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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.

  • Ni Manger, Ni Vivre (Partie 15)

    It’s half term. And, whereas most cats wake you up on weekends/holidays at the same time that they would wake you during a working week, mine decided, on the first day of my break, to wake me FORTY-FIVE MINUTES earlier than my usual weekday alarm. What an absolute bastard.

    By the way, this was before daylight savings day. So he doesn’t even have that excuse.

    In somewhat-related news, we all know that Louis Catorze is odd. We’ve known this for some time. 

    The little sod is still being a pest at mealtimes, screaming and clambering all over whilst we eat. However, I’ve noticed that one particular item seems to spark his curiosity more than any other, and is guaranteed to have him drop whatever he is doing and race over, all psycho-eyed and fangy.

    That item is, erm, my fruit-flavoured electrolyte powder. Neither fruit nor electrolytes nor powder make this remotely appealing for any cat but, wherever he is on the planet, he will seek me out when I am opening one of these. 

    One friend suggested that perhaps these sachets look too much like Lick-e-Lix. However, I have never given Catorze Lick-e-Lix IN MY LIFE. It’s possible that he might have had it whilst living at the rescue or with his foster mamma, but I doubt that anyone as thick as he could remember that far back. 

    Another friend suggested that perhaps the little sod might be receiving secret Lick-e-Lix from some local dealer. Now, this is far more likely than the idea of him remembering it from over ten years ago. 

    If you are the neighbour who’s been feeding Lick-e-Lix to a scraggy, starving stray, please note that he is only one of those three things.

    Bastard cat.

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

  • La plante qui libère l’esprit 

    Some of our friends have given us a lovely selection of herbs, including not one but TWO types of catnip. We’ve been keeping the herbs outside to prevent them from a slow, painful death by central heating. However, when I came downstairs yesterday morning, this was the sight that greeted me: 

    Cheeky sod.

    Oui, Mesdames et Messieurs: Blue the Smoke Bengal has been getting high on Louis Catorze’s gear. So, technically, this makes Louis Catorze his dealer. 

    According to Blue’s mamma, when Blue goes out for his nightly shenanigans he usually turns left out of their house, but lately he’s been heading right. And now we know why. 

    When I showed Cat Daddy this picture, he said he’d noticed that the catnip plants had been looking rather sparse of leaf, but he’d assumed that I’d been harvesting them and feeding them to Catorze. It’s possible, of course, that Catorze has also been filling his boots, and it would certainly explain certain things, but neither of us have seen him do it. That said, Blue’s mamma hasn’t reported any strange behaviour from Blue, whereas Catorze, the one with the longer history of narcotics and therefore the greater tolerance, has been behaving in a highly disturbing manner, screaming more/worse than usual and even attacking Cat Daddy for his ice cream. (He actually lunged for his face and tried to lick some ice cream OFF HIS LIPS. I have a photo but Cat Daddy won’t allow me to post it.)

    Anyway, the decimated catnip plants have now been placed in a raised area, in the hope that they will recover. And I guess we’ll be left to wonder exactly how many other neighbourhood cats have been siphoning from our stash. 

    Apologies to the cat-owning population of TW8. 

    Just licking a snail on the wall. No sign of drug use here. Ahem.
    Bit of a scream, just for fun.

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

  • Je regardai, et il parut un chat noir 

    The beautician came over a few days ago. As you are aware, Louis Catorze has ruined around 753 of her appointments (this one was the worst), but this doesn’t appear to have put her off from returning. And, before you ask me why I don’t shut him out of the room when the beautician comes, I DO. She’s the one who lets him in because she likes the screaming. 

    SHE LIKES THE SCREAMING. I’ll just give you a moment to absorb that fact.

    This visit was no exception. The beautician was in the middle of telling me about one of her arsey colleagues who is rude to clients, when she stopped and said, “Did you hear that?”

    Me: “What?”

    Catorze, from somewhere in the distance: “Mwaaaahhhh!”

    Me: “Oh no.”

    Beautician, calling out: “Hello, Lewis!”

    Catorze: “Mwah!”

    Beautician: “How are you, baby?”

    Catorze: “Mwah!”

    [Beautician goes to the door to let him in.]

    Me: “Nooo, what are you doing?”

    Catorze, thundering into the room: “MWAHHHHHHH!”

    And that was that; any faint thought that I may have had about a peaceful appointment, faded like frost on a sunny morning. 

    However, the ear-bleeding racket was relatively short-lived because, ten minutes or so into the appointment, we heard the distinctive sound of clip-clopping hooves outside. 

