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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.

  • Rien n’est permanent sauf le changement

    We have a new Prime Minister and a new government. They are by no means flawless, but we were at such a low that we would have happily accepted anyone. (Well, maybe not Donald Trump or Nigel Farage. Or Marine Le Pen. Anyone but those three.)

    One of the perks of being Prime Minister is the chance to share a house with Larry the cat. Larry has lived at 10, Downing Street since 2011 and is the one constant through a succession of Prime Ministers, each more shit than the last.

    “Things can only get better, right?” Spoiler alert: they didn’t. (Picture from standard.co.uk)

    Larry’s new Cat Daddy, Keir Starmer, is a cat person … but he already has a cat. He’s called Jojo and, apparently, he’s treated like royalty in the Starmer household, which is exactly as it should be. But how will he feel about sharing his Château?

    In the old days, if you wanted two cats to live together, you would just put them together and hope for the best. Sometimes it worked out, sometimes it didn’t. And, if it didn’t, people would just live with scrapping cats and not give it much thought.

    Relations with Palmerston the Foreign and Commonwealth Office cat were somewhat mixed. (Photo from standard.co.uk.)

    However, these days there’s an actual PROCESS when introducing two cats with a view to them living together and managing conflict. According to Feliway – who, let’s face it, ought to know a thing or two about making angsty cats calm the heck down – this includes scent swapping, safe places to escape drama, and, erm, “serenity massages”.

    What’s that? You don’t believe me about the massages? Look here.

    Will Cat Daddy Keir be up to the complex job of managing relations between Larry and his new housemate? Are there enough electrical sockets in Number 10 for all those Feliway plug-ins?

    And how many of us will be taking more of an interest in this story than in anything that the new cabinet does?

    Jojo was a cat who thought he was a loner. (Picture posed by model from pethatestoys.com.)

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

  • Mieux vaut prévenir que guérir

    *WARNING: CONTAINS IMPLIED PENIS-CAUGHT-IN-ZIP INJURY REFERENCES. (Cat Daddy made me write that.)*

    Louis Catorze has just been for his steroid injection. It’s probably a little early, but we wanted to tick it off before going away on holiday. Having the jab makes him less likely to have skin problems, but it also makes him more annoying. So … swings and roundabouts, an’ all that.

    Vive les vacances!

    Naturellement there was a morning of me trying to Act Normal (it didn’t work: HE KNEW) and then the customary screaming as I tried to shove him into his transportation pod. It’s quite astounding the way a 3kg cat can develop the strength of ten angry bears when you try to make him do something he doesn’t want to do. And, somehow, in the chaos, I managed to get his tail caught in the zip of his pod.

    I didn’t think anything could make a trip to the vet worse than it already was. However, this did. Luckily I managed to free it, and Catorze seems to be unharmed. Having to ask the vet to unzip the zipped tail would have been mortifying (yet probably still not up there in my top ten embarrassing vet visits).

    Cat Daddy later winced and crossed his legs when I told him this.

    When we arrived at the practice, I was greeted by a most jarring sight: a dog (Bella the Border terrier) sitting in the Cat Area and a cat (Heera the long-haired Calico) sitting in the Dog Area.

    I KNOW. I’ll pause for a second to give you time to take in this disconcerting information.

    As you can imagine, this completely threw me into a tailspin. Should I sit with the cat as a sign of solidarity, or with the dog to demonstrate my ability to read and respect signs?

    Eventually I went for the latter. Catorze then started screaming at the dog, so I had to move.

    The screaming continued. Bella the Border terrier didn’t so much as flick an ear, and I then found out that she was deaf. Heera the long-haired Calico also didn’t react, and just lay in her Cat Daddy’s arms staring at Catorze and looking appalled.

    The little sod has gained a whole 80g (almost a whole bar of Green and Black’s chocolate) since the last visit, which has shocked us to the core because we thought he’d lost weight. But this is good news.

    Anyway, Le Roi has certainly recovered from his trauma, as I had a big fat mouse brought to the bedroom yesterday morning. Let’s hope that the Catorzian tail doesn’t develop some sort of delayed blood flow issue, going limp and dropping off just as we’re about to leave.

    Seriously. It won’t … will it?

    Please stay well, weird reptilian tail.

