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.

  • Le travail à domicile

    A couple of days ago, I had an online meeting with a student from my school. Usually I would not advocate working when on sick leave but, because this student needed help, and because he is super-nice, I was happy to do it. 

    As you know, Louis Catorze loves nothing more than to annihilate online meetings, especially if the other participants are male. However, at the time of the meeting, he decided to go gadding about outside, so I assumed that the celestial powers that be must have been on my side, and I happily accepted it without argument.

    The student and I spent about fifteen minutes talking about work, then I asked him whether his dog, a chestnut-coloured miniature Dachshund, was looking forward to Christmas. (Apparently she is, and her humans have bought her her own advent calendar.) He asked me about Catorze, too, and I replied, “He was racing around going absolutely psycho earlier this morning, but luckily he’s gone out now.”

    OH DEAR GOD, WHY WAS I SO STUPID? It’s still Mercury Retrograde, after all. And we’re approaching both Friday 13th and a full moon. The celestial powers that be were never going to be on my side at such a time. 

    Within seconds of my magic words breaking the spell, the door swung open and the screaming started. And, because of my post-surgical state, I was too slow in leaning over to shut the door again. 

    Catorze: “Mwah!”

    Me: “Oh God.”

    Student: “Miss! It’s your cat!”

    Catorze: “Mwah!”

    Me: “Yes. To be honest I’m surprised we lasted that long before he interrupted us.”

    Student: “Can I meet him?”

    [I tilt the camera so that he can see the little sod better.]

    Student: “Hello, Miss’s Cat!”

    Catorze: “Mwahhhhhh!” 

    Eventually the screaming stopped, only to be replaced by him, silently and just off-camera, digging his claws into my arm every few seconds. 

    The rest of the meeting went like this: 

    Me: “Blah blah Chemistry revision OUCH.”

    Student: “He’s just done it again, hasn’t he?”

    Me: “Yes. Anyway, blah blah Maths exam OUCH.”

    Student: “He’s just done it again, hasn’t he?”

    And, naturellement, the moment the call ended, Catorze decided that he no longer wanted my attention and burrowed into his igloo, where he slept quietly for the next five hours. 

    Hark: do I hear a wave of “shocked, but not surprised” rippling through the nation? 

    Meanwhile, I’m stuck with him for another few weeks. I know. I KNOW.

    Bastard cat.

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

  • Rockin’ around the Christmas tree 

    It’s December! (Well, ok, it was December a few days ago, but I didn’t bother to say so on the 1st.)

    Whilst dog people will be spending the festive season trying to stop their dogs from stealing deadly food, we cat people will be battling to keep our feline overlords from completely decimating our decorations. 

    Now, which of our family cats will be the first to trash their tree? Here are the contenders, in reverse order:

    The Rank Outsider: Zelva, the only one of the gang who doesn’t have a rap sheet of bad behaviour. I would be shocked to the core if she even noticed her tree, let alone tried to interact with it in any way.

    Not bothered about the tree, but happy to show the stray tinsel who’s boss.

    The Bismarck: Louis Catorze. Although he’s the one who practically invented Chat Noir bull- and apeshittery, his odds are reduced by the fact that, erm, our tree won’t be delivered until the 18th.

    Waiting to assault the delivery person.

    The Long Shot: Otis. He is also an adept hunter but, being more tactile than his sister, Roux, is less likely to win this particular race due to being too busy snuggling his humans. 

    Loves causing trouble, but also loves cuddles. (That wasn’t supposed to rhyme.)

    The Mid-Field Finisher: Roux. She is a mighty huntress who, in the absence of actual prey due to hibernation, would happily take tree ornaments as a substitute.

    Having a brief rest between antics.

    The Second Favourite: Mothra. She may be smaller and less obviously dastardly than her brother, Rodan, but don’t rule her out. It’s often the quiet(er) ones. 

    We know her game.

    The Odds-On Favourite: Rodan. He has the opportunity (he’s under house arrest due to construction work in his garden), the means (he’s a Chat Noir) and the motive (he’s a massive shite). 

