louiscatorze.com

Je crie, donc je suis

recent posts

about

Sa Majesté Louis Catorze, Le Roi Soleil, supreme ruler of Le Château, sworn enemy of canine foe and scourge of Ocado delivery drivers.

  • Le sang attire le sang

    Cat Daddy came home from his weekend away on Monday morning. Upon his return, Louis Catorze completely failed to acknowledge him, choosing, instead, to sleep on my lap. This kind of behaviour is utterly out of character for him. And there was no full moon, no Mercury Retrograde, no thinning of the veil, no Lucifer Rising … in fact, No Excuse Whatsoever.

    Sometimes you just KNOW when something is afoot, don’t you? In Catorze’s case, seeing him on his best behaviour and/or choosing me over his favourite person, are good reasons for suspicion and general unease.

    I messaged my friend to tell her that that the apocalypse was nigh, and she replied, “He’s up to something”.

    I knew it. Ugh.

    Later that afternoon, Catorze sat creepy-staring at a completely full bowl. I picked up the bowl, waved it under his nose to remind him of its fullness and set it back down again, but he remained statue-still and didn’t even flick a whisker. I then realised that he wasn’t creepy-staring at the bowl at all, but at an area just to the right of it.

    In fact, what I was witnessing wasn’t creepy staring. Mesdames et Messieurs, THIS WAS RODENT DUTY.

    Oh. Mon. Dieu.

    After prowling suspiciously around the kitchen for some time, Catorze was rewarded for his efforts: he dived underneath the sideboard and emerged with a twitching mouse in his mouth. Cat Daddy and I watched, frozen in horror, as he licked it from top to toe, but I snapped out of my shock-trance and was able to whisk it away before he could leave his customary serial killer calling card (eating the head).

    Classic suspicious prowling pose.

    At the time of writing this, Catorze had barely eaten any food since the incident. I am now terrified that his taste for mouse blood is so irresistible that no other food will do.

    Do we have a mouse infestation from which our hero cat is dutifully liberating us?

    Had he brought the mouse in and saved it for later?

    And, if this is the kind of caper that takes place with no celestial or magical intervention, what on earth can we expect WITH said intervention?

    Catorze knows the answers. But I don’t imagine he’ll tell us.

  • Le sèche-chat

    Scour the news for a story. Consider how it connects to your life. Write about that.

    (The original brief was for an “entirely uninteresting” story, but I ignored that bit.)

    It was International Cat Day yesterday. We didn’t bother telling Louis Catorze because he already thinks every day is all about him, so it wouldn’t have changed a thing.

    On the morning of International Cat Day, Cat Daddy’s brother sent me this picture (below). Having heard all about Catorze’s penchant for gadding about in storms, he asked me if I wanted one of these contraptions for Christmas (and I think he was only half-joking):

    Yeah, I’d be pissed off, too.

    Oui, Mesdames et Messieurs, this really is a cat-dryer. A dryer for cats. And, somehow, it made it into the Daily Telegraph.

    Now, since trying to put Catorze into his transportation pod for vet visits is quite the Herculean labour, I don’t imagine that putting him into a dryer would be any easier. And the vet visits are only once a month, whereas the storm gadding-about takes place whenever it rains, multiple times per downpour, and often through the night, too. Do I* fancy Greco-Roman wrestling Catorze into a dryer that many times a day/night? Non.

    *Let’s face it: it would be me, wouldn’t it, and not Cat Daddy?

    Cat Daddy is concerned about the environmental impact of the device, especially since Catorze is so small. And he has a point. Would putting a tiny cat into a dryer be the equivalent of switching on an oven just to roast one potato?

    Whilst we debate these intellectual and highbrow issues, here is Catorze, fresh from – yes you’ve guessed it – gadding about in yet another storm, and taking a drink from the water pooled on the table. And look at the army of birds in the background, who daren’t come down to feed until the apex predator has moved his arse:

    Must keep hydrated in readiness for the next gad-about.

  • Les frontières de la sagesse sont inexplorées

    What are you curious about?

    Cat Daddy is away at a festival, so it’s just me and Louis Catorze at home. No, I wasn’t tempted to go. And, after accidentally clicking on a link that was a video of a Glastonbury toilet, I knew that I would not attend any outdoor festival, EVER, as long as I live.

    Testing out the camping gear before his papa’s departure.