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

  • Le dernier prédateur de l’homme

    Since Cat-Disliking Friend is a science teacher, whenever I have a science question that I can’t be bothered to Google, I ask him. And, when I say, “May I ask you a science question?” his usual response is to roll his eyes and say, “It’s not about your cat again, is it?”

    Just before the end of term, I told him that Louis Catorze is glued to my side when I have Covid, yet couldn’t give a shite when it’s just a normal cold. And I asked whether it could be possible for cats to sniff out Covid.

    Naturellement, initially he fell about laughing. But, when I pointed out that dogs can sniff out cancer, fire accelerant and dead bodies, he realised that I may actually have a point. He asked me about Catorze’s reaction to other viral infections, such as flu, but neither Cat Daddy nor I have had the flu in the time that we have had Catorze. Yet it seems that that might be the only way of proving my theory.

    CDF: “There is, of course, the possibility that he’s showing genuine compassion.”

    Oh, come on. He, of all people, should know better than this.

    So, unless I succumb to some other viral infection, I don’t suppose we will ever know the truth. Meanwhile, I kick myself for all the money I could have made from the little sod during the pandemic; who needs a world-beating lateral flow test when they could have a Catorzian cuddle instead?

    Thanks, but I’d rather shove a swab down my throat and swirl it around until I gag.

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

  • Pas de violence; c’est les vacances!

    What are you most worried about for the future?

    If we’re talking about the short term, I worry about Louis Catorze misbehaving and being a massive shite. Long term … well, it’s the same thing.

    It’s the school holidays. And, naturellement, because this is Catorze, there has been trouble. Yes, ALREADY.

    I was sitting in the front room when I heard Cat Daddy shout, “Oh God. He’s screaming at something outside.” I went to investigate and heard that telltale, guttural cat fight sound coming from our shrubbery. The bushes were shaking and I could see a Chat Noir arse sticking out of one end, with a swishing tail so bushy that I wasn’t even sure if it was Catorze’s or not.

    A couple of seconds later there was a hiss, then a large (but then, any cat is large compared to ours) black and white cat went shooting out of the shrubbery and into the Zone Libre, with Catorze in hot pursuit.

    In my state of agitation I shouted, “Louis!” which was a stupid thing to do. Not only was it pointless because yelling at him wouldn’t have made him stop, but it was a hot day with everyone in their gardens, so all the neighbours would have heard me and therefore known that it was our cat.

    Catorze chased the interloper across the field and the pair of them stood facing each other for a few minutes, yowling and swishing tails.

    This is a terrible picture as I took it through the fence, but the black, shapeless lump to the right of the black and white cat is Sa Maj.

    Catorze then slinked back, but not before standing by a tree in the corner of the field and giving it the biggest, longest spray I’ve ever seen him do. In fact, it may well be the ONLY spray I’ve ever seen him do.

    Cat Daddy: “He sprayed? Him? He never sprays!” I KNOW.

    This has reaffirmed my belief that, despite being a pathetic scrap of a thing, our cat can handle himself. It also seems that he considers the Zone Libre his territory. That’s why he sprayed the tree, non? As a final “And don’t come back!”?

    Cat Daddy again: “Maybe we’re the problem. Maybe we’ve just raised a not-very-nice cat who chases visitors away and sprays all over the place?”

    Oh God.

    Catorze is now back on my lap, without so much a scrape, purring away as if nothing happened. We are going away in a couple of days. Can we trust him to be good for his chat-sitteur?

    “Et alors?”

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

  • Le cristal royal (Partie 4)

    We have had to abandon Louis Catorze’s fancy Versailles drinking glasses and replace them with his old Bodum tumbler. And you are not going to believe this: the little sod is still spilling water. I came downstairs this morning to the tumbler standing amid a LAKE of water.

    He didn’t spill water from the tumbler before. But it’s happening now. He’s doing this on purpose, isn’t he?

    Cat-Disliking Friend’s conclusion that Catorze was simply “a crap drinker” seems to be correct. Cat Daddy filmed the little sod the other day and, if you look carefully, you can see that his tongue flicks the water over the side of the glass twice:

    Messy little sod.

    However, if we fill it less generously to avoid the spillage, we risk Catorze not fitting his silly snout in properly.

    Nobody knows what to do now … but the coaster idea is looking more and more likely.

    Cat Daddy: “No.”