    Satan’s little helper.

    For once, I can relax in the knowledge that it’ll be someone else’s cat, and not mine, who does the deed. I’ll keep you posted. 

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

  • Mon chat veut me tuer

    I’ve been home for almost a week now, and I’m feeling ok but its been quite hard. It’s amazing the little things you take for granted until you suddenly find you can’t do them. You know, standing up, sitting down, putting your socks on, those kinds of things. 

    These ones do. Mine, not so much.

    Louis Catorze continues to remind me that, unwell or not, I am still only the second favourite human in the house; when Cat Daddy walks into the room, he jumps off my lap and runs to his. However, we have also shared some tender moments which make me alternate between pure joy (“Aww, he does love me after all!”) and deep suspicion (“Is this even my cat?”).

    I have been sleeping with a pillow on my stomach to protect the surgery site from parkouring Catorzian paws and, after my first night home, I awoke to find him asleep on top of it. Strangely, 2.94kg of cat on my stomach actually felt like support, not like unpleasant pressure. 

    A little later, I found him waiting outside the bathroom when I had a shower. My first thought was that he was making sure I was ok although, when I tried to step over him and he wouldn’t move to let me pass, I wondered if perhaps he had more sinister motives. After all, if a drug-addled woman recently discharged from hospital happened to trip over her cat on the stairs, nobody would think much of it. Just a tragic accident, non? 

    Here is the little sod, cuddling my leg:

    He’s lying.

    However, seconds after this photo was taken, Cat Daddy entered stage right and Catorze was off, kicking my surgical incision as he went.

    My recovery time is supposed to be four to six weeks. Somehow I think it’s going to feel like much longer. 

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

  • Toute créature imparfaite est parfaite

    What is one thing that you would change about yourself?

    Louis Catorze says he’s perfectly fine as he is, merci for asking. He thinks it’s other people who ought to change THEIR inadequate selves, and most of them needn’t stop at just one thing.

    Loving life almost as much as he loves himself.

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

  • Ni manger, ni vivre (Partie 19) 

    What are your feelings about eating meat?

    Meat? Meh (although Louis Catorze is partial to a bit of jambon de Bayonne).

    Fish? OH MON DIEU.

    This ear-bleeding din (below) was just a small part of what happened when I accidentally dropped a piece of tuna on the floor. I actually missed the loudest and most unpleasant moments because I was too slow in picking up my phone, but what you can see and hear is bad enough, isn’t it? 

    People are strange. Cats are stranger.

    Catorze started screaming long before he was even in the kitchen, and I assumed that he had been drawn by the smell. But he shot in at such speed that I wondered if he’d actually HEARD the piece drop to the floor, either with his Creepy Kitty Sixth Sense or like one of those monsters from A Quiet Place who hunt using sound.

    After devouring the stray piece of tuna, the sight of which cut him off abruptly, mid-scream, he obviously hoped to unearth another piece from somewhere. The little sod hovered over every millimetre of floor, like a forensic detective searching for that one errant droplet of blood which would convict his suspect, despite never having been interested in tuna in his life, all the while making this horrendous sound. Obviously he has screamed before – in fact he screams every day – but I don’t think I I have ever heard this particular sound. Nor do I especially wish to hear it again. 

    Worse yet, I was home alone and very close to escaping to a neighbour’s house for help, but I didn’t want the embarrassment of having to say, “I dropped some tuna on the floor and now all hell has broken loose”. 

    How do we cast out this monster that we’ve created? Please don’t tell me that, since I invited the vampire into our home, I’m now stuck with him forever? 

    Don’t trust that innocent look.

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

  • L’infirmier à domicile

    Thank you to everyone who has sent me good wishes. I came home from hospital yesterday morning, which was quite a bit sooner than the three to five days usually anticipated. 

    For all those people who said, “Louis Catorze will be so pleased to have you home”, look at this video: 

    Warning: very prominent rear end on show, which I only know how to edit in still photos.