    My normal television viewings – which were temporarily halted on holiday as there was only one TV, so we had to compromise – have now resumed. Yesterday, when I was watching one of those Prime Video programmes with the obligatory ads that you can’t forward through, there was an ad for Wisdom Panel. At first I thought, “Why on earth would they advertise that now, in the middle of a show about bloodthirsty serial killers [or ghosts, or sharks, or whatever it was]?” but the fact that I remember the ad and am now writing about it, yet I’m unable to remember the programme that I was watching in the first place, shows that they have their marketing exactly right.

    Wisdom Panel is an organisation who does, erm, DNA ancestry for pets. Oui, Mesdames et Messieurs: for the kingly sum of £89.99, you can gain “valuable insights on their genetic health, traits, ancestry and more”.

    I’m curious. But not £89.99 curious.

    We already know that Catorze is part-vampire, part-demon, part-alien and part-cryptozoological critter yet to be discovered. We don’t need a test to find this out. Wisdom Panel also claims to allow us to customise our pet’s healthcare according to its findings but, if what we already do for him isn’t “customised care”, I don’t know what is.

    Regretfully, where the system comes crashing down for us cat freaks is that, in order to conduct the test, we have to rub a swab (just like the Covid ones) between the animal’s cheek and gum line for fifteen seconds. Now, this may not seem like a long time, but anyone who has ever had to pin down a screaming, hissing, writhing hell-beast of a cat to administer their meds, will understand that this just won’t work.

    And, as if to add insult to injury, the Wisdom Panel site has two videos of well-behaved doggies sitting perfectly still whilst their humans swab them. There are no videos of anyone swabbing a cat.

    So Cat Daddy and I will be putting our £89.99 to better use – for instance, buying more alcohol to help us deal with all Catorzian capers. I think we’re gonna need a bigger drinks trolley.

    Waiting to accost the postman as he delivers the swabbing kit.

  • L’art de guérir

    Have you ever had surgery? What for?

    It seems I’m trying to attain the world record for the greatest number of surgeries undertaken by a human being. I have had the following, so far, in this order, with the last one only last week:

    ⁃ An osteotomy

    ⁃ A disc fusion

    ⁃ A myomectomy

    ⁃ Erm, a shoulder thing (can’t remember the medical name for it)

    ⁃ An emergency appendectomy

    ⁃ A hysteroscopy, a transcervical resection of fibroid and an endometrial biopsy (all three together)

    Perhaps Louis Catorze has inherited his sickly constitution from me? That said, given that he’s had so many medical treatments himself, it’s strange that he should have zero empathy for people who are sick or convalescing. If I sneeze, and he happens to be on my lap, he scowls contemptuously and runs off, doing the bird-chatter noise as he goes. And he seems to save up his worst behaviour for when I’m recovering from something, as this and this will demonstrate.

    Anyway, the most recent three-in-one extravaganza was, in actual fact, quite short and straightforward, so I was home the same morning. Surprisingly, Catorze could not have been more affectionate. And his fur was super-soft, the way it always is when he’s been in the care of a chat-sitteur before turning to merde again when we resume duties, so it was wonderfully therapeutic for me to be able to relax on the sofa, stroking and cuddling him.

    All good, non?

    Well … NON.

    Since I didn’t have my wits fully about me as I recovered from the general anaesthetic, I forgot that Catorze is just like a toddler: a too-long sleep and insufficient tiring-out during the day mean torment after dark.

    After sleeping on my lap all day, he went absolutely berserk that night. And the fact that there was a storm outside not only unlocked an extra level of psycho in him, but also meant that he was constantly rolling his cold, wet body onto us, then going back out to re-wet so that he could do it again. And again. AND AGAIN.

    The next morning, he was perfectly dry and back to being sweet again. As long as I live, I shall never understand this animal.

    Are you one of the chosen ones whose cats are nice to you when you’re ill? Please comment with some uplifting stories which will restore my faith in catkind.

    Pretending to be cute.

  • La lune réveille le vampire

    A couple of nights ago, when I was sitting in the living room with Louis Catorze on my lap, Cat Daddy walked into the room and said, “There’s a huge full moon outside.”

    Not even a second after those words had left him, Catorze jumped off my lap, ran to the window and headbutted the shutters.

    Cat Daddy: “He knows, doesn’t he?”

