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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.

  • 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

  • Les chats sont fous 

    Name your top three pet peeves.

    Will seven peeves do? With this many cats all creating havoc, there’s no way I’d be able to narrow it down to just three.

    Mercury Retrograde starts today. So, far from cats’ bull- and/or apeshittery calming down after last Friday’s full moon, it’s actually likely to get worse. 

    This is what our feline contingent have been up to: 

    Louis Catorze: early morning parkour around the bedroom then, when I switch on the light, emerging from a different part of the room, i.e. NOT FROM WHERE THE NOISE WAS. 

    Catorze again: screaming absolute bloody murder whilst Cat Daddy was on the phone to the utility company trying to sort out some bills, forcing him to apologise to the call centre operative. 

    Bastard cat.

    Otis: please refer to the poltergeist/incubus behaviour displayed last week. 

    Weird bastard cat.

    Roux: an enabler and sympathiser of her brother’s poltergeist/incubus behaviour. 

    Bastard cat.

    Mothra: attacking my sister’s new dress whilst it was hanging up. 

    Bastard cat.

    Rodan: eating my sister’s fake lashes. No, not licking or nibbling them, but actually PUTTING THE ENTIRE THINGS IN HIS MOUTH AND SWALLOWING.

    (They were left on a dresser at the time, by the way. He didn’t eat them off my sister’s face, although this is probably only because he didn’t think of it.) 

    Bastard cats.

    Boots, usurper stepbrother of Antoine, Catorze’s frère-from-another-mère: scrapping so violently with his Neighbourhood Nemesis that he burst an abscess and required expensive emergency vet treatment. And, yes, it was scrapping that caused the abscess in the first place.

    Bastard cat.

    Catorze’s cat-auntie Zelva is the only one of them who isn’t being a complete psychopath.

    Good girl.

    Mercury Retrograde goes on until 15th December … with another full moon at the end. What on earth will we do, other than stock up on vodka? 

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

  • Ni manger, ni vivre (Partie 18)

    I have decided to name the cacophonous composition below, “Hake in the Air Fryer”.

    However, having named it, I can’t decide whether its ought to be a classical piece or a rock anthem. 

    If you watch the video, you will see that its different movements are very distinct, like Eine Kleine Nachtmusik (except that Louis Catorze went piano first and allegro/forte afterwards, whereas Mozart did it the other way around). The fact that it goes on for so long also seems to make it more classical symphony than rock material.

    That said, the highly illegal jump onto the worktop* is just like a rock and roll frontman leaping into the crowd. Plus I can’t stop singing, “Haaaaake in the aaaaaair fryer” to the tune of Smoke on the Water. And, now, neither will you. You’re welcome. 

    *Catorze used to avoid the worktop like a vampire avoids the sun, because I would put him there to give him his meds. Now that he’s lost his fear of it, nothing is safe anymore.

    “Hush, hush, thought I heard him screaming for hake now.“

    This cat has gone absolutely stark raving bonkers at the smell of the hake. And, now that Cat Daddy has given Catorze Michelin-starred hot-smoked salmon himself, he can no longer blame me for igniting this fish-fuelled feline frenzy. He is just as responsible – in fact, he’s MORE at fault because he actually did it on purpose.

    And, now, this is where we are. Please help us.

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

  • Ni manger, ni vivre (Partie 17)

    Oh. Mon. Dieu. Cat Daddy has just given Louis Catorze the leftover skin and fatty bits from our Michelin-starred hot-smoked salmon. The little sod is absolutely gorging himself senseless, like I’ve never seen him eat before. 

    What the actual WHAT?

    Obviously we weren’t going to eat those bits ourselves, so I’m glad they weren’t just thrown away. But, the last time Catorze had Michelin-starred hot-smoked salmon (stolen from my unsupervised dinner), he then went on hunger strike for two days when we didn’t give him more. I really, really don’t want him to do this again. 

    What will it be, Mesdames et Messieurs? Will Catorze be satisfied with this one evening of salmon-gluttony, obediently returning to his Orijen tomorrow without objection? Or is war about to break out here at Le Château? 

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

  • Les formes variables du diable 

    Do you trust your instincts?

    I run a paranormal club at school, and the kids who attend certainly trust their instincts. They’re nobody’s fools.

    Once a year, we play a game called Chocolate Fortune Telling. We ask a question which can be answered with a yes or a no, then draw a Lindor chocolate out of a box, without looking, to receive an answer; a dark chocolate means YES, milk MAYBE and white NO. 

    As an extra twist, some of the chocolates have been removed from their original wrapping and re-wrapped in a different colour, so anyone who initially thinks they’re getting one particular colour ends up with a surprise. 

    It’s great fun although, obviously, I have to set ground rules at the start and veto questions about accidents or death, or anything that might embarrass anyone in the group. 

    Surprisingly – or perhaps not so surprisingly, since he comes up in conversation a lot during club meetings – a few of the questions involved Louis Catorze. Here they are, and this is how the gods answered: 

    “Is Miss’s cat really an alien?” MAYBE. 

    “Is Miss’s cat a vampire?” YES. 

