hit a bit of an obstacle: the patch where we had intended to plant the prickly shrub consists of just a few inches of soil on a base of solid concrete, plus it’s curiously boxed in by a mini-wall of concrete. Planting anything substantial there just won’t work so, for the moment, it’s become the new home for our mint plant, which was starting to stifle our other herbs faster than Louis Catorze could eat it and puke it up.

    And, just as we set up our outdoor furniture, the weather turns to merde. Typical. Luckily this hasn’t prevented us from enjoying a few snatched moments of almost-warmth outdoors, wrapped up in jumpers and blankets and with Louis Catorze pitter-pattering around us. But, yesterday evening, in the half-light, we caught sight of his stupid little silhouette flicking an object around, diving onto it, then holding it with his front paws and doing that really fast bicycle-kick with his back ones.

    The thing, whatever it was, was motionless. But, as we focused our eyes around the garden, more and more of them – also motionless – came into view in the flowerbeds. It was like that internet meme: “The harder you stare, the more zombies appear.” Saint Jésus. We had a massacre on our hands.

    “What ARE they?” asked Cat Daddy. There must have been ten, fifteen, maybe more, of these rodent-shaped lumps strewn around our garden, and we were not looking forward to attempting to identify them. Mice = not great. Rats = worse. The pet hamsters of various neighbours = sell up, move house and don’t leave a forwarding address.

    After several minutes of procrastinating, we took a deep breath and switched on the main outside light.

    And so it was revealed that our dear little boy is the mass killer of …
    …
    … [drum roll and fanfare] …
    …
    … the dead heads of camellia flowers.

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    Ok, so the object in the photo looks far more like a flower head than a dead rodent but, when you’re a couple of glasses of Cava under and in semi-darkness, it’s an easy mistake to make.

    Phew. So Louis Catorze isn’t in the dog house after all. It still doesn’t mean we’ve forgotten MouseGate or SlugGate, though.

  • Mon jardin est ton jardin

    After a whole morning and a whole afternoon of bending, twisting, swearing, smashing glass and wanting to slash at our own flesh with the broken bits, Cat Daddy and I finally finished assembling the garden furniture. (We were told that it “would bolt together easily”. It did not. Never believe anyone who tells you such rubbish.)

    We had a feeling that, before we would have the chance to try it out, a cat would get there first. However, we didn’t expect THIS:

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    Cat Daddy’s response was, “At least he did it before we’d put the cushions on.” I say a cheeky sod is a cheeky sod, irrespective of whether his arse is cushioned.

    I wonder if there is such a thing as a world record for the greatest sum of money ever spent on a cat tree for someone else’s cat? Ginger Impinger would like to start the bidding at £1199.

  • La deuxième prise du château

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    This was supposed to be a relaxed and peaceful bank holiday weekend. However, our furry overlords had other ideas: just after I left for work yesterday, Equipe Oscar dealt Equipe Catorze a blistering equaliser. It’s now officially 1-1 in the battle of whatever it is that they’re battling about.

    It seems that Louis Catorze finally dépassed la limite and Oscar, having decided that enough was enough, shimmied past the plant pot blockade at the end of his garden and set paw on Roi-occupied domain. After chasing the Sun King into Le Château, Oscar enjoyed not one but several laps of honour around Le Jardin whilst his antagonist watched him through the patio doors.

    Dog Daddy tried to retrieve him, but he wouldn’t have it. (Well, have YOU ever succeeded in interrupting a punch-proud dog in the middle of a victory parade, especially when there’s a fence between you?) The more he was called, the more he ignored – so, after some text discussion between a frantic Dog Mamma and myself, Dog Daddy eventually had to let himself into Le Château with their spare keys and haul Oscar’s arse back home.

    Cat Daddy more or less slept through the whole thing.

    Louis Catorze is utterly unbothered by yesterday’s events, and is continuing to enjoy Le Jardin as much as he ever did. And both we and Oscar’s folks have laughed – a lot – about this. But, just to avoid any possibility of réinvasion, we will be planting a prickly, fast-growing shrub in the area where the perimeter was breached. La sécurité d’abord.

  • Le nouveau jardin

    Life is good at the moment. The bank holiday weekend is almost here, Oscar the dog’s folks are still talking to us, and Cultivate London have just about finished working on Le Jardin (“during” and “after” photos attached).

