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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.

  • Rockin’ around the Christmas tree (Partie 2)

    What was the last thing you did for play or fun?

    Rodan is leaving the tree alone, but the presents aren’t safe.

    We have a winner in our Feline Tree-Destroying Race. However, although we have narrowed it down to a household, we still don’t know which cat was the guilty party. So it’s possible that both defendants may have to be acquitted.

    Here is the main piece of evidence presented by the prosecution: 

    Oh, Otis!

    Now, if you zoom in on Otis’s face, he certainly looks sheepish, as if he has something to hide. But the defence would like to point out that, when this photo was taken, he had just been de-flead and had slithered under the tree to express his displeasure. The ornament and string of lights were already like that when he took refuge in his sulking spot, and nobody knows who was responsible.

    Therefore we cannot prove, beyond all reasonable doubt, that Otis did it, nor that his sister, Roux, DIDN’T do it. Case dismissed.

    In somewhat related news, on Wednesday morning, not long after the Otis-or-Maybe-Roux incident and a few hours before our tree arrived, I came downstairs to this: 

    Oh, Catorze!

    Our interim mini-tree, which has sat happily in the hearth for days, was down – and, because holly berries are not exactly the best thing for cats*, I was then on my hands and knees, desperately sweeping up. Clearly the fact that we didn’t yet have a tree wasn’t going to deter Louis Catorze from felling a tree.

    Anyway, our main tree is finally here, and Catorze struck gold when it turned out that the nice delivery gentleman loved cats. He described a purring, flirting Catorze as “very chatty” (yup) and an “absolute angel” (ahem), and he was genuinely sad to have to tear himself away to do his next delivery. If your tree was late, you know whose fault that is.

    Putting up the lights and decorations would have been no problem – and quite fun, in fact – with two fully-operational hands. It was considerably more difficult with just one, and we all know whose fault that is, too.

    Now, let’s see how long it can last.

    Pondering whether to ruin all my efforts now or later.

    *Catorze can be trusted not to eat berries so we can have holly in the house, once a year. Plus there is holly in the garden, and in many of our neighbours’ gardens, and he hasn’t come a-cropper yet. However, if your cat is a muncher, or even if you’re not sure, play safe and avoid.

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

  • Un chat accorde sa confiance à un homme

    Describe a man who has positively impacted your life.

    Louis Catorze loves men and, whenever groups of people visit us, he will seek out the gentlemen of the party. I don’t know a cat can know what a man is and what a woman is, but he does. Years ago, when he was off his nut on Gabapentin and not very well, Catorze still had the strength to drag himself off our female guest’s lap and onto that of her husband. 

    But, really, every visiting man has an impact on Catorze, whether it be family members, friends, tradesmen, delivery drivers, whoever.

    Cat Daddy’s daughter and her husband are staying with us this week. Son-in-Law grew up with animals and has always had them in his life. In fact, one of his childhood cats used his outdoor Wendy House structure to stash animal remains from her kills, and these were only discovered by his horrified parents once, erm, a sizeable amount had built up. Despite this, he loves cats, and has even chat-sat Catorze before. And, since Catorze loves him, too, the little sod can’t resist showing off.

    This has mostly taken the form of screaming. He screams all the time, we know. However, we have observed that he does it when Son-in-Law isn’t giving him attention, then falls silent when he is. It’s not just random screaming; it’s very targeted, in order to achieve a goal. And it works. 

    When outside at The Back, Catorze often sits at the patio door like a Victorian child outside a sweet shop, gazing mournfully at whoever is indoors. Every so often he screams. However, with a new gentleman playmate as a spectator, he decided to ramp things up a notch. 

    I was sitting in the kitchen, talking to our son-in-law about football, and I happened to be facing away from the patio door. I didn’t even know that Catorze could be seen through the glass. 

    Me: “Blah blah next away game blah blah …”

    Son-in-Law, interrupting: “Sorry, but … WHAT IS LOUIS DOING?”