    “Is Miss’s cat possessed?” YES. 

    “Should Miss get an exorcist for her cat?” YES. 

    Absolutely nobody was surprised. As one kid put it, “I guess you knew all that anyway, didn’t you, Miss?”

    Incidentally, this was a mostly-different set of kids from the ones involved in this incident. Oui, Mesdames et Messieurs: even the newbies to the group have figured out how weird Catorze is, in the short time me that they’ve been part of this club. 

    Here are some photos proving the kids right. (I haven’t shown these to them yet.)

    Yikes.
    Ugh.
    Gaahhh.
    Ok, I’ll stop this now.

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

  • Les phénomènes de petite hantise

    Cat Daddy and I escaped to the south coast on Saturday, leaving Louis Catorze in the care of Family Next Door, and I am writing this in the car on the way home. 

    We had hoped for a bit of a break from feline bullshittery. We didn’t get one. 

    The horror unfolded in our bedroom on Saturday night as follows, rather like the seven stages of poltergeist infestation: 

    1. The repeated, random ringing of a rogue cat collar bell whilst we slept.
    2. Unearthly feline screaming.
    3. The sound of a second feline voice, in stereo, indicating that another entity was present. 
    4. Objects in the room being moved by the two entities. 
    5. Footsteps walking up my body. 
    6. An incubus-like weight* settling on my chest, crushing my lungs.
    7. The disembodied voice of a child (aged six), investigating the proceedings in the darkness.

    *The offending party is only 4.5kg, but anything is an incubus-like weight compared to gossamer-light Catorze.

    The intervening niece informed me that the cats only ever screamed like that when they had brought in a gift, so I offered to help her look for it. However, when we went downstairs, she stepped into a pile of cat puke and was rendered immobile until I was able to find cleaning materials for her carpet and her foot.

    To add further insult to already-existing insult, her older sister then told us that the cats had been shut in all night, on account of their habit of bringing in undead wildlife and releasing it in the house. So there was no gift, and we had all got out of bed for nothing. 

    Here is Otis, the little sod who started it all: 

    Don’t trust that face.

    His sister, Roux, wasn’t available for comment or for photograph, no doubt because she had gone out hunting in protest at the overnight house arrest. 

    Since they’re all in this together, what’s the betting that Catorze will have behaved impeccably for his chat-sitteurs despite the last remaining dregs of the full moon yet to fade away, only to morph back into the psychotic beast that he is, the minute he hears our keys in the door?

    Cats: if they weren’t fluffy and cute, nobody would be stupid enough to put up with their shite.

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

  • La véritable horreur

    What book are you reading right now?

    One of my friends gave me the this Classic Tales of Horror anthology for my birthday.

    An absolute cracker of a read – or, rather, a cracking multitude of mini-reads.

    Every non-work morning – because some of the stories are too long to read in the short time I have before going to work, and I couldn’t cope with the suspense of not finishing one straight away – I read one story, whilst sipping my matcha latte, with Louis Catorze on my lap. 

    Catorze loves this book, too, mainly because it’s fun to nuzzle the corners of the hard cover (I allow him this) and to try to chew the ribbon bookmark (I don’t allow him this, but it doesn’t keep him from trying). However, I also think part of the appeal is trying to assert himself over it and remind it of exactly who is the creepiest of them all. Not even a conglomeration of the best classic horror literature in the world (Bram Stoker, Washington Irving and even a few of Catorze’s own countrymen such as Honoré de Balzac and Guy de Maupassant) could be creepier than Catorze. 

    Here he is, choosing his moment of ambush during exactly the right story:

    He wouldn’t … would he?
    He would. And he did.

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

  • Le sevrage brutal

    Louis Catorze’s new favourite place is atop the trellis which would have held our honeysuckle plant, had it decided to actually grow properly. 

    Bizarrely, Blue the Smoke Bengal has also recently decided that it’s his new favourite place. However, rather than surveying his kingdom, which is what Catorze does when he sits here, Blue is probably surveying us to see if we’ve returned his stash of catnip to its rightful place. 

    Unfortunately we haven’t. 

    So the poor boy is doomed to sit here, going cold turkey, forever. We can’t even give him a cheer-up cuddle because he runs away if we approach, despite being super-affectionate when he sees us at his own house. 

    Sorry, Blue. You’ll have to find a new supplier. 

    You’ve got to admire his optimism.

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

  • Les tiques et les puces

    Fair play to the good people of Felpreva, who replied very promptly to my email about Louis Catorze’s discoloured fur. These are the points that they made: 

    Following application of any topical spot-on treatment, there is sometimes a powdery white residual left behind; although this is normally brushed away or wiped away with a damp cloth once the application site is completely dry (usually >72hrs). I presume you have tried wiping this mark away previously with no success.

    Erm, no, I haven’t tried. Catorze absolutely won’t tolerate any kind of messing in his neck area, so there is absolutely no point.

    Cosmetic effects such as a temporary spiking of the hair at the application site are commonly observed, however we would not expect to see a colour change (unless temporary changes due to the residue, as mentioned above).

