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.

  • Plus sucré que le miel

    What’s your favourite sweet?

    Remember cats and jigsaw puzzles? Remember cats and Lego? Well, look at what we have here: a little Roi having a nap on a paper bag. Nothing to see here, right? 

    So multiple beds are not enough?
    Ok. I’ll take that as a “no”.

    Except that in that paper bag is Cat Daddy’s stash of chocolate honeycomb bites from the worthy, plastic-free bulk foods store. A more addictive version of a Crunchie bar, if you will. 

    Cat Daddy: “[Unrepeatable Expletives of the Worst Kind.]”

    Just to clarify, Louis Catorze has AMPLE places to sleep. At the time of taking this photo, his igloo, my lap, my massive, body-length, post-op pillow AND our ruinously-expensive Harris Tweed cushions, all of which are favourite Catorzian sleeping spots, were available. 

    The bag of chocolate honeycomb bites has now been rescued, its squashed contents eaten, and Catorze is behaving perfectly normally – well, as normal as can be, by his standards.  

    How long will this last? Probably until his papa gets a brand new bag.  

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

  • On peut connaître la vertu d’un chat en observant ses défauts 

    Last week I went for an acupuncture session, to help me recover from the after-effects of my surgeries. Through complete coincidence, it turns out that the acupuncturist lives in our street. This kind of thing happens a lot in our town. 

    After my treatment, the acupuncturist messaged me to remind me to keep warm afterwards. I replied, saying, “I have the best hot water bottle: a little black cat.”

    Why am I so stupid? Louis Catorze has form for causing trouble in our street, so why would I say this to someone living in the same street? It’s certainly killed stone-dead any opportunity to be able to say, “It must have been some other black cat” in the future.

    It’s too late to take it back, isn’t it? My best hope – in fact, my ONLY HOPE – is that Catorze just behaves from now on.

    Here are a few of his past neighbourhood idiocies – or, rather, the past idiocies that we know about: 

    Merde.

    Saint Jésus.

    Quel horreur. 

    Yikes.

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

  • Quand je n’ai pas de bleu, je mets du rouge 

    Every night, Louis Catorze comes to join me for a session with the red lamp. We both lie in bed together, watching its colours dance across the walls and ceiling, before falling asleep. 

    I can’t prove this, but somehow I feel that the magical powers of the red lamp help me to fall asleep more quickly. And I swear that it makes a difference to Catorze, too. It may well just be a placebo but, if it’s a placebo that makes him appear to calm the heck down, I’ll take it. 

    When Cat Daddy comes to bed, an hour or two after me, he creeps in silently and turns off the red lamp. The next day, he usually tells me that Catorze was still asleep beside me at lights-out time. 

    The lamp somehow makes Catorze’s fur look blacker, so I’m thinking about a red backdrop for his next photo session. The red living room carpet, despite being shredded and ruined by Catorzian claws, would be perfect. Or perhaps the sight of the little sod lounging in a pool of his enemies’ blood would be more appropriate?

    Creepy little sod.
    Kittenish, but still creepy.
    The red carpet, before he scratched it to smithereens.

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

  • Il y a la vie dans le vieux chat encore 

    Are there any activities or hobbies you’ve outgrown or lost interest in over time?

    No. None whatsoever. 

    Every time I start to think Louis Catorze is too old for one of his usual pastimes – catching mice, ambushing Ocado delivery drivers, picking fights with the local wildlife, that kind of thing – he proves me wrong. In fact, bragging about the fact that he’s finally calming down and giving me some peace virtually guarantees that he will pull some stupid stunt immediately afterwards, just to spite me.

    Racing around trashing the house is another thing that I thought would be a thing of the past. Yet here he is, soon to be fifteen years old, still at it. Whatever “it”’ might be:  

    He’d better tidy up after himself.

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

  • Quand le rêve est trop long, le réveil est brutal 

    My 6:45am alarm didn’t go off on Wednesday. Luckily I was realised that something was amiss when I heard my phone buzzing with text notifications, which are only set to come after 7am.

    When I checked through my schedule to find out what had gone wrong, I saw that my alarm was set for three of my four working days, and Wednesday morning simply said, “No alarm”. I have no idea how I managed to do that. Nor do I know how I was able to get up on previous Wednesdays if there was no alarm. 

    When I realised I was late and rushed downstairs, I found Louis Catorze on the top step, in loaf pose, just sitting there, getting in my way and making me even later (only by a couple of seconds but it’s the principle).

    The little sod always wakes me, without fail, between 6am and 6:45am, whether or not there is an alarm. On days when I really need my sleep because I have something important planned, he wakes me from 3am onwards, at fifteen-minute intervals. However, on that fateful Wednesday, he didn’t. 

    WHY? It’s as if he were deliberately trying to sabotage me.

    Oh, right.