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

  • Quand le soleil dit bonjour

    When the air is hotter than the surface of the sun, and you’re a black animal covered in fur, what better than to have humans skivvy around trying to find ways of keeping you cool? And, if they happen to work up a sweat doing so, tant pis pour eux.

    Louis Catorze used to like having a frozen vodka bottle rubbed on his fur, but he seems to have changed his mind about that. And, when I put some ice cubes in his water yesterday morning, he stared at them as if to say “And what the hell is THIS shit?”, then galloped out of the room with his silly little feet skidding around under him, as if I’d given him radioactive waste. (No, I don’t understand this, either.)

    Luckily he was more receptive to ice cubes when rubbed all over his body (thank you, Marc, for the suggestion!). And he also loved having handfuls of cold water slapped onto his fur, then having the fur roughed up a bit. So I did it again and again until he ended up looking like this:

    Puppy Mamma said he looked like a stray. I replied that that ship had already sailed.
    Eurgh.

    Now, if Catorze is happy to have cold water splodged onto his body, he ought to be happy to be wiped down with a damp towel to rid his fur of pollen, non?

    Well … NON. I imagine that this is because the pollen removal is for our benefit, whereas the cold water roughing-up is for him. Why would a king put himself out to benefit us plebs?

    Here is Sa Maj, fresh from being ice-massaged, relaxing in the shade. If you zoom in, you can see the edges of his roughed-up fur:

    Hot, but still splendid.

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

  • La chaleur d’une amitié

    It is 28°C right now. To British people, this is hotter than a thousand suns. And, naturellement, now is the time that my fur-covered pet, who ordinarily couldn’t give a shite whether I live or die, wants to cuddle me.

    At the beginning of the day, I thought Louis Catorze was dying. There was no sign of him at breakfast or lunch, and I finally found him in the spare room, almost lifeless and barely able to lift his head to emit a breathy, feeble croak. But, later that day, when the heat hit its height, the little sod was mysteriously rejuvenated by some hidden force (I don’t know what it was, but it certainly wasn’t food or water as he declined both) and that was when he wanted to sit on my lap.

    Pretending to be at death’s door (LIES).

    He won’t sit on bare legs because he doesn’t like the feeling of lying on skin, so it’s a firm NON to shorts and mini skirts. His preferences, in order, are a fluffy blanket, denim jeans or compression gym leggings, merci for asking.

    So there I was, in stifling heat, sweltering under a blanket and a heat-radiating cat. Luckily it wasn’t peak hay fever time, otherwise I would most likely have had a beeswax candle burning, too.

    The same animal, pictured later the same day.

    It’s also going to be hot tomorrow. And, no doubt, the same thing will happen again. So please check on your British cat freak friends. We are not ok.

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

  • L’enfer a appelé et le diable a hurlé

    How was Louis Catorze’s summer solstice? Well, I wouldn’t know. I barely saw him because he was constantly out, with his activities varying from sunbathing to fox-goading to Rodent Duty.

    Oh yes, Rodent Duty. ‘Tis the season. Look at his silly little ears stood to attention:

    Sunset Rodent Duty on the longest day.

    In other news: another day, another Zoom call ruined. And it was with the same group of people as the previous, also-ruined, Zoom call.

    For the first forty minutes of the hour-long call, my microphone didn’t work so, although I could hear everyone else, nobody could hear me and I was only able to communicate via the written chat. As I fussed and faffed with my settings trying to work out what had gone wrong, Catorze sat quietly beside me, well out of sight of the camera. Eventually he curled up into a little ball and went to sleep.

    After forty minutes, I hit upon the magic formula which made the microphone work. And, naturellement, that was when Catorze bounced back to life.

    He started by just walking across the camera field, dragging his tail across my face as he went. When it was my turn to speak, that was when he really decided to go for it (whatever “it” was), and the worst point was when he stood on my lap, his face in my face and his arse pointing camerawards, whining like a dying dog.

    Everyone on the call responded in customary British fashion: ignoring it and pretending it wasn’t happening. Nobody’s face so much as twitched. And, as soon the call was over, Catorze decided that he no longer wanted to whine, and went back to sleep.

    I shouldn’t be surprised, given that this little weasel DESTROYED my online lessons and staff meetings during lockdown. But at least, back then, there was a spate of cats doing the same thing. By now, the rest of them have found better things to do.

