My romantic vision was to see in the first day of my favourite season with a matcha latte outside, and with Louis Catorze happily pitter-pattering around me doing autumn cat things. Sadly it was raining heavily, so I sat indoors instead and waited for Catorze to join me.
He did … utterly drenched from gadding about outside.
Then, when I gave my latte a stir, the sound startled Catorze so greatly that he scarpered, stepping into my mug as he went. Yes, his actual foot went into my drink. Ugh.
I have learned that many of you wouldn’t care about this, but it’s a firm NOPE from me. Yes, I did Google the ingredients of my drink and whether or not they were toxic to cats, just in case he decided to lick it off. He will be fine.
Cat Daddy: “Maybe he is blind after all. Surely a cat with normal eyesight would’ve seen your mug and avoided it?”
Not if they were thick as well.
A season which begins with a cat stepping in your drink just has to get better, non?
The new season calls for a visit to the outdoor bar … and this time he’s stepping in his own drink.
We’ve just been to the vet for Louis Catorze’s steroid shot.
I was going to say something about how shit it was, but we haven’t had to take him since 1st July, so I don’t suppose I have much to complain about. I remember the time when we seemed to be taking him constantly, so much so that I thought we may as well take sleeping bags and go and live there. Now THAT was shit.
Whilst in the waiting room this time around, I noticed that the paraphernalia arranged in the Dog Area consisted of zany chews and toys, whereas in the Cat Area it was just cat magazines. The vet knows their target market well. Don’t ask us introverted cat people to do any mad capers that require effort; just give us something catty to read and leave us alone.
The cat who came out of the consultation room before us was a big, beautiful ginge called Murphy. He had been pretty quiet until then but, as soon as he heard Catorze, that set him off. Perhaps not surprisingly, their squawks sounded more like actual messages than just generic noise; we imagined Catorze screaming, “Nonnnnn, not ici again!” and Comrade Murphy telling him to run and save himself.
Anyway, Catorze has lost weight again – which we expected after three months without the thing that gives him the munchies – but at least he’ll be bouncy and sprightly for the spooky season. And when the vet said, “Is he a little bit … blind?” I was so shocked that I actually lost the power of speech, but Cat Daddy chimed in that Catorze is able to spot faraway random bugs and go chasing after them. So he can’t possibly be blind. If his reactions are slow, it’s probably because he’s old and a bit thick.
Oh, and he declined the vet’s offer of Dreamies. I didn’t dare ask if they had any jambon de Bayonne.
As if to prove me wrong, just as I wrote that bit about being old and thick, Catorze jumped off my lap and chased something between the table and the mirror. He may be old, but there’s plenty of [whatever unholy force it is that powers him] left in him.
I don’t know whether to wear a black armband or to raise a glass of something suitably solemn* to mark the fact that we are now up to Part 10 of this sorry saga. I may well do both.
*Is there such a thing as a solemn alcoholic drink, or is this something that only exists in my head? Exuberant drinks = Crémant or Pimms. Solemn drinks = port or whisky. Nobody parties with a port or a whisky, right?
I fancied a creamy salmon pasta the other night but, knowing how much Louis Catorze loves salmon and will happily take down anyone who stands in his way of it, I decided that I couldn’t cope with the consequences. So I ditched the salmon in favour of a bog-standard cheesy pasta, the kind of thing that busy mums make for their toddlers when they don’t have time and only have two things in the fridge.
Obviously I hate myself for compromising my dinner in anticipation of my cat bullying me for it. As it turns out, the compromise was utterly pointless as the little shit bullied me anyway.
This is the cacophonous din to which I was subjected. Apologies for the background noise of the Giro or the Vuelta or whatever dull cycling event was on television at the time:
As you can see, not only was Catorze merciless but Cat Daddy was about as much help as a brick parachute.
I couldn’t maintain the filming for long; it really wasn’t manageable alongside a simmering pot, tempting cheese and a screaming cat. I thought I did quite well to capture as much as I did.
Me: “He’s like a hungry shark, circling the cheese.”
Cat Daddy, without looking up from the cycling: “If you don’t want him bothering you for cheese, it’s simple: just don’t offer him any.”
Me: “What? I didn’t …”
Him: “And if he keeps asking, just tell him no.”
Me: “…”
Anyway, I was able to eat my pasta in relative peace, although I bolted it down as quickly as possible. Mealtimes, which used to be a source of great pleasure to us, are now a war zone. And, annoyingly, Cat Daddy blames me, a mere civilian, rather than the invading party, although I’m sure this is all part of Catorze’s mind control and gaslighting-by-proxy.
I know that others have had to suffer worse than this, for longer. I know that I was lucky to get away with it for as long as I did. But, seriously, what now? What do we do?