    They are absolute perfectionists and have been doing it all properly, taking out every trace of cruddy old plants and putting fancy new stuff down. We now have a lovely selection of flowers and herbs for Louis Catorze to dig up and/or chew, and the little sod has already started on the mint: yesterday he regurgitated a whole, intact mint sprig, complete with leaves and flower buds.

    Le Roi has been a constant companion/pest to the gardeners throughout their labours, inspecting everything, flirting and rolling at their feet.

    I was initially concerned that they would get impatient with notre ami, and I could understand that maybe they wouldn’t want a stupid, annoying cat getting in their way. However, when I heard them greet him with “Hello again, mate!”, and when they proceeded to give me a detailed account of how much time he’d spent outside, which plants he’d sniffed and which spot he’d visited for les toilettes royales, I knew it was probably ok. (They didn’t call it “les toilettes royales” though.)

    The fact that he’s so friendly is, no doubt, because people have been kind to him throughout his life. What a lucky little Roi he is.

  • Le dîner chez Oscar

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    This weekend we were invited to dinner by Oscar the dog’s folks.

    When we lived at Le Palais, Louis Catorze used to take a “Ta maison est ma maison” approach: if we were invited to dinner by neighbours he would hop over the fence and join us. (Yes, he would actually come INTO the house and have a good old explore as we dined.) We were curious to see what would happen if our hosts had a pet, and suspected it would go one way or the other. In this case it was the other.

    This is how the first part of our evening panned out:

    19:50 – Arrive
    19:51 – Drinks in garden
    19:52 – Oscar spots Louis Catorze through the fence and the barking starts
    19:54 – Louis Catorze spots us, has a brief ” … the hell are you doing THERE?” moment, then continues to stare at Oscar, who continues to bark
    19:55 – Dog Daddy hauls Oscar’s arse into the house
    20:00 – Louis Catorze seizes his chance and crosses the border
    20:01 to 20:15 – Lots of meowing, rolling and nuzzling as Louis Catorze can’t quite believe his luck: not only has he taken control of enemy territory and banished his foe, but he has succeeded in getting his foe’s humans to stroke him
    20:16 – Louis Catorze climbs onto the roof of Oscar’s folks’ summer house
    20:17 – With Catorze safely out of reach, Dog Mamma and Dog Daddy let Oscar back out again
    20:18 to 20:23 – 5 minutes of Oscar frantically searching every inch of the garden like a truffling pig, utterly flummoxed as to how he could smell a cat yet not see it, whilst Louis Catorze observes him from his lofty perch (see photo)
    20:24 – Idiot Catorze meows and gives away his hiding place
    20:24 plus 1 second – Upon hearing the meow, Oscar’s head whips round like one of the velociraptors from Jurassic Park
    20:24 plus 2 seconds – All hell breaks loose with Oscar, now white-hot with rage, bouncing up and down in an attempt to reach Le Roi
    20:25 – Dog Daddy hauls Oscar’s arse back into the house and, at the same time, the mighty Sun King, ruler of nations and commander of armies, realises he can’t get down from the roof, so he is plucked to safety by Cat Daddy and tossed undignifiedly back over the fence to his rightful side of the border
    20:26 – Peace

    It did get better after the separation of the warring factions. But the jury is still out as to whether we will be invited back.

  • Les ballons d’or

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    Cat Daddy says he doesn’t believe me when I tell him that Ginger Impinger is not neutered.

    There are two very clear pieces of evidence proving my argument, but he thinks I have imagined them. I was a little insulted at his assumption; I know my balls and I know that GI’s are very much present (although maybe I shouldn’t have said it quite like that to him). But, without photo evidence, and without encouraging GI too close for comfort, I can’t prove that I am right.

    I think that Cat Daddy, like a lot of men, feels queasy at the idea of neutering and equates it to castration in human males; whenever I raise the subject of GI and his balls, he crosses his legs and changes the subject. But there’s no escaping the fact that every vet on the planet is in favour of neutering, not only because it keeps down the population of stray cats but also because neutered cats are less likely to wander or fight. They may even be less prone to disease, including certain types of cancer, if neutered.

    The thing is that, although neutering a cat is the responsible and humane thing to do, it’s not a legal requirement. Telling GI’s folks to neuter him would be akin to telling a parent how to raise their child (although there are many times when I have wanted to do that, too). Yet he shouldn’t really be out and about with his bits still on; even if he doesn’t happen to meet any unneutered females outdoors, I can well imagine him having the culot to break into houses to seek them out.

