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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.

  • La douleur passe, la beauté reste

    Earlier this week, the beautician came over for a waxing and massage appointment. Louis Catorze has had some lively interactions with her in the past and, now that he is used to her, that’s where I thought any nonsense would remain: IN THE PAST.

    Catorze, however, had other ideas.

    He was conspicuously absent during the waxing, so I thought we’d got away with it. Then, when it was time for the massage, we heard him outside the bedroom door. And, before I could object, the beautician had let him in.

    Her: “Hello, Lewis! How are you, baby?”

    Me: “Nooo. Don’t encourage him.”

    Catorze: “Mwaaaaahhhhh!”

    The little sod circled the bed, jumped onto it, jumped down from it and tried to get into the beautician’s bag, all the while screaming himself senseless. He barely even drew breath.

    Me: “I’m so sorry. He’ll get bored and calm down soon.”

    He didn’t.

    Beautician: “Maybe he’s upset because he thinks I’m harming you?”

    I was pretty sure it wasn’t that. In fact, it’s far more likely that he was thinking, “If you’re trying to kill her, you’re doing a shit job. You keep coming back, but she’s still here.”

    After twenty minutes, Catorze went UNDER the bed. This was something of a relief as I thought he was going to find a quiet spot and go to sleep.

    He didn’t. The screaming continued from under bed.

    Now, you’d be forgiven for thinking that feline screaming in your face were the worst it could get – after all, you have to cope with that outraged, bug-eyed face staring right at you. But there is something disconcerting about feline screaming out of sight, with the screamer making no effort to seek you out even though they know where you are. Who screams from UNDER A BED?

    After a couple of minutes Catorze exited bed left, still screaming. My head was hanging over the edge of the bed as I lay on my front, so he decided to place himself right underneath my face and creepy-stare at me.

    This was my view when I opened my eyes:

    I bet they don’t have this kind of caper at Champneys.

    From time to time he would rear up on his hind legs, scream at me and try to slap my face. The beautician was laughing so much that she couldn’t apply pressure properly and, every time she looked at him, she’d burst into giggles again.

    Catorze finally shut up at the twenty-eight minute mark, snuggling up against me and purring. The massage was half an hour, so my anticipated thirty minutes of relaxation turned out to be, erm, two.

    We still have no idea why he was so awful that day, but it turned out that, during the massage, Cat Daddy was outside on his static bike. So, with both humans occupied, La Personne Royale was unattended. Clearly this is a far-from-optimal state of affairs, and Sa Maj made his displeasure known in the most dramatic way possible.

    I’d like to think that he’ll grow out of this. But he won’t, will he?

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

  • Les aventures de Sigrid

    What better way to spend a half term break than accidentally meeting celebrity cats?

    Cat Daddy and I met up with some friends, who also happen to be fellow Chat Noir hostages, and, after lunch, we went for a short walk along the river as it was a lovely day. And we just happened to bump into this absolute beauty, sitting calmly among the crowds with her Cat Daddy:

    She looked, and felt, like a soft, fluffy cloud.

    I asked what her name was, and her Cat Daddy said “Sigrid”. At first I thought he’d said “Cigarette”, and I thought that was a strange name for a cat. But it was a good enough cat name for Albert Camus. And, since my cat is called Sa Majesté Louis Catorze, Le Roi Soleil, plus my parents gave me a difficult name which absolutely nobody can pronounce, I can’t really afford to throw stones when it comes to weird names.

    Cat Daddy has personalised Sigrid bike wheels.

    Sigrid is a Norwegian Forest Cat and she is deaf. When we Googled her later, we discovered that she is famous for accompanying her Cat Daddy, Travis, on cycling adventures. She hisses at dogs as she passes them. It’s the most brilliant thing ever.