    I told you, didn’t I? In fact, I’ve been saying it for ages: he couldn’t give a shite whether I live or die. 

    Even before I came home there was drama galore, because Chris the heating engineer came over that morning. Some of you may remember this bizarre incident, which took place during one of his previous visits and which still remains the talk of some of my Spooky Club students. 

    Cat Daddy went to the bakery for a few minutes, leaving Chris and Catorze alone together. When he returned, he heard the infernal racket as soon as he walked in. Catorze was all over Chris, screaming his guts out and not letting him get on with his work. 

    Rather worryingly, Chris didn’t say, “Your cat is so sweet”, “Your cat is annoying the shit out of me” or any such thing. HE JUST SAID NOTHING. 

    Anyway, whatever was wrong with the boiler is now fixed, the house is warm, and Catorze is on my lap looking disdainfully at me. I wondered whether it was because I smelt all hospitally, but then he was disdainful anyway, even before I went in. 

    Bastard disdainful cat.

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

  • L’espace efface le bruit 

    I’m in hospital at the moment, having just had intense but standard (and planned) surgery. However, because they had to switch last-minute from The Simple Version to The Complicated Version of this particular procedure, I’m here for an extra night. 

    Cat Daddy has been in to visit me. However, Louis Catorze hasn’t even noticed that I’m gone. Last night he launched a full-on screaming assault on Cat Daddy, even attacking whilst he was eating and trying to grab his pizza, but then this is the kind of thing he does every day anyway. 

    And, even with phones ringing, machines bleeping and other patients shouting all through the night, it’s probably still quieter for me here than at home. 

    Here are the three stages of [whatever it was that happened last night – we still can’t think of a word for it]:

    Bullying.
    Sulking (after he was told off for the pizza incident).
    Winning.

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

  • Chéri, j’ai rétréci le chat 

    Cat Daddy took Louis Catorze for his booster vaccination at the weekend. And, when they weighed him, we discovered that he had dipped below the 3kg mark for the first time in his life. 

    Catorze now tips the scales at a lighter-than-air 2.94kg and, for whatever reason, this has made me a little sad. 

    The vet was unconcerned about this, especially when Cat Daddy told her what a massive idiot Catorze was at home, racing around, scaling high fences, demanding expensive fish and screaming incessantly. His advancing years haven’t affected his behaviour – other than to make him more annoying, of course – but I don’t want him to lose weight. Weight loss, to me, spells the beginning of the end. 

    There is, of course, the chance that this is all part of his Cunning Plan: if he can have us believe that he’s starving and/or edging ever-closer to death, perhaps we will keep giving him Michelin-starred smoked salmon? I don’t particularly want that, either. 

    So we’re not sure what to do now.

    Here is the little sod, pictured with a present that Blue the Smoke Bengal’s mamma gave us. Age is definitely not a bar to him being all of these things (apart from humble): 

    Little wisp of a thing.

    *EDIT: the vet said that Catorze “may be a little sleepy” after his booster. He wasn’t. In fact, he was gallivanting outside throughout the night, coming indoors utterly drenched to roll the water off onto the bed. For goodness’ sake.

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

  • Les chats sont fous 

    Name your top three pet peeves.

    Will seven peeves do? With this many cats all creating havoc, there’s no way I’d be able to narrow it down to just three.

    Mercury Retrograde starts today. So, far from cats’ bull- and/or apeshittery calming down after last Friday’s full moon, it’s actually likely to get worse. 

    This is what our feline contingent have been up to: 

    Louis Catorze: early morning parkour around the bedroom then, when I switch on the light, emerging from a different part of the room, i.e. NOT FROM WHERE THE NOISE WAS. 

    Catorze again: screaming absolute bloody murder whilst Cat Daddy was on the phone to the utility company trying to sort out some bills, forcing him to apologise to the call centre operative. 

    Bastard cat.

    Otis: please refer to the poltergeist/incubus behaviour displayed last week. 