It’s official*: cat-cousin Rodan, aged ten months, is bigger than Louis Catorze, aged fourteen years.
*By “official” we mean “not actually official at all”.
Obviously the sensible way to prove this would have been to weigh them, or measure them nose-to-tail. THAT would have made it official. But, because we were too stupid to think of this, we decided instead to, erm, photograph each cat with a Carmex lip balm for scale.
Rodan – still a kitten.Catorze – no longer a kitten (but nobody has told him this).
Unfortunately Catorze won’t spread out like Rodan. Every time I put down the Carmex, he curls around to look at it, making himself look even smaller. But we can all still tell that Rodan is overall just a longer, rangier cat, whereas tiny Catorze is a forever-kitten.
It’s only a matter of time before Rodan’s sister Mothra also grows bigger than Catorze, making Catorze the smallest cat in our family (and, possibly, in the world). However, what Catorze lacks in size, he certainly makes up in [we still don’t have a word for all the stupid shit that he does].
Mothra – not a Chat Noir but still not to be trusted.
Saint Jésus, if I’m not being screamed at, I’m being INVIGILATED whilst I cook. I bet the contestants on Masterchef don’t have to put up with this kind of thing:
I blinked first.
Louis Catorze has never, EVER sat like this in the kitchen before, but he’s doing it now. I might have understood had I been preparing cheese, but this time I was cutting onions and garlic.
Cat Daddy, without looking up from the football: “Give him a bit of something awful to teach him a lesson! Turmeric, maybe. Or chilli.”
I wavered momentarily on that fine line between “This will teach the little shit a lesson” and “This could cost us dearly at the emergency vet” but, eventually, I settled for the former. I held out a piece of garlic and Catorze almost knocked it out of my hand in his haste to get to it. Then, when he smelled it, he changed his mind.
I had hoped that he would leave me alone. However, I only succeeded in making him more angry because I’d tricked him.
Cue more creepy-staring and screaming and, when they didn’t work, he went to Cat Daddy and lunged for his (plain, unbuttered) piece of flatbread.
May our old life rest in peace; we will remember it fondly, with tears in our eyes. This is the new normal – if, indeed, anything about Catorzian life can be called “normal”.
Cat Daddy returned home from his trip at the start of the week, and Louis Catorze’s screaming has been absolutely off the scale ever since. Every time I think it can’t get worse, the little sod proves me wrong.
During Cat Daddy’s absence, Catorze wouldn’t leave me alone; he clung to me like a limpet and followed me everywhere that I went. Now he’s dropped me like a day-old bagel (thank you, Kate, for teaching me this phrase!).
So part of his rambunctiousness is down to pure joy that his favourite human is back. However, it’s also been raining a lot; as you know, Catorze LOVES storms and is always more excitable during them. Also, Cat Daddy’s sister is staying with us for a few days, and Catorze is making the most of having an extra spectator for his dramatic skits.
All these factors work together, like the ingredients of a magic spell, to form an unbelievably bouncy, loud Catorze.
Backlit Roi.
Cat Auntie talks to Catorze a lot. So most of our evenings have gone like this:
Catorze: “Mwahhhh!”
Cat Auntie: “Hellooooo!”
Him: “Mwah!”
Her: “How nice it is to have a cat who wants to come and say hello!”
Him: “Mwah!”
Her: “You’re very noisy, aren’t you?”
Him: “Mwah!”
Her: “When I speak to your daddy on the phone, I can often hear you in the background, can’t I?”
Him: “Mwah!”
Her: “I know, I know.”*
Him: “Mwah!”
*What does she know? How does she know? And how is it that, despite living with Catorze for all these years, WE STILL DON’T KNOW?
Although I appreciate our guests engaging with Catorze, unfortunately I think it’s making him worse, a bit like arguing with that person looking for a fight instead of taking the wind out of their sails by ignoring them.
Oh well. Sa Maj is happy, and that’s the main thing.
Here he is on his favourite lap, demonstrating that, unlike most cats, for him, a slappy tail is a happy one:
Cat Daddy was stuck behind a bus in a traffic jam the other day, and this ad caught his attention:
Doggie WHAT?
I can’t think of anything more fun than observing such a thing. We don’t have a dog but, whilst I figure out how to get one just for the day, I have many questions about this place. Most of them could be answered by Googling it, I’m sure. But it’s more fun just to pointlessly ponder them, non? (Fun for me, I mean. Probably not for you.)
Is there a list of Pool Rules?
Do dogs have to shower first, and/or walk through one of those foot bath things?
Do dogs have armbands? (On all four limbs or just the front ones?)
Is there a lifeguard? (And are they human or canine?)