     So the likelihood is that it’s just a temporary external thing, rather than permanent damage? Ok. I can live with that. 

    The only other explanation we could possibly consider may be a ‘contact colour transfer’ – where your cat may have rubbed/brushed/slept against something white whilst the site of application was still wet and the liquid has subsequently reacted with the inorganic material causing transference of colour to your cat’s fur. 

    Ah. Bingo. Catorze is the king of trying to roll his spot-on onto whatever absorbent surface he can find, just to spite us. 

    Anyway, the white discolouration seems to be fading now, thank goodness. And, even when it was at its worst, it didn’t seem to be bothering Catorze. So I don’t need to worry about the little sod being bleached bit by bit until I finally end up with a Chat Blanc. 

    As you were, Mesdames et Messieurs. 

    Bastard (still-black) cat.

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

  • Ni manger, ni vivre (Partie 16)

    SAINT JÉSUS ET TOUS SES ANGES: Louis Catorze has just chugged down my matcha latte. And I don’t mean he licked a bit; I mean he had a good, long drink, like a parched desert horse who hadn’t seen water for a week. 

    I heard the slurping noises but, because it was dark and I was engrossed in a film, I thought he was just having a wash. By the time I realised what was happening, two minutes had passed. He didn’t consume much overall but, for a cat of 3kg, it was probably the equivalent of doing a line of coke.

    Having alternated between drinking lots of water and chasing imaginary (at least I hope they’re imaginary) prey, the little sod now seems normal. But I daren’t leave him alone in case he has a seizure and dies of caffeine poisoning.

    I also daren’t leave any drink alone, ever again. Whatever next? Strong coffee? Absinthe shots? You’ve already seen what he’s like without those things. Imagine him WITH them? 

    Actually, no, don’t imagine him with them.

    Cat Daddy, without looking up from his phone: “You do realise that cats aren’t meant to have caffeine?” Thanks for that. 

    Anyway, after a manic morning of screaming, attacking my feet and trying to chew through my phone charger whilst it was still plugged in, Catorze had a good old sleep and was then ready for more. More of what, exactly, we don’t know. More caffeine or more mischief? Yes and yes. 

    *EDIT: later that evening, the little shit wrestled me with all his might for my cupcake. When I gave him a piece a quarter the size of my little fingernail, to teach him a lesson, he ate the lot. Yes, including the icing. Oh God. 

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

  • Rester jeune en dépit des années, et même des cheveux blancs 

    I’m not complaining about the fact that I only have to give Louis Catorze his spot-on once every three months. Really, I’m not. But what a shame it seems to be bleaching/staining (we’re not sure which) his once-black fur.

    We fully expect the texture of the fur to change temporarily after application. We even expect the treated area to expand a thousandfold as the little sod tries to roll it off onto whatever absorbent surface he can. But this is very strange indeed:

    What? Why?

    I have written to the manufacturer to ask if this is normal. I’ve not told the vet yet, because they’ll only ask me to bring Catorze in – and, now that the local branch has closed for redevelopment, the thought of dragging his screaming arse all the way to Hounslow for a non-emergency really doesn’t appeal. His boosters are due in a couple of weeks, so perhaps we will mention it then. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the fur were to mysteriously turn black during the car journey there, only to revert back to white when we return home. 

    If anyone else has a Chat Noir/Foncé who has experienced the same thing with a spot-on treatment, I would love to hear from you. 

    Surveying his royaume, and not understanding all this fuss about his neck fur.

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

  • Possède la nuit comme le 5 novembre 

    Louis Catorze has survived Diwaliween / Bonfire Night / Firework Week / whatever you call a fireworky time when it’s meant to be short but ends up going on for ages.

    That’ll do for this year, merci s’il vous plaît.

    There have been further firework disturbances in and around TW8 since the night of the 31st but, since they were the tolerable bangy kind and not the ear-offending crackly kind, Catorze either slept through them or went out to investigate. This is good. 

    Le Château has also survived (so far) without a brick through the window, after Cat Daddy shouted at the lady who was using the crackly fireworks in the park. This is also good.

    Feeling rather less fortunate, however, is a friend from work who is Dog Daddy to Freda the Dachshund. He was kept awake throughout the night because, every time Freda heard fireworks, she felt compelled to announce the joyous news to the household. Every. Single. Time. 

    He showed me a video of one of the many incidents. 

    Me, whilst watching the video: “Is she scared or just offended? I can’t tell.”

    Him: “Neither. She’s loving it!”

    Me: “What?”

    Him: “Look at her tail!”

    It was true; Freda’s tail was going like the clappers. (Non-Brits: ask your British friends. That said, I’m British and I wouldn’t know how to explain what it meant.) 

    I was about to brag to my friend that my cat is a good boy who sleeps through fireworks and leaves me in peace. But then I remembered that Catorze wakes me up at random intervals throughout the night anyway, whether there are fireworks or not. Most of the time, we have no idea why. He just does it. 

    Here is Freda, informing her family for the 905th time that there are fireworks: 

    “You’ll never guess what I’ve just seen? Go on, have a guess!”

    (They already know, after the 904 previous times. She doesn’t care.)

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