louiscatorze.com

Tremblez, tyrans!

19/04/2016

Oui, Mesdames et Messieurs: Louis Catorze has finally encountered another feline visitor to Le Château.

We saw the pair of them narrowing their eyes at each other, not quite sure which way things were going to go and feeling anxious as this dude was larger than Le Roi. Then Cat Daddy yelled, “Shit! Louis has gone for him!”

We don’t know whether Louis Catorze lunging at the interloper was an attack or a “Youpi! Let’s play!” But the photo was (hurriedly) taken just as he had chased Ginger Impinger into the greenhouse, and GI was desperately seeking an escape route. He suddenly knew that he was cornered, and Louis Catorze (possibly) realised then that his nouvel ami didn’t want to play. It may also have dawned on Catorze that he was at a major disadvantage, not only in age and size but also in height, with GI having taken an elevated spot high up on a shelf. Neither of them quite knew what to do with themselves, and that was when we decided to intervene and escort the newcomer off the premises.

Whilst this wasn’t the most successful of meetings, we were relieved that our boy had chosen to play/defend instead of scurrying indoors, terrified. In fact, after coming indoors briefly to refuel, he was straight back out there within minutes, demonstrating that he’s either very brave or just plain forgetful.

So Le Château is still the solid royal stronghold that it always was, the monarchy remains intact, and pesky challengers to the crown have been well and truly dealt with. Tout est bien qui finit bien.
Une seule rose peut être mon jardin

15/04/2016

Cat Daddy and I have kick-started our garden makeover plans, which fell to the wayside somewhat last summer. Today, some people from Cultivate London – a local social enterprise who train unemployed people to become gardening experts – came to start work on our new patio.

Because Louis Catorze loves strange men, we assumed he would be fine with the workmen. And he was: he greeted them by galloping down the garden, screaming, then he lay across the path, flipping, rolling and getting in their way. The problem, it turns out, was not the workmen, but the cardboard and the dust sheets that were laid down to protect the floors; poor Louis Catorze was utterly freaked out by these and tiptoed gingerly over them as if walking through shards of glass.

Cat Daddy wondered whether he should lock him in a room until the work was done, but Catorze saved him the bother by sneaking into the shed and getting stuck there. Several hours, Cat Daddy – who was working from home – wondered where he was, then followed the sound of the pitiful whining and released the silly sod.

It’s going to be some time before the royal gardens will be fully ready for Le Roi, but we hope he will be as happy in Les Jardins as he is in Le Château. We can’t wait for the warmer weather when we will see him pitter-pattering about, chatting to leaves and generally being a weirdo.
Vivre un échec est pire que lutter

11/04/2016

After the joys of the weekend, which included a wonderful visit from some of the Sun King’s pilgrims, today was Steroid Shot Day. And this is how it went:

– Brutal wrestle getting Louis Catorze into La Cage: check
– Yowling throughout the journey: check
– Kicking, hissing and clawing during the injection: check
– Silence all the way home (apart from the odd moment when Cat Daddy muttered, “Disgraceful behaviour”): check

And it seems that Le Roi has lost weight and is down to 3.22kg. We had noticed his appetite reducing in proportion to his increased trips outdoors for Oscar-baiting and suchlike, and we’ve had no reason to be unduly concerned. But we’ve been told to keep an eye on him and not let him get too skinny (which will be a challenge for a cat who doesn’t like food).

Then, when we got home, we realised that we had locked ourselves out of Le Château, so Cat Daddy waited outside our door with La Cage perched on the wall whilst I dashed around retrieving our spare keys from Cocoa the babysit cat’s family. During the wait, Cat Daddy got chatting to a random passer-by who commented on Louis Catorze’s “lovely face” (although, to be fair, it was getting dark outside at this point), and who revealed that all his cats had come from the same rescue as Catorze.

The little sod sat happily and serenely through the key kerfuffle and the compliments. Maybe one day he will do the same with the vet.

(Thank you, Phil, for the fabulous photo showing my dear boy’s tooth impediment in its full glory.)
En (presque) parfaite santé

09/04/2016

It’s been a month and 2 days since Louis Catorze’s last steroid shot. Each shot is designed to last 3-4 weeks, but I have good news: it looks as if we may be able to stretch this one out for a little longer. His eye puffiness is minimal, he has barely any scabbiness on his chin and, best of all, the Greta Garbo mood doesn’t seem to have taken hold this time. Le Roi is still happy, dynamic, bothering the local urban wildlife and scenting the air with sweet, tangy lime wherever he goes.

