Hallowe’en may be over, but Louis Catorze is still creeping the hell out of us.
When you’re a black cat, you are able to blend seamlessly into darkness. We know this; we have kicked Catorze about 9,742 times in the dark because we didn’t realise he was there. You would be forgiven, therefore, for thinking we might be unaffected by Catorze creepy-staring at us in the dark. After all, what we can’t see shouldn’t bother us, right?
Erm, not quite.
It’s quite strange that he chooses to do this when he’s less visible., although perhaps he doesn’t know that he’s less visible, since he has Creepy Kitty Night Vision? Anyway, he ought to be easy – or at least EASIER – to ignore in the dark, but this is the sight that blighted our television viewing the other night:
Dead, soulless eyes.
Catorze’s favourite lap (not mine) was free, his bowl was full, his water was topped up, he’d been out at The Front and we were already in his favourite room. We still don’t know what he wanted, and I can’t say we are looking forward to finding out.
Quite simply, I can’t and I don’t. And, of every one of the 836 hours per day that I spend on my phone, 736 are spent on WordPress documenting Louis Catorze’s stupid shit. (The other 100 are spent messaging people to complain about his stupid shit, and editing photos of him to try to make him look even passably presentable.)
When I first started Le Blog back in 2014, Catorze wasn’t in the best of health so my posts tended to be about medical issues rather than about his misdeeds. And, of course, being unwell meant that he didn’t have the energy or the inclination to be especially naughty. In fact, there were weeks when I would only post once. ONCE.
Now that he’s much better, of course, it’s non-stop.
We are rolling steadily towards winter, a time when most normal cats – especially ones of, erm, advanced years – start to calm down. However, Catorze is still up to mischief, still taking awful photos, and I still need my daily therapy of messaging friends to vent, which means that my screen time doesn’t look set to change anytime soon. In fact, if anything, it will get worse.
Here he is, utterly unrepentant, having just upended the bin bag (pictured behind him) and covered himself in bin juice, AGAIN:
(Click on the link above and SCROLL DOWN for the video. Don’t click on the first video you see as it’s some weird thing that you have to pay for.)
Louis Catorze is vert de jalousie for not thinking of this himself.
Cue a hilarious, comedic chase around the pitch accompanied by the Benny Hill theme music* (well, ok, there wasn’t really any music; I just played the song to myself in my head because it seemed appropriate to do so). Alebrijes Oaxaca, the home team and whose name actually refers to animal spirit guides, were in no huge rush to retrieve the ball; they were 4-0 up at the time and were happy to have the minutes run down without having to make any effort to waste time.
*Younger followers: ask your grandparents. Non-Brits: ask your British friends of a certain age.
The dog, Max, has since become the club’s mascot (despite the cheeky sod actually having a home) and has even been seen in training. The following photos are from the club’s official Instagram page:
Excellent possession.With his new teammates.No fouling on the pitch, please.
As for Dorados, the visiting team, if they weren’t cat people before, they probably are now. And I know a cat who would be the perfect mascot. Global fame, causing absolute chaos and being chased around by lots of men? Merci, s’il vous plaît, to all of the above.
What’s something you believe everyone should know?
Remember when Louis Catorze hated the guitar? Yeah, well, he still does. In fact, there are times when he actually seems scared of it, and he scarpers as soon as he sees Cat Daddy reaching for it. Yes, that’s right: the little sod will happily take on larger animals and trick-or-treating youths in Scream masks, but Cat Daddy’s rendition of That’s Entertainment is Catorzian kryptonite.
The whole situation has been made considerably worse by the fact that Cat Daddy has been practising at length, every single day. Luckily for Catorze, his autumn-winter igloo has been deployed, and he’s been seeking refuge within its soft, pillowy depths:
He doesn’t want to break free. He’s quite happy where he is.
Cat Daddy has also been using his hours of daily practice to compose a song for Catorze. This was really to cheer me up because I’ve been feeling a bit down about being ill, but I like to pretend that Catorze is such an inspirational creative muse that his papa just couldn’t help immortalising this in music.
THE WORLD NEEDS TO HEAR THIS SONG. However, Cat Daddy won’t let me record it for your listening pleasure.
In fact, he doesn’t even trust me to have my phone in my hand when he performs, in case I secretly record it and post it online without his permission (which, in fairness, is exactly the kind of thing I would do).
So how am I going to share this masterpiece with the world? All I can give you, for now, are the lyrics, pictured below. Freddie Mercury’s handwritten lyrics to Bohemian Rhapsody sold for nearly £1.4 million, so I’m hanging onto this sheet of paper, because you just never know.
These few days post-Hallowe’en have been pretty awful. I have been ill with a monstrous cold (not Covid but easily as bad), and Le Château seems bare and bereft with the decorations all put away for another year.
