louiscatorze.com

J’adore faire la moue

12/06/2015

In the almost-11 months that Louis Catorze has lived with us, I have experienced the Post-Meds Sulk. I have also been on the receiving end of the Post-Meds Mega-Sulk. I once even thought I was being shown a Post-Meds Mega-Sulk With Hunger Strike but, in actual fact, Louis Catorze is both stupid and unmotivated by food, so it’s likely he just forgot to eat. However, yesterday he introduced me to a whole new phenomenon: the Selective Sulk.

The SS is so insidious that you barely know it’s happening; or rather, the Sulk is very much present but the Selective element sneaks up on you somewhat. After medicating him and subsequently being ignored during what I believed to be a PMS, Cat Daddy came home from work and I vented my dissatisfaction about Louis Catorze’s miserableness. Seconds later, the little sod slinked out of La Cage and was on his daddy’s lap for their nightly Club Des Garçons cuddle session.

Not long after that, my friend came round and we sat outside with some drinks. Again, not long after I complained about my grumpy sod of a cat and told her not to expect to see him that evening, he meowed for her attention and trotted up to her with his tail up, purring and nuzzling. Sigh.

This must be what it’s like to have a kid who is sweet-as-candy to everyone else but is a total arse when you’re home alone. As well as this not being very nice, it makes you come across as a fantasist or a liar when you bleat about his objectionable behaviour. “What do you mean, he misbehaves/sulks/treats you like dirt? Look at him! He’s so cuddly and sweet!” Yeah, because I really have the time and the inclination to make this shit up.

At worst, rather than simply disbelieving you, they actually blame you. “Maybe it’s because you smother him,” Cat Daddy helpfully said recently. Ok, so when our only Louis-compatible duvet needed cleaning and we were forced to use an allergy-triggering feather one, who paid for an expensive same-day clean because they thought Louis Catorze “looked sad” shut out on the landing? Not moi.

I could buy the most amazing shoes with the money I’m spending on an allergy test for this ungrateful boy of mine. In fact, I’ve already seen some that I want …
Il m’aime, il ne m’aime pas

11/06/2015

Ok, so this is a rubbish photo, and I knew it would be rubbish because the blinds were shut, but I had to post it because I was just so thrilled to get some love.

When I returned from work yesterday I had the pleasure of a welcome home greeting, then Louis Catorze spent all evening on my lap watching Hollyoaks on On Demand (we’re a high-brow, classy bunch here at Le Palais), and then we had bedtime cuddles. In fact, when I woke up in the very early hours and realised that Louis Catorze wasn’t with me, I called for him (this would definitely NOT have been allowed had Cat Daddy been home), he came running, making a huge amount of thuddy-thuddy noise for a small cat, and he stayed with me until my alarm this morning.

Now, sadly, it’s a different story. I loaded up his syringe before going to work this morning so that it would be ready when I got home. Despite being thicker than a concrete milkshake, HE KNOWS THIS and isn’t budging from La Cage Aux Folles. At some point I will have to drag his arse out and get him, which will wipe out the last 24 glorious hours in a flash, but such is life with a sickly cat.

The vet has told me that I can ditch the pills and start giving Louis Catorze liquid Piriton instead, and apparently the human version bought at the chemist is perfectly acceptable; I just need to wait until she has confirmed the dose. And I’ve booked him in for a blood allergy test on Monday. At least I will have zero difficulty getting him into La Cage.
Les drogues ne marchent pas

10/06/2015

Another day, another gladiatorial combat session in which I was the clear favourite yet came off worse. It was like Brazil-Germany in the 2014 World Cup all over again. (Louis Catorze was Germany, natürlich.)

It seems we were a bit too over-confident when our expectations were to pop a pill into Louis Catorze every 8-12 hours. We’ve since had to lower the bar considerably to: “If we can find him, chuck a pill vaguely in his direction and, if it hits his face area at all, we’ve done well.” The photo shows where the pill landed this morning when he spat it out, first sticking to the cabinet then slithering undignifiedly down to the floor. (Video would have told the story much better but I needed both hands AND both knees to pin the little sod down, so no chance of filming.)

It’s just not working, is it? I realise he was prescribed these meds for a reason, but is it worth it persisting with this method? All I’m achieving is alienating a cat who used to love me and, to add insult to injury, he’s not even getting the stupid meds in his system. I think I need the liquid version of these pills, which was not in stock on Sunday. (And no, grinding these up into a powder and creating a thick-but-syringeable, viscous gunge doesn’t work, either. He still spits that out, but in vile gelatinous strings that hang from his mouth and trail onto my clothes and hair.)