    I wish I could take Catorze on cycling adventures. Regretfully it will never happen, since I don’t like cycling and I don’t trust Catorze to behave himself; he would be screaming all the way, then making off with the first random man that he saw. I can’t even take him on a ten-minute walk to the vet, although that’s less of an “adventure” and more of a Herculean labour.

    If you’re on Instagram and you’d like to follow Sigrid and Travis, here they are. And, if your cat is an adventurer, please tell me all about it!

    That’s enough adventure for one day.

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

  • Profiter du soleil

    What are you good at?

    Not applying cat sunblock, that’s for sure.

    This is the face – or, rather, the rear end – of someone who has just fought like an absolute demon to try and prevent me from applying his sunblock on his ears:

    Top-notch Catorzian ignoring.

    My friend, who is a dog person: “Does he NEED sunblock? I mean, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to sit out in the hot sun and bake himself to death, would he?”

    Me: “…”

    Him: “Oh, right.”

    I have to have the tube of sunblock next to me, ready for the stealth pounce. But the problem is that, on account of Louis Catorze having two ears, and on account of a surprise ambush only really being a surprise one time, one ear is absolutely impossible to do. Once he has twigged what’s happening, he kind of folds his ears downwards to stop me from putting sunblock on the very part that really, really needs it.

    This particular session was a real gladiatorial fight to the death, with sunblock smeared on me, on his head and body, on the sofa … in fact, everywhere but the one place where it was meant to go. After trying to roll it off onto every available surface, the little sod decided to sit facing the other way and sulk.

    We have a whole summer of this to look forward to. Luckily we will be away for two weeks of it, but dare we ask the chat-sitteur to do this in our absence? We would quite like to keep her friendship, merci s’il vous plaît …

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

  • Le pouvoir de la lune

    When I opened the door the other night to put out some recycling, Louis Catorze slalomed between my ankles and shot out.

    I know: standard Catorze.

    However, I had forgotten that it was a full moon that night. So, when Cat Daddy and I, on separate occasions, tried to corral him back in, there was no sign of him.

    Eventually it was time for bed, so my only options were to go and search for him (not great but the lesser evil), or to just wait up indefinitely (what the absolute NO). I called, and there was no answer. He’s usually quite good at answering when he hears his name, and at mwahhing a little “Merci” when he’s let back in again after a stint at The Front. But this time: silence.

    When I went outside, I found him sitting on the window sill. The little sod had heard me perfectly well, but was just choosing to ignore me.

    Furthermore, when I called his name again, he went full Regan MacNeil on me, letting out the most evil growl I have ever heard. I then saw that the moon was in full view, and that Catorze was in the best possible spot to soak up its beams.

    HOLY HECK: HE WAS FEEDING FROM IT.

    The little sod pitter-pattered in, somewhat resentfully, like a demonic child who had been told to leave a ouija board party early. And I didn’t get the little “Merci” chirp this time, although I did get multiple awakenings throughout the night, with him bouncing around and whining.

    It’s half term next week. Merci à Dieu – or not, since I’ll be stuck with Catorze for a whole week. Luckily Cat Daddy is now home, so I’m hoping that Boys’ Club will create a diversion from mischief-making.

    Nothing to see here. Just a normal kitty enjoying a normal evening.

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

  • Les rayons du soleil

    Louis Catorze’s ears are starting to go bald again.

    This happened a few years ago, for no reason whatsoever, and the vet was unable to provide any answers. Then the fur grew back again, so we didn’t bother pursuing it any further (not that we would have known what to do, had we wished to treat it).

    Now the bald, piggy ears are back. They’re not fully bald, but a good 40% of the fur is gone.

    Since they don’t seem to be bothering him, we don’t think it’s worth a vet visit just for that. But, now that the summer is approaching, it’s probably time to revisit the sunblock on the ears.

    Now, please hear me out. It’s a thing. It’s more of a white cat thing, but a thing nonetheless. Because feline ears are so delicate, and because white fur provides so little protection from the sun, sunblock for cats was invented. And, of course, having no fur at all provides even less protection than having white fur so, for a cat who gads about outdoors all summer, we need to take action.