So we have a few days’ reprieve until the next trip to the vet, and Louis Catorze will be spending this time mostly sleeping, chirping and meeting new pilgrims. He is very much looking forward to seeing tomorrow’s guests, who read about him online and thought, “An unphotogenic, itchy, stupid cat who does nothing? Yup, sounds worth a visit.”
Une fourmi noire sur une pierre noire

07/04/2016

4 days have passed since SlugGate and, despite Louis Catorze’s contrite confession being shared multiple times across the internet (see photo), the trauma of the event is as great as it was on that night. I have had recurring nightmares of slugs who mate and spawn more mini-slugs, then those mini-slugs mate and spawn minier slugs, and so on, until the world is waist-deep in slimy, squirming slugs of assorted sizes. And, when I’m not asleep and dreaming of slugs, I’m awake and checking my pillow multiple times throughout the night.

Cat Daddy’s dismissive response was: “Well, that’s what cats do. You shouldn’t have touched it.” Firstly, no, it isn’t. And, secondly, there’s a North African proverb (in French, naturellement) along the lines of, “God sees everything, even a black ant on a black rock on a dark night.” I am not God.

Louis Catorze, in the meantime, remains a remorse-free zone and continues to pitter-patter about Le Château as if nothing happened, wafting his lime fragrance as he goes. If only there were a section in my myriad of cat books and magazines, entitled, “How to tell your cat: NO MORE GIFTS, MERCI.”
La limace

03/04/2016

In true Catorzian style, despite the happiness of yesterday it seems we have crashed to an all-time low here at Le Château: at around 1am, Louis Catorze decided to bring in a live slug and deposit it on my pillow as I slept. What kind of individual DOES this?

Cat Daddy, waking up and almost rupturing his internal organs as he stifled his laughter, helpfully informed me that “it could have been worse”. NO, IT COULD NOT. Except, perhaps, for a worm falling out of Catorze’s arse – which I actually thought this was at first, until the cold temperature of its body reassured me (if, indeed, one can be “reassured” by such a thing) – there is very little that is worse than touching something cold and jelly-like in the middle of the night, then discovering that it is a pulsing, writhing slug.

I may never recover from this. Here’s Louis Catorze, not really giving a shit whether I do or I don’t:
La vie est belle

02/04/2016

The vet told us at the last visit that we would no longer need to give Louis Catorze his Atopica regularly. The steroid shot alone, it seems, is sufficient, with occasional use of Atopica only when things are really bad.

Obviously we were delighted at the prospect of no longer having to trap and medicate him, especially as, despite being thick, he was managing to develop a sixth sense about when it was coming. But we weren’t prepared for how quickly, and how dramatically, it would make a difference to the little sod.

Louis Catorze loved us anyway but, within a week or so of stopping the Atopica, he became visibly more affectionate and trusting. Now, when I reach for him to hug him, he no longer runs away. And he will even allow me to scoop him up for cuddles in the kitchen, which used to be the main assault area. (A tip if you’re trying to keep your cats off the kitchen work surfaces: place them on there to give them their medication. Do this just once and I can guarantee that they will stay off forever more.)

Whilst I still struggle inwardly with the fact that we’re giving him scary steroids, Louis Catorze’s quality of life is already clearly better (see tail for proof). And that makes us happier than you can possibly imagine.
Je suis la résurrection

30/03/2016

For a number of reasons but, in particular, because of Le Miracle de Pâques 4 days ago, I feel incredibly lucky to still have my boy with me when I thought I would never see him again. I can’t stop scooping him up in my arms and squeezing him, and he returns my love by looking thoroughly bored, as if to say, “You loser. Laisse-moi tranquille!” Then he wriggles to get free.

My joy, however, is tinged with huge embarrassment at the fact that we interrupted Oscar the dog’s folks’ peaceful Saturday to make them go out in the rain and search in their shed and summer house for a stupid cat that was indoors the whole time. Cat Daddy and I have since talked about how much time to allow before we start to panic, should Louis Catorze decide to fake his own death again, and we have agreed that 3-4 days seems reasonable.

In other news, his infamy seems to have spread as far as Canada Water in East London. A friend sent me this photo showing what appears to be some sort of tribute mural, lovingly created by one of Le Roi’s subjects in honour of his resurrection and the anguish he caused when he disappeared. We are humbled. And, yes, we concur.
Ce n’est pas Le Messie: c’est un très vilain garçon

27/03/2016

Our Easter weekend was supposed to be a time of joy, but Cat Daddy and I spent Saturday in a state of severe anxiety. After being last seen – or rather, felt and heard – at 6am, Louis Catorze vanished and wasn’t seen again.