    Weird bastard cat.

    Roux: an enabler and sympathiser of her brother’s poltergeist/incubus behaviour. 

    Bastard cat.

    Mothra: attacking my sister’s new dress whilst it was hanging up. 

    Bastard cat.

    Rodan: eating my sister’s fake lashes. No, not licking or nibbling them, but actually PUTTING THE ENTIRE THINGS IN HIS MOUTH AND SWALLOWING.

    (They were left on a dresser at the time, by the way. He didn’t eat them off my sister’s face, although this is probably only because he didn’t think of it.) 

    Bastard cats.

    Boots, usurper stepbrother of Antoine, Catorze’s frère-from-another-mère: scrapping so violently with his Neighbourhood Nemesis that he burst an abscess and required expensive emergency vet treatment. And, yes, it was scrapping that caused the abscess in the first place.

    Bastard cat.

    Catorze’s cat-auntie Zelva is the only one of them who isn’t being a complete psychopath.

    Good girl.

    Mercury Retrograde goes on until 15th December … with another full moon at the end. What on earth will we do, other than stock up on vodka? 

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

  • Ni manger, ni vivre (Partie 18)

    I have decided to name the cacophonous composition below, “Hake in the Air Fryer”.

    However, having named it, I can’t decide whether its ought to be a classical piece or a rock anthem. 

    If you watch the video, you will see that its different movements are very distinct, like Eine Kleine Nachtmusik (except that Louis Catorze went piano first and allegro/forte afterwards, whereas Mozart did it the other way around). The fact that it goes on for so long also seems to make it more classical symphony than rock material.

    That said, the highly illegal jump onto the worktop* is just like a rock and roll frontman leaping into the crowd. Plus I can’t stop singing, “Haaaaake in the aaaaaair fryer” to the tune of Smoke on the Water. And, now, neither will you. You’re welcome. 

    *Catorze used to avoid the worktop like a vampire avoids the sun, because I would put him there to give him his meds. Now that he’s lost his fear of it, nothing is safe anymore.

    “Hush, hush, thought I heard him screaming for hake now.“

    This cat has gone absolutely stark raving bonkers at the smell of the hake. And, now that Cat Daddy has given Catorze Michelin-starred hot-smoked salmon himself, he can no longer blame me for igniting this fish-fuelled feline frenzy. He is just as responsible – in fact, he’s MORE at fault because he actually did it on purpose.

    And, now, this is where we are. Please help us.

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

  • Ni manger, ni vivre (Partie 17)

    Oh. Mon. Dieu. Cat Daddy has just given Louis Catorze the leftover skin and fatty bits from our Michelin-starred hot-smoked salmon. The little sod is absolutely gorging himself senseless, like I’ve never seen him eat before. 

    What the actual WHAT?

    Obviously we weren’t going to eat those bits ourselves, so I’m glad they weren’t just thrown away. But, the last time Catorze had Michelin-starred hot-smoked salmon (stolen from my unsupervised dinner), he then went on hunger strike for two days when we didn’t give him more. I really, really don’t want him to do this again. 

    What will it be, Mesdames et Messieurs? Will Catorze be satisfied with this one evening of salmon-gluttony, obediently returning to his Orijen tomorrow without objection? Or is war about to break out here at Le Château? 

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

  • Les formes variables du diable 

    Do you trust your instincts?

    I run a paranormal club at school, and the kids who attend certainly trust their instincts. They’re nobody’s fools.

    Once a year, we play a game called Chocolate Fortune Telling. We ask a question which can be answered with a yes or a no, then draw a Lindor chocolate out of a box, without looking, to receive an answer; a dark chocolate means YES, milk MAYBE and white NO. 

    As an extra twist, some of the chocolates have been removed from their original wrapping and re-wrapped in a different colour, so anyone who initially thinks they’re getting one particular colour ends up with a surprise. 

    It’s great fun although, obviously, I have to set ground rules at the start and veto questions about accidents or death, or anything that might embarrass anyone in the group. 