    This is one of the many photos that prompted my decision to deploy the sunblock. Yes, he is, indeed, sleeping mostly in the shade, with THE ONE BODY PART THAT WE WANT TO PROTECT exposed to the sun:

    ‘Sake.

    And here he is again, fully sunblocked. Predictably, the application process was pretty grim for both of us, from beginning to end:

    Without the block you’d see daylight through these wispy ears.

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

  • La souffrance ne se repose jamais

    Cat Daddy is away in New York at the moment, so it’s just me and Louis Catorze at Le Château.

    Cat Daddy spotted this chap living in, erm, a marijuana bar.

    Usually, when Cat Daddy is out, Catorze ramps up the bad behaviour, only to morph back into a placid, impeccably-behaved kitty when his papa returns. Predictably, he is doing exactly that now, except this time I know that he won’t be calming down anytime soon. This bullshit is going to go on for DAYS. I just know it.

    Undesirable behaviours include, although are by no means limited to, the following:

    ⁃ Screaming

    ⁃ Parkour around the house at all hours

    ⁃ Thrashing around in the vicinity of the drinks trolley, knocking bottles over (so loudly and violently that I thought there was an intruder in the house)

    He has also worked out that doing the above after dark adds to the scare impact.

    Cat Daddy’s return cannot come soon enough. Meanwhile, where did I put the black salt and the holy water?

    When sunlight touches a vampire, this is what happens.

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

  • Le cristal royal (Partie 3)

    I have managed to record Louis Catorze drinking from the tall tumbler version of the Versailles wine glass. (Yes, I bought him TWO birthday glasses, so that he would have one if the other were in the wash.)

    The angle is weird and it’s not the clearest footage because I had to film it from far away, with my arm up in the air and awkwardly bent; had the little sod seen me filming, he would have stopped drinking and run towards me, chirping and trilling.

    I sent the video to Cat-Disliking Friend to see if he, as a science teacher, might be able to give his professional explanation and some sort of Archimedean theory about why Catorze manages to spill so much water, even though I don’t fill the glass right up to the brim.

    CDF’s response was as follows: “He doesn’t seem to shove THAT much of his face into the water, does he? I think he’s just a crap drinker.”

    And here endeth the analytical science experiment.

    The next stage – if, indeed, I dare to take things that far – will be to buy Catorze a coaster for his water glass. Cat Daddy is already absolutely livid about the glasses, the antique cutlery and the fancy cat bowls, but maybe a coaster will be the thing to lighten the mood?

    Enjoying his day, whilst we all run around after him.

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

  • Le chemin du Citron

    List your top 5 favourite fruits.

    Will one fruit do?

    We had a visitor to Le Château the other day, as you can see below. And, before you ask what on earth this has to do with fruit, our guest’s name is Lemon. I’m not joking.

    When life gives you lemons …

    Lemon may look like a fine specimen of velvety plumptiousness in these photos but, in actual fact, the poor boy has seen better days; he has the remains of an old wound on his face, and an even worse, more recent wound on his shoulder. Louis Catorze gave him the traditional Catorzian welcome (hissing and swearing) and Lemon, rather than retaliating, backed away, looking confused and sad.

    “C’est MON Château! Dégage!”

    I pinged his photo out onto our local neighbourhood forum and, within a matter of hours, I was able to find out his name and where he lived. It turned out that he wasn’t lost, but had just wandered too far on account of his, erm, fruits still being on the vine. One of our neighbours has alerted Lemon’s owner to his injuries and told them – again – to harvest those fruits.

    In the nicest possible way, I hope we don’t see him again; the thought of him crossing the Zone Libre amidst foxes, aggressive crows and all manner of other horrors, isn’t very nice.

    Neuter your cats, people. There’s absolutely no reason not to.

  • Vivre la vie d’un roi

    What’s one small improvement you can make in your life?