We looked EVERYWHERE and called his name, searching in all the usual and unusual places in the house and garden, even texting Oscar the dog’s folks to see if he’d wandered into their shed. But there was no sign of him.

I resisted the temptation to turn to social media at the time, partly because I didn’t want to ruin Easter weekend for everyone, but also because a truly honest announcement would have sounded idiotic: “Le Roi is missing. This is absolutely typical of him and he has done it about 758 times before …” and so on. That said, disappearing is quite normal behaviour when he’s unwell … but definitely not when he’s fine. So, as time passed, we became more and more concerned, especially when we went out for the afternoon and he didn’t greet us when we arrived home.

We had no idea what could have happened to him. There are no hazards whatsoever at The Back, so Cat Daddy’s money was on him slipping unseen into someone’s shed or outhouse. I was rather more worried that he might have wandered into the school behind Le Château and hopped into a workman’s van; given that strange men are Louis Catorze’s favourite people, and places where he shouldn’t be are his favourite places, it was more than possible that a workman could have befriended him and driven off, not realising he had a stowaway.

Then, as we were watching a programme about extreme weather conditions and wondering if he’d been picked off by a tornado like Toto from The Wizard of Oz, the little sod pitter-pattered in, tail high. He had been in the house the whole time, although we still don’t know where.

I scooped him up and gave him a huge cuddle. Cat Daddy called him the same rude name that he used when Catorze brought La Souris into our bedroom.

“It’s as if he’s risen from the dead – or from what we believed to be the dead,” Cat Daddy said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “It’s an Easter miracle!”

But the real miracle was that neither of us kicked Catorze’s arse for ruining our day.
Des souris et des hommes

25/03/2016

I now have 17 glorious days off work, and this entry of Le Blog was supposed to be full of the joys of the Easter weekend, one of my favourite times of the year. But, instead, I’m piecing together the splintered shards of my life after discovering that my placid, loving little boy is a murderer. I’m also literally piecing together physical things that the little sod smashed up in the all-night battle with La Souris, including a brand new powder compact and a glass jar of body cream.

Actually, perhaps “both a murderer AND an attempted (serial) murderer” would be more apt; on Wednesday night I was awoken by squeaking, and found that he had dragged another victim to his lair:

This time Cat Daddy managed to trap Souris Deux in my watch box and set it free in the park. It seems he was right when he told me the other day that La Souris Originale would be “the first of many”. This is not good. And it was most definitely not in the small print when we adopted Louis Catorze (unlike his big brother Luther: “Will bring mice and birds” couldn’t really be any clearer).

I don’t really want to lock Louis Catorze in at night. Nor do I want to shut him out of our bedroom, as he has slept with us on our bed ever since the very first night. But the thought of gross mousey feet on our stuff, not to mention gross mousey bodies expelling gross mousey excretory substances, is awful. Years ago, when we had no money, we lived in a rat-infested hovel with our elderly cat, who was too old to hunt and would just sit and watch the rats run past her; our days of having rodent housemates are over, and we don’t want to go back there again.

My one small hope is that this influx of mice is a temporary spring thing and that, once they’re bigger and older – the ones that Louis Catorze caught were TINY – they will be able to outrun him. Please, please let this be the case.
Le chasseur

23/03/2016

Our days of being able to trip gaily about Le Château barefoot or in the dark – or both, had we wished to do so – are over. At just after midnight last night, for the first time ever, Louis Catorze brought a live mouse into our bedroom and set it free under the bed.

We thought it a little odd that he was so active when he came in, pitter-pattering about far more than usual, but we assumed it was just full moon madness and that he was having an extended play with one of his many toys. Then Cat Daddy said, “Put the light on. He’s caught something.”

I refused to believe it – after all, this is my sweet, gentle little soul who is too lazy, slow and stupid to hunt – but I did as I was asked. And I glimpsed the unmistakable sight of a little teardrop-shaped lump of grey fur with a poker-straight stub of a tail, just before it disappeared under the bed.

Cat Daddy got up, called Catorze a very rude name indeed, and set about finding a suitable receptacle in which to trap poor La Souris, eventually settling upon the box that my new watch came in (which displeased me immensely, but there was nothing else to hand). Alas, a quick glance under the bed revealed absolutely thousands of things, from boxes to bags to shoes to unidentifiable stuff that we haven’t even unpacked since the move; if we were going to take each piece out to corner La Souris, it would take us until sunrise and we were already exhausted after a long day at work.