What happens if your dog starts a fight? Do you, as the Responsible Human, have to wade in and stop it?
There are also the predictable, low-brow questions involving, erm, the bathroom situation. But, just as it’s ultimately humans who are responsible for dogs toileting where they shouldn’t, it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that humans are the only creatures who would think to use a swimming pool as a toilet.
As ever, this spurred my brain to think about an equivalent place for cats. Obviously a pool wouldn’t work, since cats – apart from Louis Catorze and those Turkish Van cats – hate water. Is there a type of place where they could go and mingle with like-minded felines and indulge in a fun activity? What do cats even like to do? Despite having lived with them since the age of ten, I still don’t know.
I wonder if any of the following ideas would work:
A mouse pit, which is exactly as it sounds: just chuck the cats in and let them fill their boots.
A shisha lounge, with feline patrons huffing catnip from a hookah on a table before knocking the hookah to the floor.
Sadly, my vision of being a spectator at a doggy swimming gala seems as unlikely as that of creating either of the above places for cats. Disco the dog doesn’t like water so it’s a nope from him. And Puppy Mamma says I can take Nala and Gizzy but she refuses to come with me – as in, I WOULD BE THE SOLE RESPONSIBLE HUMAN – so it’s a nope from me.
Meanwhile, Catorze will await the launch of a men-only cuddle club. If nobody has invented such a thing yet, he’ll just wait here until someone does:
Dreaming of Boys’ Club becoming an international brand.
I dunno … eating my dinner alone in a locked room, like a prisoner in protective custody?
I’m not sure whether to be more shocked that we are now up to Part 8, or that Louis Catorze has just eaten something unthinkably bizarre from my almost-empty bowl.
Mesdames et Messieurs, I give you: kale pesto. It tastes exactly as it sounds. And it wasn’t regular, crowd-pleasing Sacla; it was some artisan vegan brand, so it didn’t even have any cheese to cheer up its tongue-searing bitterness. (Apologies to any Italians reading this.)
Incidentally, I bought it first and read the ingredients later. If you’re buying fancy pesto, I would recommend that you do these things in reverse.
I should have whipped the bowl away as soon as he went near. But I let him get on with it in the hope that, as soon as his tongue touched the pesto, it would teach him a lesson and he would never food-bully again.
The more the little sod licked the bowl, the more I thought, “Anytime now, he’ll realise his mistake and bolt/puke.” He didn’t. My plan massively backfired and, before I knew it, he’d licked half of it.
Merde.
VEGAN PESTO?
Also in the bowl were the dregs of mozzarella, avocado, apple cider vinegar (!), raw red onion (!!), sundried tomatoes and avocado. I accept that the mozzarella would have been the main draw, but the pesto, the vinegar and the onion really ought to have cancelled it out.
They didn’t. In fact, after I finally whipped the bowl away, Catorze even jumped up onto the worktop, where he isn’t allowed, looking for more pesto. Then the screaming started.
Cat Daddy: “See what you’ve created? All this is because of that salmon that you gave him from your plate*. He’s realised that there are better things out there than the dried shit** we give him every day.”
*This isn’t remotely how it happened, but tant pis.
**That dried shit is the best food on the planet and costs us a fortune, but tant pis again.
Meanwhile, Catorze is officially on hunger strike (again), gazing sorrowfully at his bowl and wishing some good soul would swap the Orijen for vegan pesto.
Cat Daddy: “Feeding him pesto would be cheaper.”
The picture is terrible because I took it hurriedly in the dark, but the disappointment is clear.
After the council spent the whole summer on their project of rewilding the pavements of TW8, with autumn approaching they have finally decided to dewild them again. Clearly they realised that letting our streets overgrow until they turned into the I Am Legend film set wasn’t a great look.
At around 8am, they came to dig up the various plants and shrubs that had started to flourish in the cracks between the paving slabs. This was Louis Catorze’s reaction to their presence:
Shits given: 0.
Now they’ve stopped scraping and started sweeping. Shits given: still 0.
Were it not for the fact that there is sound, one would be forgiven for thinking that these were photos, non? Having seen cats react strongly to passers-by and unexplained noises from the street, my brain cannot deal with one who just. Does. Nothing.
I even wondered if the little sod might be turning deaf in his old age; it would certainly explain the increasingly louder and more frequent screaming. However, as soon as I stopped filming, I accidentally clattered a teaspoon against my cup and that sent him fleeing for the hills. So it’s not that.
This response very much reflects the general Catorzian outlook on external forces:
Things that could kill him (other cats, foxes, dogs, implement-wielding strangers outside) = either no reaction whatsoever or extreme aggression, despite being a fraction of their size.
Utterly harmless things that nobody notices or cares about (teaspoons clattering, ice cubes placed into his water on a hot day) = abject fear.