    Louis Catorze thinks his life is perfectly delightful as it is, merci for asking. He thinks it’s the rest of us who need to improve OUR pathetic lives, and that we should do so as follows:

    1. Give the cat whatever they want.

    2. See Point 1.

    The fang can be useful to help orientate your Chat Noir.

  • La musique nous permet de nous entretenir avec l’au-delà

    We all know how much Louis Catorze hates the sound of the guitar.

    However, poor Catorze hates the guitar even when it’s not being played. In fact, he hates it so much that, when Cat Daddy picked it up the other day to move it to one side, the little sod ran for the hills.

    Here he is, waiting anxiously to see whether things will go from bad (Cat Daddy picking up the Discordant Instrument of Doom) to worse (Cat Daddy playing it):

    “Le champ est libre?” Little sod isn’t sure.

    Luckily, this time, they didn’t; they remained just “bad”, and Catorze soon cautiously pitter-pattered back to us. But Cat Daddy practises every day, for at least an hour (usually more). So, sooner or later, “worse” will happen.

    In stark contrast to Catorze, here is his cat-cousin Rodan, sneaking into the practice session of his human brother, aged eleven. It’s not a resounding yes to the cello, but it’s certainly an “I’m interested” …

    “What’s this?”

    Maybe Cat Daddy should switch to string rather than percussion? Or even singing, which seemed to work for this lady and her cat (click in and scroll down for the video)?

  • L’espace, c’est le luxe absolu

    I’m glad to report that there have been no more mice since my last-but-one post. However, Louis Catorze did wake me at 5am one morning to proudly deliver me a piece of flaked almond. I know.

    Anyway, in other news, remember my blissful morning ritual of sipping green tea whilst Catorze sleeps on my lap? Well, those days are now gone, at least for the next few months, thanks to a certain someone’s Summer Mode being well and truly activated.

    These days, when I wake up in the morning, the little sod is nowhere to be found. Last weekend he was out all day, coming in at 9pm to scream and scream at us – no reason, just for fun – and then race back out again.

    I suspect that the main draw for Catorze is the fact that our outdoor cushions have been deployed. Why settle le rump royal on hard wood or rattan when you can cradle it in/on something soft?

    Here he is, in his new favourite places. I don’t suppose he will be budging until October at the absolute earliest:

    Living the life of a king.
    A greyer day than the one above, but still a nice time to enjoy le jardin.

  • There’s a dog in mi Château, what am I gonna do?

    Louis Catorze welcomed a friend during the bank holiday weekend. Well, when I say “welcomed”, I don’t really mean that. In fact, “friend” may be something of a stretch, too.

    Oh. Mon. Dieu.

    If you are a long-term follower of Le Blog, you will know that relations between Catorze and Oscar the dog next door were, erm, somewhat mixed*. Catorze seemed genuinely curious about his canine neighbour and came in peace, whereas Oscar just wanted to kill him. And, the more Catorze refused to take no for an answer, the more murderous Oscar became. You get the idea.

    *Non-Brits: if your British friends ever describe any experience as “mixed”, it means it was only narrowly short of an apocalypse.

    Disco the dog, however, is a different case entirely: he’s younger, friendlier and more patient than his big brother Oscar. And, most importantly, the sight of cat doesn’t trigger his Urge To Kill switch. So, after some years of debating about introducing the pair, and after too much booze for most of us at the pub, last weekend we and the Dog Family hit upon the genius idea of finally making it happen.

    These sentinels watched us as we walked home from the pub. If you ever played Spot The Ball in the 1980s, you’ll be able to place where Disco was at the time.

    Dog Daddy, after arriving at Le Château: “To make this work, we all need to just act normal.”

    (He and Cat Daddy then proceeded to drink three bottles of red wine between them, so they nailed that particular objective.)