    I turned to look. The little sod was reared up on his hind legs, eyes wide, battering at the glass with his front paws and screaming absolute bloody murder. 

    Actual footage of what Catorze looked like through the glass. (Picture from tumblr.com.)

    Never have I seen him do this when he has a perfectly good route in.

    Me, trying to hide my embarrassment: “Oh, just ignore him. He’s pretending to be stuck outside.”

    Him: “So he’s … NOT stuck outside?”

    Me: “No, he’s just being a shite.”

    Now, we all know the story of the boy who cried wolf, don’t we? Even though Catorze practically invented false alarms, part of me did worry that the one day I failed to respond to the SOS would be the day that the cat flap malfunctioned, that there was a bloodthirsty wolf on the prowl outside, or some such thing.

    We continued our conversation about football but, all the while, I had one ear at the back door, listening out for wolf sounds. 

    None came. 

    And, a few minutes later, when Son-in-Law’s back was turned, Catorze came in through the cat flap with no issue whatsoever. 

    Here he is, on the lookout for the next man. Would he launch a stealth aerial attack as they walked up the stairs? Absolutely.

    “Fresh hommes!”

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

  • Le chat noir et le sang rouge

    *WARNING: CONTAINS TALK OF BLOOD.*

    Merde: I have cut my thumb on a can of Louis Catorze’s wet food. You won’t be surprised to hear that this was because he was screaming and screaming at me as I struggled to open it and, in my fluster, my hand slipped. 

    If you’ve watched any action films, EVER, you will know that tasks requiring both speed and dexterity – loading guns, defusing bombs, finding the right key among a big bunch of wrong ones whilst the killer is chasing you, that kind of thing – don’t work well under extreme pressure. If you want the job done properly, just be patient and let the person get on with it, otherwise their hands will scrabble and wobble and it will all go wrong, even if they’ve done the task a thousand times before without any issue.

    However, unfortunately nobody has told Catorze this. I can’t prove it, but I know that this would never have happened if he’d just shut up and waited quietly.

    I haven’t seen so much blood since – well, since two days after my surgery*. There was blood in the kitchen sink from where I tried to wash the wound, blood all over the floor from when I, erm, ran to get my phone to take a photo in case Cat Daddy didn’t believe how bad it was, BLOOD EVERYWHERE.

    *There was An Incident after the removal of my cannula, so bad that they had to replace the CURTAINS surrounding my hospital bed. That’s all you need to know.

    And all the while, through me bouncing from foot to foot in pain and tearing off copious amounts of kitchen towel to mop up the never-ending mess, Catorze circled me like a hungry saltwater crocodile, screaming his guts out. 

    The photo ended up being redundant; not only is it too gross to show people but, because the wound wouldn’t stop bleeding, rendering me unable to open cupboards and drawers looking for a plaster, I had to wake Cat Daddy for help. So he ended up seeing the full horror of it, anyway. He was pretty good about being woken up but, as soon as I told him how I’d done it, he said, “Bastard cat”. 

    I’d love to be able to tell you that, after my traumatic experience, Catorze cuddled his mamma. However, he didn’t. He just screamed at me for a second helping of food (and this time I gave him a tear-open pouch, not a can), ate it and went outside. 

    Meanwhile, I am sitting here, my cut-thumb pain worse than my surgery pain by quite some way, wondering if I should just get rid of Catorze and share my house with an animal who is less trouble. A venomous snake, maybe. Or a mountain lion. 

    Just in from the rain, with both fang and weird reptilian tail on show.

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

  • Le plaisir de manger

    It’s almost a year since The Great Salmon Grab, and I’m still being screamed at every time I prepare fish.

    Cat Daddy: “You know why it’s happening. You left salmon out for him.”

    That’s not what happened, but ok. 

    Cats can, apparently, lose their sense of smell as they grow older. Since Louis Catorze is such a bully for stinky fish, yet only moderately responsive to his almost-odourless Orijen, I wondered, perhaps, if this was happening to him, too. 