    What is WRONG with him? What do we do?

    I’d far rather the Zoom callers had seen this end than the other.

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

  • Le festin perpétuel

    How do you waste the most time every day?

    Probably by reading and writing about cats, although I don’t consider it a waste. I consider it time well spent, especially when I read about cats who are bigger shites than mine. (Unbelievably, there are some out there.)

    I don’t know what is happening to the cats of TW8, but they seem to be involved in some sort of Synchronised Piss-Take at the moment. Several cat owners have been posting messages on our local neighbourhood forum, asking everyone not to feed their cats because the little sods are chubbing up from all the extra meals.

    Generally the reaction has been sensible: most people are in agreement that you should absolutely not feed someone else’s cat without permission. But a small minority have surprised me with their responses. Some people have advised the original posters to keep their cats indoors; apparently, if you let your cats out, then you should expect “kind” people to feed them. Erm.

    Then there was this person. Their profile photo is that of a cat, but I am starting to wonder if that’s just a stock photo. If this comment is genuine and not satire, clearly they have never met a cat before:

    The name has been obscured to save them from embarrassment.

    As you know, Louis Catorze is inordinately fussy and wouldn’t be interested in food offered by random people. However, I’m pretty sure his big brother, Luther, would have happily eaten rusty razorblades if someone had drizzled them with fish stock first, whether he were hungry or not. He was also king of the Second Dinner Trick and, once, had me scrabbling through bins counting empty cans, because I didn’t know whether feeding him twenty minutes beforehand was real or just a dream.

    Worryingly, some people agreed with the commenter above. Are they mind-numbingly stupid? Or are they simply one stage along in the subversive brainwashing process that cats are conducting on us, in preparation for their world takeover?

    At least nobody on the forum has (yet) posted to say, “There’s a stray black kitten in my garden, who won’t leave my husband/boyfriend/brother alone”. I’m all ready with the “It must be some other black cat” trademark response.

    “It wasn’t moi.”

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

  • La joie de l’été

    It’s the summer solstice. Usually Cat Daddy and I would be doing something fun as it’s also our wedding anniversary, but I still have the last few dregs of Covid. So we will probably spend the day cooking separate meals and sitting in separate rooms instead.

    Meanwhile, Louis Catorze is out. As soon as Cat Daddy puts the cushions out on our outdoor seating, Catorze is there.

    Le Roi has left the building.

    That said, he still makes time to keep his Coviddy maman company. Two nights ago, when I was getting ready for bed at some desperately early still-daylight hour, I decided to call him in for a goodnight cuddle. Catorze is pretty good at coming when he’s called, but he was outside so, being too lazy to go to him, I knew that I’d have to shout pretty loudly for him to hear me across the hallway and out through the open bathroom window. So I opened the bedroom door and bellowed his name with all his might.

    I then head a “Mwah” and pitter-pattering paws. It turned out that Catorze had actually come up to the bedroom and wasn’t outside at all. In my haste to project my voice as far as I could, I hadn’t seen him at my feet, and my shouting had scared him. Oh dear.

    So, whilst I sit trying to drown the Covid with Lemsip*, Sa Maj is out. Again. And, even though I have seen the silhouette of Foxy Loxy slinking through the half-light, I know that the little sod can handle himself.

    *Lemsip does not cure Covid. I know this. It just makes my brain feel that I’m doing something to help myself.

    Happy Solstice to you all.

    He just abandoned a salutation to the sun. You can actually hear him mutter, “Nah, sod it”.

  • L’âge donne le sens

    How do you want to retire?

    Louis Catorze is, apparently, seventy-two in cat years, so he is well into retirement. However, nobody seems to have told him this. Or, if they have, he hasn’t listened.

    To outsiders, he still looks like a playful little kitten, doing all the other things that he did whilst younger: jumping onto and off beds, 3am parkour, scaling high fences to go wandering somewhere he has no business being, and so on. He still eats, drinks, plays and screams. He even still hunts from time to time.

    But, one morning last week, when I followed him downstairs for breakfast, I noticed that he wasn’t galloping down as he usually does. Instead, he would gallop a couple of steps, then take a couple gently, then gallop again, and so on.

    Oui, Mesdames et Messieurs: he is finally starting to show signs of his age, reminding us that he is an old man and not a rambunctious kitten. This made me a little sad, but then he doesn’t know that he’s an old man. And, if he did, he wouldn’t give a shit.