“What shall we do?” he asked.

“I think we should just leave him in here to catch it,” I said. So we both went to sleep in a different bedroom and hoped for the best. We did wonder how we would know whether La Souris had escaped, whether it had been caught or whether it was still hiding under the bed, but we needn’t have worried because it turned out that Catorze had Un Grand Plan.

Whilst Cat Daddy fell asleep immediately and slept through everything, I was kept awake for the next FIVE HOURS by the sounds of scampering, meowing and things falling to the floor. And Louis Catorze’s Grand Plan to alert us of La Souris’ status was to deposit its carcass outside our door and yowl until we opened up.

After that there was no getting back to sleep for me – although Cat Daddy, annoyingly, again had no problem – so I thought I may as well stay up and write this. The prospect of getting through a full day at work after not managing to sleep AT ALL, makes me want to hurt others and myself. Catorze, however, remains unfazed by his new-found bloodlust. Here he is, at the scene where he dumped the body, and I swear there’s an ungiven shit in the picture:
Joyeux printemps

20/03/2016

Happy spring equinox from all at Le Château. From now, the light will officially overtake the darkness, bringing warmth, new life and sunny evenings on the patio with kitties pitter-pattering sweetly around us.

I hope you like Louis Catorze’s official spring equinox portrait. Photographing him frolicking gaily among the spring flowers took some doing, non seulement because we only have a grand total of about 4 flowers but also because, every time I went outside to take the picture, he would stop his gay frolicking and come running to me, all squeaky and up-tailed, to nuzzle my ankles. I did wonder why, if he likes me so much, he didn’t just stay indoors with me in the first place, but that’s Roi Logic for you.

Anyway, I finally got him by sitting in wait on the cold ground by the grape hyacinth with my camera at the ready. And it was worth the wait:
La menthe au citron vert

19/03/2016

In an effort to solve LimeGate, my latest “thing” is to pick Louis Catorze up and thrust him into people’s faces so that they can try to identify the source of the scent. Whether they want to or not.

Here are some of the reactions so far:

Friend 1: “Ooh, yes! Lovely and citrusy!”
Friend 2: “He smells very clean and fresh. Do you bathe him?” [I reminded her of his tendency to fight like a grizzly bear when cleaned or examined. She retracted her question.]
My mum: “I’ve got a cold, so I can’t smell anything.”
Cat Daddy, without looking up from his laptop: “Go away. I’m trying to work.”

Conclusion: inconclusive.

The single helpful piece of advice came from a friend who discovered that there is a lime mint plant; now, although I had heard of chocolate mint and apple mint, lime mint is a new one to me. And the thought of Louis Catorze writhing about in this plant is considerably easier on my nerves than the prospect of a cross person subjecting him to what is basically an acid attack (kind of).

All I need to do now is find out which neighbour owns such a plant. And work out whether a photo of Catorze, plus the words “Do you have a lime mint plant? And has this cat been trashing it? If so, please call us so that we may apologise personally and replace your squashed plant”, would all fit onto an A4 poster without looking too cramped.
Le Roi a quitté le bâtiment

15/03/2016

Someone was complètement épuisé on Monday night after a night out on the tiles. And when I say a night out, I mean literally the whole night out: the little sod slipped out unnoticed at The Front as Cat Daddy was putting some rubbish out on Sunday evening, and was stuck there until Monday morning.

I was alerted to Louis Catorze’s plight by pathetic, far-off, trapped-sounding wailing at 6:15 on Monday morning, just after my alarm went off. After searching the whole house, including in cupboards and boxes, I eventually found him outside the front door; he pitter-pattered in, freezing cold but up-tailed, then scurried upstairs and flopped onto the bed, where he stayed for some time.

“I wondered why he was still asleep when I got up for work,” Cat Daddy said later. “That’ll teach him. At least he’s too thick to have been scared.”

Cat Daddy wondered if we were to blame for this incident because our supervised Front sessions had given Catorze a taste for forbidden territory. However, I think they have helped him to understand where home is, and that we should be thankful both for that and for the fact that he stayed put instead of gadding about through TW8 and getting into scrapes. Louis Catorze had 8 undisturbed hours to explore his rich and varied neighbourhood – including a park, a couple of schools and the banks of the river Thames – to his heart’s content, yet the chances are he chose to spend the whole time with his arse parked on our doormat, howling like a freak. (Sorry, neighbours.)

Luckily, because he’s thick, I know that he will have forgotten it all by tomorrow. Let’s hope this makes him a little more wary of The Front, as opposed to kick-starting his curiosity …