    So my threefold mission is to somehow find out where the little sod lives, befriend his humans and bring about the subject of neutering in a roundabout yet tactful way. Quel travail.

  • Au secours!

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    Having spoken to another lady whose cat has regular steroid shots, I have discovered that some shots just “take” well but others don’t. It seems there’s no reason for it, and that it’s just the way things are.

    To give you a picture of exactly what I mean, imagine last month’s steroid shot as watered-down lager, whereas last week’s one is more like absinthe with a sprinkling of amphetamines. Louis Catorze is behaving just like a bloke doing shots on a stag night, all shouty and annoying, lurching around like he owns the world.

    He hasn’t stopped screaming since the day after the shot, and has been waking us up early in the morning for no reason whatsoever. He has a ferocious appetite, the like of which I’ve never seen before. And I’ve just had to move darned fast to stop him from launching himself at my feet and embedding a layer of cat hair in my not-quite-dry nail varnish.

    His thinning fur is filling out beautifully, he has no scabs and his coat looks thick and glossy, not that this is of any consequence as he’s constantly rolling in dirt (see picture) and covering himself in crud again. We’re exhausted from listening to him and from the lack of sleep and, quite frankly, at times we’re scared witless.

    Please send ear plugs, a cattle prod and holy water to TW8 tout de suite.

  • On se méfie

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    We decided not to bathe Le Roi after all.

    Well … when I say “decided not to”, I mean “were too scared to”. You’ve read about The Vet Incidents, therefore you know full well what a horror he can be. So, instead, we asked the vet’s advice when we took the little sod for his monthly steroid shot yesterday.

    Between all Louis Catorze’s whining, struggling and kicking, the vet suggested that we sponge him down with plain water if he became too grotty. She also added tactfully, “The only problem with washing cats is that some of them don’t tolerate it.” Which is polite vet speak for, “Try it, and you will die.” Oh dear.

    In other vet news, the next fun medical event in Catorze’s life, in a couple of months’ time, will be a blood test to check how his body is handling the steroids. Our vet knows what to expect and is preparing her battle gear already.

  • Le Château est fermé

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    We have a new cat flap! Hurrah!

    Unfortunately there was a considerable delay between the builder installing it and me getting home to programme it, which meant that, upon my return, I discovered a soaking wet, whining Roi stuck outside. He did, however, get his own back with a perfectly-timed revenge puke which I heard whilst I was showering, rushed to contain, yet, chillingly, could not find.

    Anyway, this should spell the end of Ginger Impinger’s access to Le Château, although it will be weird not to hear the noise as if Catorze is buzzing himself through with his security pass. I think I can accept the pair of them hanging out together in Le Jardin, although, given that GI still has his lower portions intact, I feel uneasy leaving them unsupervised in case there’s trouble. But he’s not coming in. A Frenchman’s home is very much HIS castle, and nobody else’s.

  • Le Roi est sale: vive Le Roi!

    imageLouis Catorze’s fur is in a dreadful state due to the non-stop rolling in the workmen’s dust and garden soil. It’s not just surface dust that can be easily brushed away; believe me, we’ve tried. Somehow it has penetrated quite deeply and, whilst he looks ok in photos (apart from this one, clearly), when you stroke him he feels gritty, claggy and vile. He doesn’t appear to be aware that he’s gritty, claggy and vile, but then he’s not aware of much.

    Cat Daddy thinks he needs a proper wash with water, which could be true. But, if you have followed Le Blog for a while, I think you can probably anticipate how that will end. There’s also the fact that work in Le Jardin is still ongoing so, if we wash him, he’ll only go straight out and roll around in dirt again. The one thing worse than the prospect of washing such a dangerous, psycho cat is the prospect of having to do it twice.

    Yet leaving him with filth-drenched fur is not an appealing thought, especially as he has skin problems, and, if he grooms the gritty, claggy, vile fur, it essentially means he will eat the dirt.

    So … what do you think? To wash or not to wash?

  • Le contrôle à la frontière

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    I was woken at 5am today by the loud, bell-like hollering of Ginger Impinger, who was in the house again. I have no idea where Louis Catorze was at the time, but I suspect he was holding the cat flap open, ushering him in and offering him a welcome apéritif and canapés.