In my last post I had wondered whether, as he grew older, Catorze would finally become more like a normal cat. I guess it’s an emphatic “No” to that.
The other day I was preparing a beef wellington for Louis Catorze’s Cat Uncle. He is seriously ill in hospital, and beef wellington is his favourite thing in the world. This was what I had to endure after giving the little sod a few scraps of jambon de Bayonne, which I had used to wrap up the wellington:
The tongue at the end. Ugh.
I’ve always known that Catorze liked jambon de Bayonne. That’s no secret. But this level of screaming, and the scary sweeping of the floor for stray scraps like a land mine detector, were downright unnecessary.
Oh, and, later that evening, when the wellington was resting on the worktop, the little sod jumped up and lunged for it. Luckily Cat Daddy was facing that direction and was able to stop him before he was able to wrestle it to the floor. (It probably weighed more than him, but this wouldn’t have stopped him.)
Trying to steal the lunch of a terminally-ill man is deeply ungentlemanly, even by Catorze’s already low standards.
I am back at school this week, with a few staff training days before the kids return at the end of the week. I was about to say “It’ll be a relief to be around surly teenagers instead of Catorze” but Cat Daddy is away for a few days. So it’ll be surly teenagers by day, then by night I’ll be home alone with a bored, unstimulated, unhinged hell-beast.
When it’s 27°C outside – yes, even though it’s SUPPOSED TO BE SEPTEMBER – and you’re a black animal covered in fur, the sensible thing to do would be to keep out of the sun, non?
Well, NON. Whilst Cat Daddy and I slow-cooked to death on Sunday afternoon, feebly sipping ice-cold drinks, Louis Catorze decided to sunbathe, on hot paving slabs, with no shade.
(We do have shady spots aplenty in the garden. He just didn’t want them.)
We have lived with him for long enough to know what a weirdo he is, so this didn’t come as a surprise. However, what did was when he pitter-pattered indoors, after charging himself up in the heat like a small, screaming branding iron, to roll the heat off onto us.
He tried first with Cat Daddy (rejected), then with me (rejected). Eventually he settled for using his papa as a pillow, flicking his contented tail against me.
Bit too hot.
Even like this Catorze radiated heat, so we tried to cool him down with a freezer ice pack thing, like the ones that athletes wear (well, ok, nothing like those ones, really). He appeared to enjoy it for a short while, then shook it off to go back outside and sunbathe again.
Bit less hot.
Cat Daddy: “I give up. Maybe we should just shear him in the spring, like a Highland sheep? We could leave a few bits on, like his face and tail, otherwise he might look stupid.”
Right.
Anyway, there’s no sign of Catorze now, so we’re hoping he’s suddenly had a common sense transfusion and found some cool shade somewhere.
Meanwhile, do you have eyes on your furry overlords? Can you rely on them to be sensible in extreme* weather?
Louis Catorze does. Well, sometimes. When he’s not being a massive arse.
Cat Daddy: “I was reading that.”
When Cat Daddy and I decided to sit outside and enjoy an ice-cold matcha latte in the garden, Sa Maj squeezed between us. There wasn’t really room for him, but he didn’t care; his need to be with us was greater than the need for anyone to be comfortable.
Cat Daddy is usually quite cutting and rude when it comes to all things Catorzian. However, on this occasion, he said, “I don’t think we will ever have another cat who just wants to be with us all the time. Make the most of it.”
I like to think that I do.
Catorze is the person – if, indeed, one can call him a “person” – with whom I spend the most time. He has his own blog and visitors’ book, and we celebrate him not only on his birthday of 30th April but also on two Black Cat Days (17th August and 27th October – no, I have no idea why there are two or what the difference is, but tant pis), the summer solstice (after all, he is the Sun King) and throughout the whole month of October.
I’m not ashamed to say that I sometimes decline invitations because I’d rather spend time watching horror with Catorze on my lap. Since this is my favourite thing to do, why would I choose less fun things in favour of this?
Cat Daddy: “You shouldn’t put that in your blog. Friends will read it and stop inviting you to things.” What, so I’ll be stuck at home, alone, with my cat? Oh no, not that! Anything but that!
Catorze is still as active as he was when he was younger. However, when he jumps down from heights, he reaches down with both front paws before launching himself. And he’s covered with an ever-increasing scattering of old-man white hairs. This reminds me that the little sod’s best years are probably behind him, but he neither knows nor cares and still conducts himself with all the exuberance – and the volume – of a whole litter of kittens.
Meanwhile, we will continue to appreciate every minute with him, And this video shows that, on some level, he can put aside his psychopathy and his narcissism and appreciate us, too:
louiscatorze.com 