    It’s not often that we have horses in our area, unless people have anticipated trouble and the riot police are on duty. And somehow, despite being thicker than a concrete milkshake, Catorze knew that this wasn’t your typical neighbourhood sound, because he  looked highly alarmed and actually stopped screaming. 

    After a few motionless and silent seconds, the little sod jumped off the bed. I thought he was going underneath it to hide but, in fact, he pitter-pattered downstairs to … do what, exactly? Bid the horses a friendly bonjour? Or scream at them to gerroff his property? We will never know what was going through his tiny mind.

    I told Cat Daddy about the horse incident when he arrived home just after my appointment. “Oh yes,” he said. “I saw them. There was a funeral in the church around the corner, and they had a horse-drawn hearse.”

    Oh. Mon. Dieu. Screaming at FUNERAL HORSES is probably the only stupid thing Catorze hasn’t yet done. Thank God he didn’t escape out at The Front when the beautician arrived.

    Meanwhile – although I don’t like saying “meanwhile” in this context, because it suggests that we are WAITING for Catorze to scream at funeral horses – the AI Bot has been kind enough to fill in the gaps for us: 

    Please may this never, ever happen in real life.
    An actual Catorzian scream.

    Cat Daddy: “Maybe Louis thought it was the Horsemen of the Apocalypse coming for him?”

    Since Catorze controls the Horsemen, I highly doubt that. 

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

  • Ni manger, ni vivre (Partie 14) 

    What food would you say is your speciality?

    All of it. Just give Louis Catorze all the food.

    I dropped my phone into my breakfast the other day, sending yogurt flying in all directions. Because I was too lazy to clean it all up myself, I picked Catorze up and plonked him onto the table, like a living, screaming, self-operating mop. 

    Cat Daddy, absolutely disgusted: “Eurgh. His germs are going to be all over the table!”

    Me: “Obviously I’m going to spray and wipe down the table after he’s finished. I’m not going to leave it all cat-spitty.”

    Him: “And you’re encouraging him to eat human food – AGAIN.”

    Merde. I didn’t think of that. This is exactly the opposite of what we ought to be doing.

    Anyway, Catorze guzzled down the yogurt as fast as he could, as if worried that I might change my mind. And, credit where it’s due: the little sod did a grand job of getting rid of every trace of yogurt. Well, apart from this one: 

    You missed a bit.

    Now, I guess, it’s a waiting game, to see if the food-bullying is worse as a result of the yogurt incident. That said, I’m struggling to think of what could possibly be worse than being headbutted, stamped upon and screamed at when you’re trying to eat your dinner. 

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

  • Lest we forget

    What major historical events do you remember?

    This one. Oh God, this one. Seven years ago yet forever carved onto my soul, for all the wrong reasons.

    Il y a un rat dans ma chambre: qu’est-ce que je vais faire?

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

  • Le diable qu’on connaît

    I’ve started watching a souped-up version of my usual paranormal investigation shows, called The Demon Files.

    The lead investigator, Ralph Sarchie, is a straight-talking ex-NYPD detective. I’m a bit scared of him, and I definitely wouldn’t want to be interviewed by him (especially if I were guilty), but his no-nonsense approach makes for quite compelling viewing.

    Whilst conducting his investigations, Ralph requires everyone to sit together in one place, so that he can be sure that none of them are faking any of the phenomena witnessed, which is fair enough. But the way in which he raps out orders is quite abrupt: “What I’m gonna ask is that all your family members – your two girls, your cats – everybody sits RIGHT HERE. I don’t want you moving around.” Ok. Consider it done.

    My first thought, of course, was, “He’s never going to get the cats to sit there and not move.” I know one particular cat who would be following the almost-all-male crew everywhere they went, screaming, purring and rolling. But, inexplicably, these cats do as they’re told. Clearly even they realise that an ex-police demonologist is not to be messed with.

    Of the three episodes that I have seen so far, two households have been very much into their autumnal and witchy decor. It’s not macabre in any way – in fact, it’s more whimsical and cute, the kind you’d find at a kids’ Hallowe’en party rather than a portal to hell – but Ralph isn’t happy and tells the families, in no uncertain terms, that they’re asking for trouble by having such things in their house. One lady said she loved the month of October as it was when she and her husband met and started dating, and years later they got married in October, but Ralph wouldn’t even accept those extenuating circumstances. The decorations had to go.

    This has absolutely blown my mind. So … if you buy a couple of smiley-faced pumpkin ornaments for your home, it’s YOUR FAULT if a demon takes that as an invitation to move in?