    In short: apart from one hissing incident (when Disco, in his keenness to say hello, bounced a bit too close to Catorze) and a lot of Catorzian screaming, the two parties behaved themselves. Catorze was offended, cautious maybe, but not particularly fearful. It helped considerably that one of us remained sober enough to veto the stupid suggestions. (“Why don’t we let the dog off the lead?” Erm, no.) Conducting the experiment with all four of us drunk would not have been a good idea.

    The male humans, however, were far less civilised than the animals, with the copious amounts of red wine sending them spiralling into Unrepeatable Expletives and inappropriate conversation. I hope that none of our neighbours were home.

    Anyway, Sa Maj now has his Château back to himself, and he appears to have forgotten all about what happened. Let’s hope he isn’t saving up a massive revenge -puke in some inappropriate place, at some inappropriate time …

  • Des souris et des hommes (Partie 2)

    I have just arrived home after the football.

    In the time it took me to go upstairs, take off my make-up and change my clothes, Louis Catorze managed to produce a mouse from somewhere and place it in the usual trophy cabinet at the bottom of the stairs. When I came back downstairs he was sitting proudly next to his prize, licking his gross little chops.

    The positioning of the mouse was such that there was no way I could have missed it when I arrived home. Yet how he could have found it in those few minutes after my arrival, is beyond me.

    Catorze is fourteen. FOURTEEN. How in the name of Benjamin Button is he managing this kind of caper? Not to mention the fact that he is chubbing up so, if anything, you’d think the extra podge would slow him down a bit.

    Oh, and he’s also been trying to roll off his spot-on onto some manky outdoor surface, because he now has crud stuck to his neck:

    This is not gloss, but unidentified grey dust.
    A bit clearer here. Ugh.

    Anyway, I am far too tired to trudge outside to the park bin – yes, I know it’s only a few metres, but that’s not the point. So I have left the mouse in an Ocado bag on the doorstep outside and sent a message to Cat Daddy, who is still out at the pub, asking him to do the deed when he gets home. I just hope he doesn’t get so drunk that he ends up stumbling home after dark, sticking his foot through the bag and treading squashed mouse all over Le Château.

    Bloody cats. Remind me again why it is that we bother?

    EDIT: Cat Daddy is home, having successfully disposed of the mouse in the park bin where all Catorzian kills are laid to rest. However, as he came in, Catorze dashed out at The Front. So now we have the arduous task of herding him back in before he goes screaming outside That Neighbour’s window.

    A Dorian Gray metaphor: the wisteria withers and dies whilst Catorze remains sprightly and youthful.

  • Les quatorze ans de Catorze

    Thank you to everyone who kindly sent birthday wishes to Louis Catorze. (Those who didn’t shall be sent to the guillotine.)

    The little sod had a magnificent day, consisting of the following activities:

    1. Waking me during 5am parkour/singalong.

    2. Following Cat Daddy around all day, screaming for attention and headbutting aggressively if it wasn’t forthcoming. Cat Daddy had to escape from one end of the garden to the other, only for Catorze to follow him and do more of the same*.

    3. Creepy-staring for food, then sniffing it and walking away as soon as it was served.

    4. A bit more screaming.

    5. Strutting around loving himself.

    6. Puking on the landing (astoundingly, on the floor and not on the carpet).

    7. Sitting on the outdoor cushions, gazing out over his royaume and dreaming up new ways to annoy the merde out of us.

    *I don’t know why Cat Daddy thought anything different would happen; if he wanted to he left alone, all he had to do was unleash the guitar.

    Right now, as the sun sets on his birthday and the mischievous Beltane spirits are out in force, I am trying to corral Catorze in from The Front, but he’s not having it. Every time I open the front door, he runs into the road (!) to escape from me.

    If he lives to fifteen (which is doubtful at this rate; running into the road is hardly conducive to a long life), this is the kind of thing that I have in mind. Thank you to my friend AnnMarie for the idea.

    Cat Daddy: “No.”

    Loving life.