    Before I could stop him, Cat Daddy had opened the window and let Catorze out at The Front. He disappeared for about twenty minutes but then returned to sit on the window sill and look out at his royaume, with the full moon shining down on him. Oui, Mesdames et Messieurs: HE WAS CHARGING UP. If you believe in the power of crystals and charging them up under a full moon, then why not cats (especially this one)?

    However, if you think that full moon madness means we are spared from any nonsense at times of other moon phases, you would be mistaken. Here is an old photo of the little sod demonstrating that, moon or no moon, he is perfectly able to power up for mayhem and mischief anytime:

    A charged-up Catorze is like when Banner transforms into the Incredible Hulk.

  • À la recherche du temps perdu

    Which activities make you lose track of time?

    We all know that Louis Catorze can tell the time; look here, here, here and here for examples of when he has proven this. And, after a few days of living with our chat-sitteur whilst we were in Scotland, he worked out what time her alarm went off and ensured that he started the screaming just beforehand.

    However … are they actually capable of altering the passage of time? Or is that a step too far, even for a black vampire cat with demon/alien ancestry?

    If you have ever experienced any of these, could the cat(s) have been responsible?

    ⁃ A peaceful night uninterrupted by a cat – if, indeed, you are lucky enough to experience one of these at all – despite the fact that you live with a cat (Feels Like*: 60 minutes, maximum).

    ⁃ Being TUC with a cup of tea on a cold, miserable work day morning (Feels Like: 3-5 minutes to you, longer to the cat).

    ⁃ The vet administering any kind of pill to your cat (Feels Like: 0.4 seconds).

    *In the U.K., they often tell us the temperature but then add “Feels Like: [a different number altogether].” We Brits can only really relate to temperatures below 0°C and those above 27°C, so telling us that this morning it’s 10°C but feels like 5°C means absolutely nothing.

    And, if any of these are familiar to you, perhaps you have unknowingly fallen victim to the little sods messing with time in the opposite direction:

    ⁃ A fitful night interrupted repeatedly by a cat (Feels Like: forever, or longer if it’s a full moon).

    ⁃ Being TUC when you’re desperate for the loo (Feels Like: variable depending on weight of cat and distance from loo, although even gossamer-light cats can make one paw exert horrendous pressure when it pushes on your abdomen).

    ⁃ You administering, or attempting to administer, that same pill that appeared to take the vet 0.4 seconds (Feels Like: forever³).

    Little sod.

    I once had a deeply religious colleague who would say that the feeling of time speeding up, with weeks appearing to pass like days, was a sign of Armageddon approaching. Cats are known Masters of the Dark Arts, so why WOULDN’T they hypnotise both us and time itself through some unseen power?

    Where will this end: in a universal feline uprising? Or, as my ex-colleague predicted, in Armageddon? Are they even different things?

    “Feeling bored, might press button later, IDK.” (Picture from twitter.com.)

  • Le long voyage vers la nuit

    Louis Catorze’s trip to the vet on Friday gave us a few surprises. In typical Catorzian style, he was loud. However, we weren’t quite expecting the, erm, VARIETY of screams uttered when we did the Walk of Horror across the park. Even Cat Daddy flinched at one of them and said, “Eurgh. That’s not a good sound.”

    During the ten-minute walk (although it felt a lot longer), we were treated to the following:

    1. His normal screams (the ones that could strip paint).

    2. A sort of hiss-scowl hybrid (the sound that vampires make when you stick a crucifix in their face).

    3. A strangulation-type sound.

    4. An underwater strangulation-type sound.

    5. A goaty bray.

    As ever, Catorze screamed himself senseless all the way through his appointment, and was chillingly silent after that. It usually takes a couple of days for the Steroid Psycho to kick in. However, on this occasion (most likely because Cat Daddy was going out and I was home alone), Catorze decided to start straight away.

    He was in and out all night, stopping only to batter at the shutters so that I would let him out at The Front (denied) and, when I decided to take myself to bed to get away from him, he followed me upstairs, sat on my chest and creepy-stared at me.

    Since it’s a full moon in a couple of days’ time, and a BLUE MOON at the end of August, I don’t see this getting better anytime soon. Bastard cat.

    An actual photo of Friday night’s shenanigans.

  • Au revoir, adieu, auf Wiedersehen, bonne nuit

    What strategies do you use to maintain your health and well-being?

    In addition to enjoying the best food (Orijen and Cool Cat Club) and taking plenty of exercise in and beyond the grounds of Le Château, Louis Catorze stays well with regular trips to his royal physician. Sadly, she is about to leave her post to go travelling, and today is her last day.