    Bastard cat.

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

  • Je crache sur ton chat 

    And in today’s episode of Unidentified Crud Found On My Cat, we have … well, what exactly DO we have? Nobody knows. Nor does anyone really want to get close enough to find out. 

    Louis Catorze came in from outside looking like this:

    Good grief.

    We think the offending substance could be any one of the following: 

    1. Slug/snail juice.
    2. Bird shit.
    3. “Maybe someone finally had enough and spat on him” (Cat Daddy’s suggestion).

    All are contenders but, somehow, the idea of Catorze annoying someone so much that they resorted to spitting on him, although both repulsive and weird, is also understandable. We’ve never done it, of course. Mainly because we didn’t think of it. 

    I ought to be used to Unidentified Crud Found On My Cat, since Catorze’s big brother Luther would come indoors covered in all sorts, including bright green powder (below) and a film of translucent jelly that pulsed and moved. 

    We never found out what this was.

    However, I still couldn’t quite bring myself to clean the Catorzian mess, especially as Catorze would have fought me every step of the way. So Cat Daddy was the hero on this occasion and spared me the headache. (And, of course, the little sod didn’t fight his papa. He didn’t so much as squeak.)

    Mesdames et Messieurs, IT IS STILL WINTER. What is Catorze going to be like in the warmer months, when he’s spending more time outdoors and there is more Unidentified Crud to be discovered?

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

  • Si on le construit, ils viendront  

    Remember cats and jigsaw puzzles?

    If there had to be one cat to take the concept even further, of course it would be Louis Catorze’s cat-cousin Rodan. Imagine a naughtier version of Catorze, with youth on his side and the benefit of a sidekick (his sister Mothra) to egg him on.

    Yes, exactly. 

    Here is Rodan, relaxing on his human siblings’ Lego: 

    ???
    ??????????

    No, we can’t understand why anyone would want to do this. Yet never, in the history of catdom, has that ever stopped them from doing silly things. 

    Can anyone explain this? [Silence, tumbleweed, crickets.] 

    Anyone? 

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

  • La peur des hauteurs

    What’s the thing you’re most scared to do? What would it take to get you to do it?

    I thought, at his age, that Louis Catorze would be too scared to try death-defying acrobatics, on account of his creaky old bones. Yet here we are.

    I didn’t have to dare him, bribe him or even put up a sign saying, “No death-defying acrobatics”.

    I have no words. 

    What.
    The.
    Hell?

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

  • Se plaindre de son sort

    What do you complain about the most?

    Louis Catorze has the whiniest, most irritating voice on this earth. The problem with this is that, when he uses his voice – and he uses it A LOT – we have no idea whether he’s complaining or not. 

    Our visitors, upon hearing his screams, often take pity on him immediately, saying, “Aww, poor Louis! What’s the matter?” Erm, nothing. That’s just his normal voice. 

    I could post multiple examples of his work, but this video from some years ago was probably the most embarrassing (being out in public) and the loudest. And, no, nothing was wrong:

    Saint Jésus.

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

  • Le sommeil est la meilleure des méditations

    Louis Catorze gave us a massive scare a few nights ago. 

    I walked into the living room, where he was sound asleep, and he didn’t stir in the way that cats do when someone makes a noise during their nap. I called his name, even poked him in the body, all to no avail. I could see that the little sod was breathing, but he was utterly motionless. 

    I lifted his head up in my hand, and it lay in my palm like a weight. When I let him go, he flopped down, as if he were unconscious. 

    Oh. Mon. Dieu. 

    I called Cat Daddy, who was also quite alarmed when I demonstrated the heavy head thing again. Then, when Catorze heard his papa’s voice, somehow he snapped back from whatever parallel universe he was in, stirred gently and let out a breathy, fairylike squeak. 

    What just happened? And why on earth didn’t I video it, so that I would have something to show the vet if things turned to merde later? Perhaps it’s possible for cats to sleep so deeply that they’re unaware of any shouting and prodding going on, but this is nothing that I’ve ever seen before. 

    After the incident, Catorze was absolutely fine and acted as if nothing had happened. And, a day later, he was galloping around the house as if the devil were at his tail*, screaming absolute bloody murder. Nothing was wrong, and he didn’t want anything. This was just for fun. 

    *Not a wholly accurate comparison since the devil would probably run away from him, not vice versa, mais tant pis.

    Please let me know if you have ever experienced this in a cat. (The deep sleep, I mean, not the racing around, screaming.)


    “I love to lounge upon cushions, and think with raptures of my adorers.” (Balzac)

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

  • Hurle, sers, mange, répète (Partie 3)

    Remember when Louis Catorze wouldn’t eat a piece of fish unless it was mushed up into an insipid paste? Curiously, this seems to be a selective affliction only affecting cat food. If said piece of fish happens to be hot-smoked salmon skin, for instance, he’s fine. 