    And, if Ralph disapproves of something so harmless, I’m not sure what he’d make of our house, which contains the following (all year round, not just in October):

    ⁃ A whole library of spooky books

    ⁃ Skull and skeleton décor

    ⁃ A sculpture containing actual bones

    ⁃ Wall sconces with black candles

    ⁃ A ouija chopping board (which, incidentally, has never been used for occult practices, only for slicing vegetables)

    ⁃ El Día De Los Muertos stuff

    ⁃ Black cat stuff aplenty

    ⁃ An actual black cat with vampire teeth, who’s naughtier when it’s a full moon

    I wouldn’t want to get rid of any of our belongings, but then I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of Ralph’s ire, either. It’s a good thing we’re not in need of his services.

    Oh. Never mind.

    What the Amityville is this?

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

  • Ils sont parmi nous

    I have a subscription for Louis Catorze’s Orijen, and I imagined that this would be pretty foolproof in terms of never running out. The next delivery arrives well before the previous lot has run out, and that’s how it works, non?

    Ahem.

    Pets Corner emailed to tell me that there were stock issues, but stupidly I didn’t read the message properly and I thought they were just letting me know that it had been despatched. Cat Daddy alerted me to the fact that we were down to our last packet, and the timing couldn’t have been worse: right after Catorze’s steroid shot, when he’s always extra hungry. 

    After the replacement delivery from, erm, Jurassic Bark, also failed to arrive on time, and not even Amaz*n were able to fulfil until days after we would have run out, Cat Daddy saved the day by tracking down some 1.8kg packs of Orijen at Pets at Home. But I also went to the new, independent pet shop which has just opened nearby, as I wanted the small 340g packs which Pets at Home don’t sell. 

    When I walked in, there was a lady deep in conversation on the phone, holding a puppy under one arm. I have no idea of his breed, but he was but he was terrier-like, with light brown and white fur. I later found out that his name was Cosmo. He didn’t bother asking mine. 

    Because it was raining, I had my hood up. And, when I realised that the lady would probably be a while longer on the phone, I pulled my hood down whilst waiting. I have huge, voluminous hair which fits under a tight-fitting hood, yet floofs up and out when the hood is removed, suddenly making my head look twelve times its previous size, like Sideshow Bob from The Simpsons. The floofing is obviously quite a regular occurrence for me, and nobody around me really notices or cares. However, Cosmo did notice. And he was not happy.

    After an audible “Huh?” at my transformation, which, to him, must have seemed like a Men In Black-style mutation of bursting tendrils, Cosmo started growling.

    Me: “Aww. Don’t be scared, little doggy.”

    Cosmo: “GRRRRR! GRRRRR!”

    At that point the lady decided that she’d better end her phone call to avert this potential crisis. To add further insult to existing insult, she told me that they didn’t stock Orijen: “We used to have it, but it wasn’t very popular because it’s so expensive.”

    Great.

    I scooted out of the pet shop before Cosmo leapt out of the lady’s arms to attack the shapeshifting alien with the exploding head. And now I can never go back there again, Orijen or no Orijen. 

    No doubt, in the next few weeks, all the failed deliveries will come at once, and we will have a GLUT of Orijen but nowhere to store it. 

    Catorze knows this, and says it’s our problème.

    At least the little sod approves of my Hallowe’en manicure.

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

  • La fille qui criait au loup 

    What’s something most people don’t know about you?

    Sometimes bad things happen that are actually NOT my cat’s fault. Now, please hear me out.

    We’ve always known, haven’t we, that, if you cry wolf too many times, nobody will believe you in the event of a real emergency? 

    There is a toothy black cat who has been causing havoc in the neighbourhood, and one of our local friends naturally asked if it were Louis Catorze. Despite the fact that the appearance and the annoyingness of the cat, and the part of the neighbourhood in question (the next street) all point to Catorze, it’s not him. But whether anyone believes me is another matter. 

    This is the Ring Doorbell screen shot that the victim neighbour posed on social media:

    Oh my.

    I can see that this isn’t Catorze. But the “All Black Cats Look The Same” brigade, of which Cat Daddy is a proud member, may take some convincing. 

    When I read further down in the post and found out the nature of the disturbance, it turned out that the offending Chat Noir had broken into a house through an open window and fathered kittens with the resident indoor – and obviously unneutered – cat. (And, despite the mamma being white and the papa being black, the kittens have turned out as follows: 1 x all-black, 1 x all-white, 1 x mostly-white with a couple of faint black splodges on the head, and 1 x, erm, GINGER.)