    Here he is, wondering whether to show off his apex predator hunting prowess or just bid the bird a friendly bonjour. Turn the volume up:

    (Spoiler alert: he went for the latter.)

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

  • Un lion se voit, pas un virus

    Who do you spend the most time with?

    Merde, merde and thrice merde: I have Covid. In some ways I’m glad there is, at least, an explanation for why I feel so shite, and conducting the test in front of Cat Daddy soon put a lid on all his “Are you sure it’s not hay fever?” nonsense.

    I should have known that something was afoot when Louis Catorze spent the whole weekend on my lap, not even budging through my sneezes. He doesn’t have much patience for, erm, patients, and he makes his irritation quite plain when I’m ill.

    Unless it’s Covid. For reasons that nobody understands, when it’s Covid he is an affectionate and attentive nursemaid and won’t leave my side.

    So, from Friday to today, I’ve spent every waking minute, and probably every sleeping one too, with Catorze.

    This isn’t all some massive coincidence, because he’s done it before. I could have made an absolute fortune had I rented him out when Covid was rife; this kind of skill is right up there with those dogs who can sniff out cancer, dead bodies and whether or not a fire was started deliberately. (Different dogs, I mean, each doing just one of those things. I don’t suppose the same dogs can do all three.)

    At least the football is on. And at least I don’t have to work on Mondays.

    Here is Catorze, snuggled up against me. This is both heart-tuggingly cute and creepy as hell:

    Little sod probably just wants to watch me die.

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

  • Tel père, tel fils

    Today is Fathers’ Day in the UK, and I have bought Cat Daddy this delightful gift:

    For a few seconds I thought this said “10”, which would have been dreadful … but also very funny.

    No doubt he will be absolutely furious, not just at the waste of money on “unsolicited cat tat”, as he puts it, but at the fact that I accidentally made his hair much greyer than it really is. This was partly because I was on a crowded bus at the time of choosing the personalisation, and therefore wasn’t concentrating properly, but also because I just didn’t remember.

    Oui, Mesdames et Messieurs: I actually FORGOT the hair colour of my husband of fifteen years, and didn’t realise until I arrived home that day and looked at him properly. Oh dear.

    Could I pinpoint Louis Catorze’s white hairs with greater accuracy? Probably, yes.

    Anyway, I hope you all have a lovely day, whether or not you choose to celebrate. Cat Daddy will be enjoying it from his default position: underneath Catorze.

    On this fine day, Cat Daddy decided to relax outside with a magazine. Catorze said NON.

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

  • L’ange noir qui veille sur mon berceau

    What notable things happened today?

    Just the usual screaming. You know how it is.

    Furthermore, Louis Catorze’s screaming is getting worse. None of us ever thought this possible, but it’s happening.

    When I told Cat Daddy about the incident with the beautician, asking, “What on earth could have been wrong with him that day?”, Cat Daddy pointed out that it wasn’t just that day; Catorze is like that all the time.

    This is how Catorze’s bullying escalates if he doesn’t get attention:

    1. Just screaming*

    2. Screaming + sitting at our feet, staring at us

    3. Screaming + jumping onto the sofa next to us, staring

    4. Screaming + placing front paws on our lap, staring into our face

    5. Screaming + placing back paws on our lap and front paws on our chest

    6. Screaming + head-butting our hands

    7. Screaming + knocking drinks, books or phones out of our hands (yes, he’s scalded me with hot tea more than once)

    *I say “JUST screaming” as if being on the lower end of the scale isn’t so terrible but, trust me, this is bad. The bar starts very low and just sinks progressively lower.

    Catorze was a particularly psychotic hell-beast the night before I had planned to a ten-mile walk with my friend. You know those nights when you think, “I really need a good sleep because I have a very important thing to do tomorrow”? Yeah, it was one of those. For the few nights before that, I hadn’t heard a peep from him and he’d just cuddled quietly in bed, hence why I stupidly thought he’d behave on the eve of my walk. Oh, and the already-demanding ten miles turned into a tragic thirteen because we got lost, so it really wasn’t great to have had the Catorzian disturbance the night before.

    What on earth do we do, Mesdames et Messieurs? There has to be a solution other than investing in earplugs?

    No, you go ahead and relax. Don’t mind us.

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