    Surprisingly – or perhaps not so surprisingly, since he comes up in conversation a lot during club meetings – a few of the questions involved Louis Catorze. Here they are, and this is how the gods answered: 

    “Is Miss’s cat really an alien?” MAYBE. 

    “Is Miss’s cat a vampire?” YES. 

    “Is Miss’s cat possessed?” YES. 

    “Should Miss get an exorcist for her cat?” YES. 

    Absolutely nobody was surprised. As one kid put it, “I guess you knew all that anyway, didn’t you, Miss?”

    Incidentally, this was a mostly-different set of kids from the ones involved in this incident. Oui, Mesdames et Messieurs: even the newbies to the group have figured out how weird Catorze is, in the short time me that they’ve been part of this club. 

    Here are some photos proving the kids right. (I haven’t shown these to them yet.)

    Yikes.
    Ugh.
    Gaahhh.
    Ok, I’ll stop this now.

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

  • Les phénomènes de petite hantise

    Cat Daddy and I escaped to the south coast on Saturday, leaving Louis Catorze in the care of Family Next Door, and I am writing this in the car on the way home. 

    We had hoped for a bit of a break from feline bullshittery. We didn’t get one. 

    The horror unfolded in our bedroom on Saturday night as follows, rather like the seven stages of poltergeist infestation: 

    1. The repeated, random ringing of a rogue cat collar bell whilst we slept.
    2. Unearthly feline screaming.
    3. The sound of a second feline voice, in stereo, indicating that another entity was present. 
    4. Objects in the room being moved by the two entities. 
    5. Footsteps walking up my body. 
    6. An incubus-like weight* settling on my chest, crushing my lungs.
    7. The disembodied voice of a child (aged six), investigating the proceedings in the darkness.

    *The offending party is only 4.5kg, but anything is an incubus-like weight compared to gossamer-light Catorze.

    The intervening niece informed me that the cats only ever screamed like that when they had brought in a gift, so I offered to help her look for it. However, when we went downstairs, she stepped into a pile of cat puke and was rendered immobile until I was able to find cleaning materials for her carpet and her foot.

    To add further insult to already-existing insult, her older sister then told us that the cats had been shut in all night, on account of their habit of bringing in undead wildlife and releasing it in the house. So there was no gift, and we had all got out of bed for nothing. 

    Here is Otis, the little sod who started it all: 

    Don’t trust that face.

    His sister, Roux, wasn’t available for comment or for photograph, no doubt because she had gone out hunting in protest at the overnight house arrest. 

    Since they’re all in this together, what’s the betting that Catorze will have behaved impeccably for his chat-sitteurs despite the last remaining dregs of the full moon yet to fade away, only to morph back into the psychotic beast that he is, the minute he hears our keys in the door?

    Cats: if they weren’t fluffy and cute, nobody would be stupid enough to put up with their shite.

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

  • La véritable horreur

    What book are you reading right now?

    One of my friends gave me the this Classic Tales of Horror anthology for my birthday.

    An absolute cracker of a read – or, rather, a cracking multitude of mini-reads.

    Every non-work morning – because some of the stories are too long to read in the short time I have before going to work, and I couldn’t cope with the suspense of not finishing one straight away – I read one story, whilst sipping my matcha latte, with Louis Catorze on my lap. 

    Catorze loves this book, too, mainly because it’s fun to nuzzle the corners of the hard cover (I allow him this) and to try to chew the ribbon bookmark (I don’t allow him this, but it doesn’t keep him from trying). However, I also think part of the appeal is trying to assert himself over it and remind it of exactly who is the creepiest of them all. Not even a conglomeration of the best classic horror literature in the world (Bram Stoker, Washington Irving and even a few of Catorze’s own countrymen such as Honoré de Balzac and Guy de Maupassant) could be creepier than Catorze. 

    Here he is, choosing his moment of ambush during exactly the right story:

    He wouldn’t … would he?
    He would. And he did.

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