    It’s not often that I say, “Merci à Dieu” in response to someone not being responsible enough to neuter their cats, but the very thin silver lining is that it cannot possibly be Catorze, whose money bags were emptied of all loose change years ago. Plus I don’t think girls are his thing, if you get what I mean. 

    Meanwhile, folks, neuter your cats. And close your windows to keep marauding Chats Noirs out. It’s not an either-or thing. (Well, in this case it was a neither-nor thing, but hopefully a few passive-aggressive, judgemental replies to the neighbour on social media will fix that.)

    “Don’t blame moi. I was here the whole time.”

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

  • Ni manger, ni vivre (Partie 13)

    We have had to start shutting Louis Catorze, or ourselves, in the front room during meal times, so that we can eat without being headbutted and screamed at. I have complained to many fellow cat freaks about this, and I have been met with little-to-no sympathy on account of the fact that their cats have all been doing this for years. 

    Friend 1: “Oh yes, I have to do that with my cat.” [She then went on to talk about something else.] 

    Friend 2: “Oh yes, we’ve ALWAYS had to do that with our cats. [She also went on to talk about something else.] 

    Friend 3: “You’re lucky you’ve only just started having to do this. You managed to get away with it for all those years.”

    Well, thank you. 

    The only friend who has had a shred of sympathy is Cat-Disliking Friend, although his help has been in the form of suggesting horrible-tasting things that I can give to Catorze to teach him a lesson. His latest suggestion was painting scraps of food with that stuff that you apply to your nails to stop biting them. “If it’s fit for human consumption then it must be ok for cats, right?” Ahem. 

    What a cirque de merde this is. At least Cat-Disliking Friend is enjoying himself in his science laboratory*, cackling away as he magics up another batch of cat poison.

    *I’m not joking: he’s a science teacher, so he has an actual laboratory at his disposal. 

    Bastard cat.

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

  • 愛猫

    If Louis Catorze weren’t French, I am certain that he would be Japanese. This is not only because his alien eyes are straight out of a Manga storybook, but also because the Japanese love cats: dressing up as them, having street festivals dedicated to them, the whole works.

    Most of us who claim to love cats probably don’t go quite that far … although this is only because we didn’t think of it until now.

    Catorze.
    Manga Catorze.

    Every October there is a festival in Tokyo called the Bake Neko, which means “supernatural cat”; attendees wear cat costumes (including bell collars/bracelets) and make-up, watch street performances, tell ghost stories and eat spooky and/or catty seasonal treats. Everything about it sounds beyond my wildest dreams and, if you like the sound of it, too, have a look here for more information.

    Regretfully the disparity with my school holidays means that I am unlikely to ever attend – unless, of course, I chuck in my job. Catorze is even less likely to attend, although I was very excited when I thought one source said “Bring a feline” and this promptly turned to mild disappointment upon discovering that, in fact, it said “Bring a feline attitude”.

    Is Catorze a bake neko in (not a very good) disguise? Incredibly, no, because it turns out that, in order to be one, one must meet a minimum weight requirement of 3.5kg (?). But I don’t doubt that he’s capable of being the puppet master, pulling the strings of his larger comrades in the east, despite being oceans away.

    The large ginge on the right is having WAY too much fun. And something very odd is happening to the one just left of centre.

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

  • Le Roi des Méchants 

    What principles define how you live?

    “Just when they think you can’t possibly be more of a bastard, prove them wrong.” Such a Catorzian way to be, and Louis Catorze lives up to this every single day. 

    The little sod always sleeps next to me at night. Then, one night, he didn’t. 

    I didn’t think much of it, and just assumed he was off gadding about somewhere. (Yes, I know that it’s autumn, and that Catorze is an old gentleman who should be taking it easy, but nobody appears to have told him either of these things.)

    Then I shuffled downstairs, still only 36% awake, to be met with this sight which booted me into full wakefulness in an instant:

    Noooo.

    Bastard cat had pulled down the mattress cover, which was drying on the radiator, and fashioned some sort of bed/nest from it. And I imagine he had been there all night. 

    Cat Daddy, when I showed him the photo: “What an absolute ****. Why would he do this when he already has loads of places where he can sleep?”

    Me: “I know. I don’t get it, either.”

    [We both hear the telltale sound of Catorzian feet pitter-pattering in.]

    Me: “Speak of the devil.”

    Cat Daddy, whilst looking down and sort of muttering from the side of his mouth: “Speak of the ****, more like.”

    It’s annoying when Cat Daddy actually has a point. 

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

  • Ni manger, ni vivre (Partie 12)

    I have just had to eat my dinner* with my plate balanced on my left knee, and with my right leg repeatedly kicking away a screaming cat. 

