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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.

  • Le Roi se trompe: vive Le Roi!

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    Oh, Louis Catorze: you are a sweet cat, but a rubbish psychic.

    Luckily he doesn’t know that he’s rubbish. He thinks he’s doing great. After the final whistle of France v Albania, he came screaming into the room, tail up, as if to say, “See? Wasn’t I just MAGNIFIQUE?” Erm, not really. But I cuddled him anyway and he purred, wafted sweet lime into my face and then trotted out, none the wiser.

    So, France v Switzerland on Sunday: is there any point in a last-ditch attempt at that one? Cat Daddy says no. In fact, his very words were: “He’s shit. It’s beyond humiliating now. Please stop.”

  • L’égalité?

    Usually, when things go wrong, we do everything possible not to end up there again. Today, however, we decided to give Louis Catorze the benefit of the doubt and let him have another stab at the football prediction.

    And he has an unlikely cheerleader in the form of Cat Daddy, which is a surprise given how cross he was when the last attempt went awry. Not only is he championing our boy’s second chance, but he is even suggesting that perhaps we were at fault before for not understanding Louis Catorze’s strategy. Cat Daddy’s theory is that Le Roi was eating the LOSING team, not the winner. And I have to admit that it makes more sense to leave the victor intact and to obliterate the loser.

    So, with Napoléon once again representing France, with King Zog of Albania flying the flag for his people, and, most importantly, with enough iPhone storage to record the event (having deleted 300 cat photos over the weekend and leaving a mere, erm, 1,000 on my phone), this time Catorze predicted … a draw.

    There is no way on EARTH that this could be right. I sense impending embarrassment.

    Oh dear.

  • Je ne suis pas Paul le poulpe

    Although we had a fabulous time watching the football with Cocoa the babysit cat’s folks on Friday night, Louis Catorze’s match prediction was a disaster in every way. I’m not remotely bothered because it’s not as if anyone is going to judge him for it (apart from, erm, the whole internet), and he himself is about as unbothered as one can be.

    But Cat Daddy, who had hoped that Louis Catorze would become the feline equivalent of Paul the octopus, isn’t taking it too well. “Useless piece of fur! He had one job, and that was to EAT! I’m shocked, but not that surprised, that a fleshy sea spider with a tiny brain is cleverer than he is.”

    Actually, octopi are supposed to be very intelligent and cognitively evolved, and I told Cat Daddy this, to which he replied, “Yes, intelligent among molluscs. AMONG MOLLUSCS. So just about cleverer than a slug, yet still cleverer than our cat.” Oh dear.

    Catorze’s official Euro 2016 photo shoot yesterday evening was also somewhat chiant, with outtake after outtake sucking up the storage on my phone and (I suspect) being what tipped me over the edge and left me with insufficient space for the match prediction video. We did get this one beautiful shot (below), and, as they say on America’s Next Top Model, “You only need one shot”. But it would have been helpful not to have to sit through all the rubbish ones, during which the silly sod wriggled, rolled stupidly and, at one point, rubbed his arse over France (which was probably considered high treason during the days of the human Sun King).

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    Anyway, the next French game is on Wednesday; let’s see if Louis Catorze can kick-start his predictive powers by then.

  • Le foot rentre chez nous

    The Euro 2016 football tournament, which is held in Le Roi’s fatherland this year, starts today with France v Romania. Louis Catorze could not be more excited. He’s not showing it on the outside, but we know he feels it in his heart and that he’s hoping Les Bleus will bring it home.

    In honour of this magnificent event, we decided to see whether Louis Catorze’s powers of perception were as finely-tuned as those of his brother, Luther, who, at the last World Cup, correctly predicted the result of England’s opening game by hoofing down the Italian bresaola and not even acknowledging the English Cumberland sausage.

    Obviously this was going to be more of a challenge with a cat who doesn’t like food. So, with Napoléon as the face of France and UKIP’s Nigel Farage dutifully representing the Romanians (as a gesture of goodwill following his unkind remarks about them), we put Louis Catorze to the test with a very special occasion Dreamie atop a pile of Arcana Pacifica. The first to be eaten would be the winner of the opening game.

    (And no, he’s not usually allowed Dreamies, ever. But, just this once, we thought we’d faire les choses en grand.)

    So this is how things went:

    1. No reaction whatsoever for several minutes
    2. My video fails due to not enough space on my phone (too many cat photos)
    3. Brief interest in the French plate, which Cat Daddy captures on his phone
    4. His recording fails too (although he won’t say what’s taking up the space on his phone)
    5. OFF CAMERA, THE ROMANIAN DREAMIE IS EATEN; THE FRENCH ONE STILL REMAINS UNTOUCHED AT THE TIME OF POSTING

    We are in shock: this is not at all what we wanted or expected and we don’t quite know what to do with ourselves now.

    Louis Catorze is sunning himself on the patio and couldn’t give a shit.

  • On a 1 an!

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    Le Blog is a year old today: bon anniversaire à nous! And what better birthday gift than to reach the landmark figure of 100 followers?

    Although it may look as if we snared most of them by beaming Le Roi’s sinister face to an unsuspecting theatre audience & creepily commanding them to follow him, in actual fact this picture of him was part of some local school kids’ animal welfare community project. The 100 followers are thanks to all of you lovely people for spreading the word of the Sun King.

    Not only is this great news for Louis Catorze’s favourite animal charities – one of whom featured in the kids’ project – as he will double the donation that he made to them on his birthday, but it’s also great news for the little sod himself, as every new reader means he is potentially another step closer to finding a cure for his problems.

    MERCI to everyone who has read, signed up or shared: it really does mean a lot to us, and having 100 followers is beyond our wildest dreams. Now, dare we hope for 200? Could there possibly be another 100 people out there who might enjoy reading about a spoilt, itchy French cat who doesn’t do much?

  • 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.