    Cat Daddy and I had originally arranged to visit her, sans Catorze, with a thank-you card and a gift. However, because the little sod has decided that now is the time to start scratching, we will have to take him as well, for his steroid shot. So what was supposed to be a meeting of thanks and good wishes will now be a(nother) full-on fight to the death peppered with screaming, but at least the vet will be able to tuck into our champagne afterwards. She’ll need it.

    The perfect card for a vet.

    If you are a long-term follower of Le Blog, you may recall that Catorze’s previous vet, from the same practice, also left her job to go travelling. I don’t know whether this is coincidence or whether taking a year off work is the only remedy for the stress of being Catorze’s royal physician. It’s the former, non?

    We wish Charlotte the best of luck on her healing journey travels, and we hope that this is an “Au revoir” and not an “Adieu”. We are looking forward to meeting her successor, although hopefully it won’t be this vet.

    Number of vets forced to flee the country to date: 2 (two).

  • Devinez qui est de retour, encore de retour

    Cat Daddy and I returned home on Sunday evening.

    Upon arrival we were greeted by the chat-sitteur, who regaled us with tales of Louis Catorze’s almost-exemplary* behaviour during her stay at Le Château. He made a particular impression on her boyfriend, who declared that he’d “never met a cat like this before”. Yup. We know the feeling.

    *This was the “almost” bit.

    However, Catorze himself was very conspicuous in his absence from the welcoming party, choosing, instead, to sun himself on his outdoor cat plinths (yes, PLINTHS, plural – he fits perfectly well onto one but insists on lying across two pushed together). At one point I glanced outside, we locked eyes AND HE YAWNED AND WENT BACK TO SLEEP.

    When we went outside to marvel at how much the garden had grown, we thought the little sod would surely come and say hello then.

    Me: “Louis!”

    [Silence, tumbleweed, crickets.]

    Cat Daddy “Louis!”

    Catorze, very feebly: “Mwah.”

    Chat-sitteur: “Louis!”

    Catorze: “MWAHHHHH!”

    Not only did she receive the most rapturous “Mwahhh!” of all of us, but her voice seemed to galvanise him into action and he finally moved his lazy arse in our direction. He let us cuddle him, briefly, then went back to sunbathing on his plinths.

    He is not cross with us for leaving him; that would imply that he actually gave a shit. This is just classic Catorze. And it’s also classic CST; the little sod spent so much time outside on the day of our return that he missed the arrival of – and the chance to accost – Lee driving the Fig van from Ocado.

    I have another month-and-a-bit at home at him before I return to the company of moody teenagers. At least they will seem very polite in comparison.

    Typical: the one time that I attempt to photograph him across both plinths, he squeezes his arse onto one.

  • Se pavaner la tête haute

    Who is your favourite historical figure?

    It won’t be a surprise to learn that it’s Louis XIV, the Sun King.

    On the other hand, what may be surprising is the number of common points that Sa Majesté Louis Catorze, Le Roi Soleil, shares with his human counterpart:

    1. Becoming king at the age of four: coincidentally, this was also Catorze’s age when he stormed Le Château and seized the crown in July 2014.

    2. Believing that the universe revolves around him: well, naturellement.

    3. Overseeing the administrative and financial organisation of his realm: see previous point.

    4. Being of diminutive stature: both the human and the feline Sun Kings were/are teeny-tiny.

    5. Enjoying a string of military victories: although point 4 might suggest otherwise, our little Roi has never shied away from a fight. Nor has he ever lost one, despite facing much larger and more numerous adversaries.

    6. Annexing key territories: Le Château, The Front, the Zone Occupée and the Zone Libre (both of which form The Back) are all part of the wider Catorzian empire.

    7. Being a keen linguist: our Roi is fluent in English, French, cat, bird, fox and squirrel (although we’re pretty sure he only knows swear words in the last four).

    Catorze does, however, have two distinct differences from Louis XIV:

    1. Believing himself to be God’s representative on earth: trust me, whatever force birthed him is/was about as ungodly as can possibly be. If he’s not the devil himself, he is certainly the WORK of the devil … and he knows it.

    2. A liking for the ladies: erm … non.

    Although Catorze struts around loving himself on a daily basis, naturellement when I really, really wanted a picture of him doing so, he wouldn’t comply. So here, below, are my two favourite old photos of him which paint an accurate picture of his kingly arrogance.