    I know. Imagine that!

    We caught him out the other day when we were slicing up some hot-smoked salmon, and Catorze decided to bully us into sharing. Cat Daddy couldn’t be bothered to cut up the skin into tiny pieces, so he just dumped a couple of large strips into Catorze’s bowl. 

    The little sod dragged one out, sort of flipped it in the air and swallowed it whole, just like the T-Rex in the first Jurassic Park who snapped up the horrible lawyer who was sitting on the toilet. (Younger followers: ask your parents.)

    So, to summarise: 

    Cat food: must be mushed up. No, that’s still too chunky. Maybe pass it through a sieve as the final stage, the way Marcus Wareing does for a chicken liver parfait?

    Hot-smoked salmon skin: gulped down in one, irrespective of the size. 

    In fact, were it not for the cost, not to mention our fear of the little sod choking to death, we might be quite tempted to give him progressively larger pieces of hot-smoked salmon skin just to see how far he would take it. Would be swallow a piece the size of a hand? An A4 sheet of paper? His own body from ear to tail? 

    Fun fact: the biggest salmon ever caught was 97lbs. Catorze is around 6.2lbs.

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

  • Le bizarre incident des chats pendant la nuit

    Rodan and Mothra thoroughly enjoyed the festive season, when they were surrounded by people, and they have been feeling rather needy since everyone returned to their respective workplaces and schools. 

    Here they are, happily snuggled up in their human sister’s bed. But just look at Rodan, on her pillow: 

    Cheeky sod(s).

    Now, did he see an opportunity when she rolled off the pillow, sneaking silently into position as soon as it was vacated? Or is it possible that he could have … SHOVED HER OFF? (I know, I know, a Chat Noir doing something so dastardly just to benefit themselves is utterly unthinkable, but we have to consider all options here.) 

    What do you think, Mesdames et Messieurs? Did Human Sister fall or was she pushed? 

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

  • La baignoire royale 

    If you could make your pet understand one thing, what would it be?

    Despite playing dumb, our cat understands plenty. WE are the ones who need help in understanding HIS stupid shit.

    Cat Daddy and I don’t often have baths, because we much prefer showers. Yet, when I do have a bath, I have to wash it down prior to using it because it’s all bitty and hairy. A bathtub which is only ever used once every three weeks at the most, and which is cleaned weekly whether it’s used or not, shouldn’t be bitty and hairy, right? 

    I then realised that the hairs weren’t human hairs. Louis Catorze had been gadding about IN THE BATHTUB. 

    1. Why? It’s such a strange thing to do, especially as he has a zillion more comfortable places to be.
    2. What does he do in there? Does he just go to sleep, or does he slide around like a teenager in a skate park? 
    3. When? He is always either with us or outside … unless he only goes into the bathtub when we’re not home, and jumps out again when we return (which is REALLY strange, yet probably still wouldn’t be the strangest thing about him)?

    Catorze is the only one who could make this make sense, if he wanted to. However, he doesn’t.

    An old photo of more bathroom misadventures. Here, he was getting high on the bleach after the bathroom had been cleaned.

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

  • L’eau, c’est la vie

    After learning about some of the gross things that are in tap water – if you don’t know, trust me, you’re better off not knowing – I decided to treat myself to an eco water filter. It’s eco because, instead of throwing away a plastic filter cartridge every few weeks, you open the cartridge, empty out the coconut fibre charcoal innards and replace those. Not perfect, but not bad either.

    I decided to buy this just for me, but I have to admit that I briefly dallied with the idea of giving Catorze filtered water, too. Now, please hear me out. It was only a thought and I’m not going to go through with it, for the following reasons:

    1. If Catorze’s guts can handle rotting rat carcasses oozing with maggots, he is probably managing fine with tap water.

    2. I would die of embarrassment telling a chat-sitteur to serve our cat filtered water in our absence, yet letting them help themselves from the minging tap for their own drinks.

    3. If there were some sort of crisis in the future and we were forced to give Catorze tap water as an emergency measure, he would probably go on thirst strike and let himself shrivel up into a brittle, anhydrous husk, just to spite us.

    So there will be no fancy water for Sa Maj. But don’t feel bad for him, because he still has a choice of delightful drinking spots available to him: his water glass, the rainwater that pools on the outdoor table and the indescribable stagnant muck lurking within the garden bucket.

    Here he is, enjoying each one at various moments over the years:

    Le royal wine glass, during the glorious days before Cat Daddy kicked it over and broke it.
    The outdoor bar.
    The cess pool of horrors.
    Bonus photo of Catorze’s cat-auntie, Zelva, drinking from the water that my mum leaves out for the foxes in an upcycled washing machine door. (She has her own cool, boiled water indoors.)

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