    After looking online, I discovered that the symptoms of this are as follows: 

    • Sneezing (nope)
    • Nasal congestion (nope)
    • Changes in behaviour (nope – unless they count “Being even more of an annoying shite” among these)
    • Increased respiratory sounds (he’s certainly making more SOUNDS, but they’re definitely not respiratory)

    Ok, so maybe there’s nothing wrong with his sense of smell. 

    Catorze has always favoured fish-flavoured dry food, so much so that it was even mentioned on his documentation when he came to us from the rescue. He has had a couple of forays into the domain of wet food but, although he’s enjoyed them, they have never lasted very long. My next theory, after the sense of smell one, was that, perhaps, his tastes were changing in his old age, and that his fish-bullying was a sign that he needed wet food in his life again. And our lovely friends at The Cool Cat Club were happy to oblige. 

    When the delivery arrived, as soon as I opened the first tray of cod and salmon pâté, the screaming started. And it wasn’t just normal Catorzian screaming: it was guttural and desperate. He wolfed down the whole tray, plus a scattering of Orijen, and I think he would have happily eaten more had I offered it.

    The next morning, the same thing happened. His plate was so clean afterwards that I could have eaten from it (but I didn’t).

    It’s only been a few days, but already he’s lost that gaunt, elderly cat look. I can FEEL that he’s chubbing up. Most cat people probably wouldn’t want their cats to gain weight but, trust me, Catorze needed it.

    The possibility of him producing a half-decent Official Winter Solstice Portrait, as opposed to looking like something just dug up from an ancient tomb, is growing more likely. 

    Ok, so this one is more Ancient Tomb than Yuletide Cheer.

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

  • Ni manger, ni vivre (Partie 20) 

    Part 20. Oh. Mon. Dieu. 

    What triggers Louis Catorze more than a room with Michelin-starred hot-smoked salmon in it? A room WITHOUT Michelin-starred hot-smoked salmon in it, it seems.

    Now that our mealtimes have been irreparably ruined, we are forced to shut ourselves away if we want to eat fish. Catorze screams and batters at the door like an angry poltergeist, making us bolt our meal down at lightning speed. However, both this AND the indigestion that ensues are still better than trying to eat with him in the same room. 

    After we’ve finished, we let him in. A foolproof plan, non? 

    Well … non. A room that smells of hot-smoked salmon yet doesn’t appear to contain any – phantom salmon, if you will – is a zillion times more frustrating than seeing the salmon but not being allowed to have any. 

    Apologies for the state of the room. But I’ll live with everyone witnessing my slatternliness, just to be able to show the world what happens when Catorze enters a room that once had hot-salmon in it, but doesn’t anymore: 

    Holy heck.

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

  • Le sport est bien affaire de frissons 

    What are your favourite physical exercises or activities?

    Unfortunately the only exercise that I’m permitted to do, whilst recovering from my operation, is walking, five times a day. I started with five minutes each time, and this week I’m on six.

    Cat Daddy laughs at me for logging each five-to-six-minute walk on Strava, and says that the triathletes and desert marathon runners will think I’m ridiculous for logging such paltry efforts. Luckily I couldn’t give a shite what they think.

    Louis Catorze however, has more than compensated for my inactivity by INCREASING his physical output. Yes, I know that it’s the opposite of what most normal cats are doing at this time of year. No, I don’t understand it. 

    Weirdo.

    This is what he’s been up to since I’ve been back from hospital, and they seem to be his new favourite things to do:

    1. Demanding to play with his pink butterfly on a string, every single morning. 
    2. Attacking the hot water bottle that my sister sent me as a get-well present (see below).
    3. Kicking over my bucket of used blood-thinning injection needles as he pitter-pattered/parkoured around the bedroom at whatever time of night it was.
    Actual footage of me when I woke up the next morning. (Picture from x.com.)

    For an old boy of fourteen and a half, he’s doing all right. I’m being absolutely run ragged trying to keep up with him, but then it’s never been about me, has it? 

    I found the settling down at the end deeply offensive.

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

  • 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