Luckily there are cats to cheer us up. Not my cat, obviously. Mine is highly affronted that I’m ill and runs out of the room when I sneeze, muttering obscenities under his breath as he goes. I meant other cats who are much nicer than mine.
If you are someone who has one cat after another after another*, you may share my belief that the new one is somehow brought into your life by its predecessor. I am certain that our first Chat Noir, Luther, was the one who sent Louis Catorze to us, knowing that we would be the only people stupid enough to put up with his shit.
*This probably describes most of us, since cats are just like alcohol or drugs: they bleed us dry financially and leave us a mere shell of our former selves, yet we can’t help ourselves and we have to keep feeding our addiction.
Obviously, at the beginning of this chain of cats, there has to be a Starter Cat to get the process going. But sometimes, if the universe believes that the humans can handle it, there is more than one Starter Cat. A Starter Cat TEAM, if you will.
Meet siblings Otis (upright) and Roux (lying down), who have come to live with my sister and her family:
One is named after a soul music icon. And the other is named after, erm, the base for béchamel sauce.
Curiously, it was my sister’s cat-disliking husband who suggested adopting them, after learning that they were available due to a human in the former household developing severe allergies. Not much makes me laugh more than a former cat-disliker becoming a Cat Daddy … except for the fact that he now has to share a birthday with them. Oh yes: the cats were born on his birthday. And, when the time comes, I fully intend to send one card with all three names in it.
Otis and Roux have just been released from solitary confinement and are being introduced to the general population. And the house happens to be full of their Cat Daddy’s grandfather’s fragile handmade sculptures …
It’s going to be carnage, isn’t it?
Sitting on the sill of the window, biding his time.
Hallowe’en came and went, and Louis Catorze delivered us the biggest scare imaginable: he behaved. I know. Take all the time you need to absorb that information.
Our first trick-or-treaters came knocking not long after 5pm. Many of them commented on our “Beware of the black cat” pumpkin, at which point Cat Daddy would approach the doorway and unveil Catorze, holding him aloft. The kids were absolutely delighted to learn that there was a real black cat, all chorusing “Awww!” whilst their parents took photos. And Catorze just hung there in mid-air, letting it all happen.
Not once did he show any interest in trying to escape out at The Front. His only act of naughtiness was to come in from The Back, soaking wet and muddy, and tread gross paw prints all over Cat Daddy’s white shirt. Other than that he was impeccably behaved.
Could it be that his years have finally caught up with him, and that he simply doesn’t have the energy to be naughty anymore? Or is it a sign of the End of Days?
The wait is over and the big night is here. No, not Botanical Week on the Great British Bake-Off (although I am curious, since nobody understands what it means). I mean Hallowe’en, of course.
We warned them. We have done our civic duty.
We are a little nervous as we don’t know how we will contain Louis Catorze, given that we will be opening the portal to The Front multiple times tonight. But, just like everyone before us who has ever had to deal with vampires, we have until sundown to come up with a solution.
The good news is that we actually managed to achieve a few passable contenders for the 2023 Official Hallowe’en Portrait. However, none of them quite match with my creative vision. I wanted a regal, velvety panther with a glint in his eye that said, “I am the elder statesman of vampire Chats Noirs”, rather like this:
What he sees in the mirror. (Picture from Bing AI bot.)
Instead, I ended up with this fetching collection:
What we see every day.What we see on a full moon.
I know. We don’t know what to say, either.
They did improve somewhat. But then the bar was pretty low.
Prowling panther.Glossy panther.
But, given the choice between a prize-winning Official Hallowe’en Portrait and a happy, healthy, lively Catorze, we would always pick the latter. We never thought he would be in such good form in October (when his skin problems usually resurface) and at the ripe old age of thirteen and, yet, here we are. He’s lively, noisy and alert, he’s chubbing up, and his fur is the softest it’s ever been. Either we are tremendously fortunate, or the Dark Lord is regenerating and will be at maximum strength in time for the apocalypse.
Joyeuse Hallowe’en à vous tous, and merci to the cats below for their Hallowe’en contributions:
The adorable Chutney, whose Chat Noir buddy poses better than Catorze.Chutney again, in his pumpkin costume.Cocoa the babysit cat and his sister, Chanel.Chanel again, showing the pumpkin who’s boss.Good boy, Neville.Ollivander does the right thing, but still looks aghast at the indignity of it all.Jasper takes a brief break from ouija boards.Dobby, erm …?Pipistrello aka Pipi the Bat Cat.Pipi again, powering up to drain the hapless hand of blood.
I love walking. However, TW8 is a very doggy neighbourhood, and dog people love walking, too.