    *It was chicken fajitas topped with sour cream and cheese, merci for asking.

    Every time I kicked, he came back for more. Despite only being the size of Chucky, Louis Catorze had the resilience of Michael Myers, the guile of Hannibal Lecter and the volume of, erm, Leatherface’s chainsaw. 

    Naturellement, because I wanted the torment to be over, I bolted down my dinner as quickly as possible, and was finished long before Cat Daddy. Catorze then settled on my lap and left his papa to finish his meal in peace. The little sod didn’t utter so much as a squeak. 

    Me: “Why isn’t he screaming at you?”

    Cat Daddy: “Because this is MY dinner. He only wants YOUR food, because you’re the one who gave him salmon off YOUR plate.”

    I see. 

    This is never going to end, is it? 

    Bastard cat.

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

  • Les petits pieds du bonheur

    One of my friends has just been over for our annual cemetery visit and horror fest. (I’m not joking: this is actually what we do together, every October, and it’s become a much-loved tradition.)

    Because she has chat-sat Louis Catorze in the past, he knows her well and loves her visits, so I fully expected him to show off in front of her. But I didn’t think things would take THIS kind of turn, despite the fact that embarrassing behaviour is quite the Catorzian trademark.

    Obviously there was the usual screaming. But, when we settled down to watch the first of our horror films, the little sod jumped up onto the coffee table where my friend was resting her feet, and deployed that all-too-familiar Hork Hork sound, along with accompanying funky chicken head movements pointed straight at her feet. 

    I was just about to tell her not to be concerned because Catorze often Hork Horks, only for it to be a false alarm. Fortunately, however, my friend was blessed with more foresight than I and chose to move her feet away. Just as she did so, the little sod puked all over the coffee table and on the ruinously-expensive Harris tweed cushion upon which he was perched, RIGHT IN FRONT OF OUR GUEST.

    My friend is a cat person so she wasn’t fazed by this in the slightest, despite the fact that Catorze had been aiming for her feet and had done everything possible to give her a ringside seat for this horror show. I, however, want to take a walk into a wooded area and die of embarrassment. Imagine the shame of your cat trying deliberately to puke on your friend’s feet … and being incompetent enough to miss. 

    Cat Daddy: “That’s it: we’re never having friends round again. Or we’re rehoming him. One or the other.”

    I’ll let you know when he’s decided which option he’s chosen.

    Absolute bastard cat.

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

  • Les chats de recherche

    *WARNING: CONTAINS TALK OF DEATH AND GENERAL CREEPINESS.*

    A few days ago, Cat Daddy was watching television in the kitchen when Louis Catorze raced past him and clattered out through the cat flap. It turned out that there was a much larger (but then all cats are much larger than Catorze) tuxedo cat in the garden, and Sa Maj wasn’t happy about this. After staring at each other for a few seconds, the impinger turned tail and ran.

    The weird thing was that Catorze hadn’t been sitting with Cat Daddy in the kitchen, so he couldn’t possibly have seen the impinger. In fact, not even Cat Daddy, with the higher eye line, had been able to see him without standing up. Catorze had run from the direction of the living room at the front of the house so, somehow, all the way from there, he had sensed that the perimeters of his Château had been breached.

    We’ve had two cars since we’ve lived with Catorze, and he knew the sound of each. He even knows the sound of Cat Daddy’s KEYS.

    I think that this heightened sense of creepy kitty sixth sense, not to mention his extra sensitivity to the full moon, would make him an ideal cadaver cat – if, indeed, he would agree to work for a living.

    If, like me, you watch so many serial killer films and documentaries that the police would have something to say about your Prime Video account, you will know about cadaver DOGS. These clever doggies are used to sniff out whether a dead body has been in a particular place, and they are so good at their job that they can detect this both from surfaces and from the air.

    In the US, they don’t even call them “dogs”; they call them “K9 officers”. I guess “K9 officer number 283” sounds better than “Woofy Boi-Boi” when it comes to writing up reports of what happened.

    My thoughts naturally turned to whether cadaver cats could ever be a thing – after all, they are just as perceptive as dogs. I think Catorze would be an excellent cadaver cat; all those big, strapping policemen to cuddle, plus sniffing out death is right up his rue.

    But how he might tell us of the presence of a body?

    Would he creepy-stare at us? Or at the spot itself, as if looking at a ghost? And could we rely on him to only do the creepy death-stare when there was a genuine need, and not at random, inopportune moments just to freak us out?

    If you are too scared to know what The Sign might look like, look away now.

    “How will we know if he’s found anything? OH. RIGHT.”

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