When it comes to sick cats, it’s very difficult and I can see why people chicken out of giving meds. First of all, it’s not one of those “If at first you don’t succeed …” things; you could have a million attempts and get nowhere. Secondly, you have to reconcile in your own head something that is for the good of your kitty’s health, but which even a clever cat – which Louis Catorze most certainly is not – doesn’t understand. The poor little mite must think I have a split personality and that I’m going through a Madame Hyde phase, which means I guess I now won’t see him for a day or two. Sad face.
La cage aux folles

09/06/2015

Good news: I have found Louis Catorze’s secret hiding place. Bad news: it’s here. Yes, here! The Cage of Broken Dreams! The transporting vessel from hell, which strikes cold fear into the heart of every kitty as it usually indicates a trip to the vet! I’m very upset that my poor boy’s trauma is such that he’d prefer to hide in here than snuggle in bed with me. Alternatively, because he’s so darned stoopid, he could very well have thought, “A new bed? Pour moi? Magnifique!” I’m hoping beyond hope that it’s Option Deux.

(By the way, the door is lying in that position because he kicked it that way after our undignified tussle this morning. He was successfully medicated eventually, but that was 15 hours ago and he’s ignored me ever since.)

The positive news is that, despite the fact that he’s been Côneless since late on Sunday night (because, since we removed it to allow him to eat and drink, we’ve failed at every attempt to put it back on), he hasn’t been scratching at his wounds and they seem to be healing. They don’t look at all attractive as they go through the process, but then we didn’t get Louis Catorze for his looks, so tant pis. Also, the veterinary surgery attached to his ex-rescue centre – which was where he lived for many months before coming to us, as he wasn’t well enough to be adopted or fostered – have been communicating with our local vet, where we took him on Sunday, to talk treatment. Hopefully, between them, they will come up with a more long-term solution. No doubt it will be an expensive one, but that’s special needs cats for you.
Je déteste les médicaments

08/06/2015

Louis Catorze may or may not get his medication today and, unfortunately, I am leaning more towards “may not”. Getting a tiny pill into a 3kg cat may not seem like the twelve labours of Hercules, but all I can say is: “Try it yourself and see.”

First of all, it requires the cat to be present; this morning, when it was time for me to do the deed, Louis Catorze was not. There aren’t that many places for him to hide, but when you’re rushing to work and just 5 extra minutes make all the difference between being relaxed and on time or being panicked and late, there just isn’t the time to piss about looking for cats. Especially tiny black ones who can slip about unnoticed like little ghosts; those ones, when they don’t want to be found, are utterly unfindable.

Cat Daddy had rather more success in finding Louis Catorze when he got up after me, so he donned the riot gear and armed himself. However, being physically fit, having a weight advantage, being a general badass and all the other things that would usually help you to win a fight, are of no use whatsoever when it comes to dealing with a savage, fur-covered mini-Wolverine on steroids who, despite his diminutive stature, would shred your flesh like pulled pork without a care. The pill bounced off Louis Catorze’s face, ricocheted off the walls of the living room and vanished under the sofa; then, whilst Cat Daddy tried to retrieve it, canny kitty took the opportunity to flee to his mystery sulking den which we have yet to discover. He could very well still be there but, on account of it being a mystery, we just don’t know.

Oh well. Tomorrow is another day – or rather, 8pm tonight is another dose and another attempt, and this time it will be my turn to take one for the team. Yikes.
Le Roi est malade: vive Le Roi!

07/06/2015

I had hoped to kick off our blog with something rather more positive than this, but unfortunately Louis Catorze isn’t very well. Recently he has inexplicably stepped up his efforts to go burrowing in dusty places and remain there unnoticed for long periods of time, which aggravates his skin allergy, and today he scratched his itchy face with such force that he ended up bleeding and wailing. So we had to take a trip to the emergency vet and, one antibiotic injection and one antihistamine pill later, and with our pockets £68 lighter, we brought him home and embarked upon the onerous task of getting Le Cône d’Honte (the Cone of Shame) around his neck.

I weigh 21 times more than Louis Catorze does. Cat Daddy weighs 31 times more than Louis Catorze does. (We’re not fat, by the way: our cat is just very, very small.) Yet it took the pair of us – clad in padded jackets to protect ourselves from the Freddy Kruger slasher claws – to get the job done. We couldn’t help smiling a TINY bit at the sight of Louis Catorze in his new neckwear, but our smiles were short-lived as he shot upstairs and under our bed for the papa of all mega-sulks (and a revenge-puke on our bedroom carpet).

After a while – well, several hours, actually – we decided to check on him, but he was nowhere to be found. We searched every inch of the house, starting, of course, with all the places he wasn’t allowed to go, but to no avail. Our panic was eventually interrupted by a knock at the door and a never-seen-before cheery neighbour, who said, “Hello. Do you happen to have a black cat with a cone? He’s in our flower bed and doesn’t seem to want to move.” Black, coned and refusing to move his lazy arse? Bingo.

We ambled over to the cheery neighbour’s house, met his equally cheery wife and collected Louis Catorze somewhat shamefacedly, as if bailing out our underage, drunk and disorderly child from a police cell, and all the while hoping they wouldn’t be judging our cat parenting. He is now holed up in the wild strawberry bush outside, having embarked upon Mega-Sulk Partie Deux. I don’t suppose giving him his next lot of antihistamines is going to be fun in a bun, but it has to be done. (That wasn’t supposed to rhyme.)