    We need to fix the cat flap, but the sodding thing won’t come off the wall. The builders did such a good job fitting it, understandably assuming it to be a permanent fixture, that it’s stuck fast, and no amount of prising or pulling will shift it.

    So it looks as if we’re going to have to order new tunnel extenders and get the builders to fit the new Sureflap because, if we try it ourselves, we will mess it up and end up with a massive hole. I’ll be like a reverse Donald Trump, paying for my own wall and then making a hole in it to let undesirables come through in a never-ending stream.

    El Muy Grande Sigh.

  • La prise du château

    Le Château has been awash with visitors this bank holiday weekend, some welcome, some not so much. The welcome ones were 3 delightful human children aged 5, 7 and 9, who gave Louis Catorze heaps of attention and wanted to take him home. (We said yes, then had to reassure the parents when we saw their “Oh God, they’re actually serious” faces.)

    The less welcome one appeared under rather different circumstances: the 3 of us were cosied up on the sofa watching a heartwarming comedy about serial killers, and suddenly we heard the distinct and uncomfortably close sound of a cat. When we investigated, we came face to face with Ginger Impinger in our hallway. For a brief moment he and Catorze touched noses and all was quite civilised but, as we followed, the cheeky orange invader ran for the hills.

    Now, this is our fault entirely: when the cat flap started malfunctioning months ago we just lazily put it on a manual setting, effectively turning it into a regular non-microchip flap, and just thanked the stars that no other cats were coming in. It turned out that the malfunction was a design fault, so Sureflap sent us a replacement free of charge, but we were still too rubbish and disorganised to install it. And our inefficiency, it seems, is GI’s gain.

    I feel bad for him, especially as he is good-natured and doesn’t appear to want any trouble, but I don’t another cat coming into the house. Plus he is unneutered, which makes him more likely to spray and be a nuisance. So I’m refitting that cat flap, even if I have to prise the old one off the wall with my bare hands.

  • Bon anniversaire, Sa Majesté!

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    Today is a very special day for Louis Catorze. Whilst we can’t really call it his birthday – he was found as a stray, so nobody knows when he was born – it’s certainly a landmark day that changed his life. On 30th April 2013, the lady who found him took him to the rescue centre, where he was able to receive the care that he needed, and the rest of his life began from there. 30th April is also very significant for being World Veterinary Day, so we’ve just been to drop off a small gift for our vet and a “Sorry for being such a shit” card on behalf of our ami mutuel.

    When we adopted Louis Catorze, we were told that he had racked up treatment in excess of £12,000, making him the most expensive cat in their history. (Cat Daddy explodes with laughter whenever we recall this because, let’s face it, Louis Catorze looks more arse-end than high-end.) We don’t know what it was that made them persist with his care beyond £1,000, then £5,000, then £10,000 and so on, but we are very glad that they did.

    To mark Catorze’s special day, he has selflessly decided to sacrifice his treat money to help less fortunate kitties* out there. But, if he can gain just 14 more new followers and make it to that magic figure of 100, he will double his donation. So please share Le Blog with fellow cat lovers – especially those with special needs cats – and convince them that they need a little bit of Sun King in their lives.

    *Louis Catorze will be donating to the following organisations:

    – Lilly’s Legacy, which is run singlehandedly by a wonderful lady who spends a lot of her own money and resources rescuing stray kitties; their PayPal account name is lillyslegacy@hotmail.com
    – Project PI, set up by a South African vet to raise funds for the treatment of cats with immune disorders; their PayPal account name is admin@easternvet.co.za
    – The Mayhew Animal Home, who saved the little sod’s life; you can donate to them at https://themayhew.org/donate/make-a-one-off-donation/

  • Une amitié?

    imageGinger Impinger is back!

    This time Louis Catorze chased him around the clothes horse a few times, then flopped onto his back and rolled. GI appeared to lose interest and walk away at this point, and that was the end of that.

    Yes, that peculiar black shape on the ground is Catorze. And, no, we don’t know which end is which, either.

    Is he relaxed and comfortable, or is he doing that grizzly bear thing of fearfully making himself look as large/long as possible to intimidate his foe? Is this pose an offer of friendship or humiliating submission? I’m leaning towards the former, because I imagine submission looking more like Louis Catorze running away, but I would love to hear what you think.