    The first is from 2017 and, contrary to first impressions, no digi-trickery is involved. I really did lay out an enormous French flag, borrowed from my classroom, and plonk Catorze on top of it. And I happened to get lucky with this shot, open mouth and all:

    “Pledge your allegiance to MOI.”

    In the second photo, from February this year, he was probably looking towards the sound of a squirrel scrabbling around outside the window, but I like to pretend he was basking in the glow of his own majesty:

    The first part of being a king is all about the body language.

    The proverb “A cat may look at a king” suggests that cats are lower in status. I think all cats know that this is nonsense.

  • Cat People (Putting Out Fire*)

    *Most likely because a cat started it.

    Dogs or cats?

    A colleague and I were once talking about dating. No, not the two of us dating each other, but about dating as a general concept and, more specifically, what people ought to reveal about themselves on the first date. I added, “Most blokes would be off like a shot when I told them I like cats.”

    When faced with a comment like this, the only polite response is, “Don’t be silly, of course they wouldn’t” or some such thing. But, instead, he said, “Yup. And quite rightly so.”

    Oh dear.

    Does society see us as extensions of the animals that we like? Do others think dog people are loyal, affectionate and obliging? And, cat people, are we regarded as unreliable, aloof and unhinged?

    Even Cat Daddy, who likes cats, has been known to make this judgement. If a friend of mine, whom he hasn’t met before, is due to visit, and I tell him that the friend is “a cat person”, he makes a face. And, if I add that I met this friend via an online cat forum, he suddenly remembers that he has a very important appointment, somewhere far away, which happens to coincide with the friend’s visit.

    Having met a lot of cat people, both in person and online, I have to admit that most of us are a bit weird. But, usually, it’s in a good way. I know that it sounds dismissive and clichéd to say, “We’re not ALL crazy!”, especially if you see some of the petty yet vicious arguments that kick off on online cat forums (usually between Brits and Americans, usually triggered by a debate about whether or not cats should be allowed outdoors). But … well … we’re NOT all crazy. Despite the fact that I named my cat Sa Majesté Louis Catorze, Le Roi Soleil, I really am one of the more normal ones. And, the more cat people that Cat Daddy meets, the more he is coming to realise this, too.

    So: dogs or cats? If you’re a friend, you won’t need to ask because you will already know the answer. If strangers ask, in order to distance myself from those complete freaks whose behaviour is embarrassing (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE), I will probably say, “Both”. It’s not an outright lie, because I like the IDEA of dogs; I am super-cordial when I meet them, and I don’t like it when people are mean to them. But do I want to share a house with one? Not really.

    That said, there are times when I don’t want to share a house with Louis Catorze, either. But, now that he’s in, we have no idea how to get him out (and we’re scared that he might do something bad to us if we tried). Any advice would be greatly appreciated.

    “C’est MON Château.”

  • Oh la vache!

    What bothers you and why?

    Bugs. The ones I can see, the ones that I can’t, the ones that are there AND the ones that aren’t.

    The Scottish midges have, despite everyone’s warnings, been scarce so far. The kamikaze horseflies, on the other hand, have left life-changing scars. They like the taste of Cat Daddy better than me so, that one time when we forgot to apply bug repellent whilst out walking, my job was to walk behind him and swat them as they landed.

    Cat Daddy didn’t like being hit without warning, so he made me alert him to each incoming swat. I wonder what observers might have thought, watching me trailing him and shouting out body part names before hitting them? “Left shoulder!” [Thump!] “Lower back!” [Thump!] We could have done with Louis Catorze who, despite being useless in many ways, is an excellent fly-hunter.

    We really have struck gold.
    Cat Daddy bought me two swimsuits and made me pack both. I do not – and never did – intend to swim.

    In its bedroom of our second week holiday let. we were greeted by this fine individual:

    Where’s Theseus when you need him?

    When I told Cat Daddy that I wouldn’t be able to sleep under this beast, he thought it was because I was scared of cows. I’m not. I’m not even scared of this one falling off and impaling us as we sleep. My fear was the possible bugs living on/in its fur (do cows – including fake ones – have fur?), which could drop onto us during the night.

    If you’ve seen that meme about not wanting to swim in a pool containing one dead body, yet happily swimming in the ocean which contains countless dead bodies, perhaps you’ll think I am the idiot for not wanting to sleep under a cow that may contain bugs, yet happily sharing a bed with Catorze whose fur definitely contains countless bugs? Over the years there have been all sorts of things deposited on/in my bed, having been transported by cats. Surely nothing residing on/in the cow could be worse than THIS horror (not an actual bug but still awful)?

    In the end I slept upside-down on the bed with my feet at the head end but, when Cat Daddy came to bed later and made me right myself, I sleepily did so. I wasn’t aware of any bugs during the night, although I guess that’s the point of the urban legend about swallowing spiders in your sleep; apparently we all do it, but we don’t realise.

    Catorze and the chat-sitteur are still having a marvellous time together, and she has only had one complaint about him so far: he was all over her, but dropped her like a hot stone when her boyfriend visited, resuming his affections only after his departure. I did warn her that this would happen, but she had assumed that reports of Catorze’s man-love, as with all events featured in Le Blog, were served with a helping of poetic licence. Now, of course, she understands that I am producing a memoir, not a work of fiction.

    Here is Catorze, snuggling up to her in bed. I shall refrain from mentioning what may, or may not, be hidden in his fur:

    Bastard cat.

  • Si vous voulez écrire, ayez des chats

    The above is a quote from Aldous Huxley. Here he is with his cat, Limbo, which is possibly the best cat name ever (apart from Sa Majesté Louis Catorze, Le Roi Soleil, of course):

    Picture from twitter.com.

    I brought a handful of books on holiday (although no Huxley this time) and am about to start reading my second one. Just like the final story of the Stephen King anthology that I read last week, it involves a writer who retreats to some remote location in the hope of creative inspiration for their work – although, weirdly, I didn’t choose them for that reason and only found out after arriving here that both had the same idea.

    For me, however, life isn’t imitating art. In fact, it’s quite the opposite, although this is probably just as well, since every story with this premise has always ended badly. I am in one of the most beautiful places on earth, with unlimited time and no other commitments, yet, without Louis Catorze, I just can’t write.

    This post took me multiple drafts and redrafts, and it’s hard to know whether the final result is what I want because there is no real story. Not even the WordPress daily prompts help that much. When I’m at home, I almost don’t want to look at them because they give me too many ideas for the time and space available. Here, they take me halfway there but then I don’t know how to finish.

    Although Cat Daddy will never admit it, Catorze IS my creative inspiration and we miss the little sod.

    Meanwhile, in a parallel universe somewhere down south, Catorze has been impeccably behaved since we left. And I know that, when we return, unlike most cats, who are either delighted to see their humans again or upset with them for leaving, he will be all over his papa and indifference itself towards me. Bastard cat.

    Our chat-sitteur sent us these last week. What can I say?

    Rolling sluttily.
    Pretending to be starved of love (lies).

  • Le boucher de Brentford

    What’s the most delicious thing you’ve ever eaten?

    *WARNING: CONTAINS GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF MURDER AND DEATH*

    I would love to be able to answer this question with “Jambon de Bayonne” or “organic aged Comté from the local cheese deli”, giving the message that Louis Catorze is a cultured gentleman with a sophisticated palate. However, these days it’s more like, erm, mouse heads and blood.

    I know.

    When we first noticed that Catorze’s kills appeared to be sans tête, both Cat Daddy and I hoped that the heads had just become detached during battle. Obviously the thought of finding them in some unexpected place wasn’t very pleasant, but it seemed fractionally less awful than the thought of our boy biting them off and eating them.

    However, when the little sod caught his last mouse, Cat Daddy witnessed him start to tuck into the head AND lick up the blood. Oh. Mon. Dieu.

    Before you say, “But it’s their natural instinct”, I know this. What I can’t reconcile in my head is how cats can be so sweet and affectionate, yet transform themselves into killing machines in an instant. They’re such two-faced shites.

    I also fail to understand how Catorze can happily munch mouse heads, with teeth and skulls and everything, yet refuse a piece of fillet steak if it’s too chewy, or if it’s medium rather than medium-rare.

    Having just read a book in which the zombie virus is spread by the cute, friendly doggie who chews on infected corpses and then goes around licking people’s faces, I now don’t want Catorze on my bed. In fact, I don’t even want him living in my house. But at least he’s someone else’s problem right now, headless mice and all.

    And anyway, how does one overthrow an established monarchy? (I’m not joking: we Brits want to know.)

    Taking a break after yet another murderous rampage.