It’s not the dogs that are the problem but, rather, what I might step into whilst walking. I remain traumatised by that time I saw Cat Daddy step on one dog turd with one foot, then put his other foot straight into another. Had that happened to me, I would have had to amputate both feet, no question. So, when I walk, I keep my eyes firmly down. And, if anyone is walking with me, I tell them not to speak to me and to concentrate on keeping their eyes down, too.
Walking through through the park opposite Le Château, I often notice that all the dogs are the same type. This happens a startling number of times. Last month there was some sort of detention or boot camp, led by an instructor, and all the dogs were sausage dogs. Are those sessions breed-specific? Or were sausage dogs going through a rebellious phase at that time, and their humans happened to decide simultaneously that they weren’t going to put up with their stupid shit any longer?
The following week, the dogs were bulldog types, somewhere in between those small French ones with the sad faces and the massive, scary ones which have just been banned. When I walked past with Louis Catorze in his transportation pod, on my way to see the vet, all the dogs looked my way and started barking at once. (This also happens a startling number of times.)
Yesterday, however, I knew that I would be met by every single dog breed in creation, because Puppy Mamma took me to a dogs’ Hallowe’en fancy dress parade in the park. Now, usually, if I knew that hundreds of dogs were going to be in one place, I would make every effort to be in a different place. However, because of the dress code, just this once, I decided to risk a walk through the valley of the shadow of death.
The rain affected the turnout quite drastically, which probably worked in my favour, since more dogs means more shit. But I loved the Basset hound dressed as Georgie from IT with a yellow mac and red balloon (which he lost), and the pug in the silver astronaut suit. And I was able to capture Nala the dog and Gizzy the [insert name of species] in their seasonal finery:
Bats out of hell.
Despite being scarred by hearing Puppy Mamma utter the words, “Is that Nala’s shit down there? Oh wait … yes, it is, it’s warm”, I survived. And I learned that trying to persuade dogs to pose for a photo is as infuriating as trying to persuade cats:
Oh dear.
Is it too much to dream of cat-walking becoming a thing? Catorze is ready and is already dressed for the Hallowe’en cat parade.
Cat Daddy and I were out walking one day when he said, “Look! There’s a cat! A ginger one!”
Me: “Where?”
Him, pointing: “It just went into that hedge.”
I looked, but was just too late. I peered at the other side of the hedge to see if the cat would come out but, a couple of seconds later, a black cat exited, shook himself down, then crossed the road.
Me: “That’s not a ginger cat.”
Cat Daddy: “Weird. A ginger cat went into that hedge, but a black one has come out!”
Oh. Mon. Dieu. Either we have found the feline equivalent of Mr Benn’s costume shop* or – and I think this is far more likely – we have stumbled upon one of the many vortexes (vortices? vorticii?) which transport the little sods between worlds.
*Younger followers: ask your grandparents.
Sorry, wrong dimension.
What secrets are held by these hedges? Do the anodyne evergreen leaves conceal some sort of fancy control room, all shiny panels and flashing lights, like Doctor Who’s TARDIS? Or is the interior more like an empty void through which the cats fall before landing in their destination, rather like the weird dimension to which Homer Simpson travelled in the Homer³ Hallowe’en episode? In fact, is that the reason why falling cats are said to always land on their feet? If they’re in the habit of falling through time and space, they will have had ample practice in perfecting their landing technique, non?
So many questions.
I have asked Louis Catorze if he can explain it all. He says he can, but he doesn’t want to.
Cat Daddy and I have always been extremely lucky with our neighbours. Over the years we’ve had one neighbour* who was quite unpleasant, and another** who was just downright odd, but everyone else has been delightful.
*I saw her let her dog go to piss on our front wall and, right after I objected, we had a surly typed note through our door telling us “You don’t own the street; in fact, you don’t even own that house”. A few days later, as if by magic, a dog turd appeared on our front path. I wanted to pick up the turd and post it through her letterbox but Cat Daddy vetoed my plan, muttering something about “no proof that it was her” or some such nonsense.
**He once knocked on our door and asked if we had any bananas. No explanation or context e.g. “I’m in the middle of a recipe and I’ve just realised I don’t have any”, “I’m about to slip into a diabetic coma and I need sugar quickly”, that kind of thing. We didn’t have any bananas. He had never knocked on our door before then, nor did he do so after that.
When we lived in W13 we had a cat-hating elderly neighbour who used to knock on her window shouting “Shoo!” whenever Louis Catorze was in her garden. She eventually became friendly with Cat Daddy when he started doing handyman things around her house, although that friendliness was put to the test when she came round to complain about someone or something shitting on her lavender; naturellement Catorze entered stage left at exactly the wrong moment and did exactly the wrong things.
Here in TW8, every single neighbour, without exception, is wonderful. That Neighbour, although his nickname may not indicate as such, is lovely. In fact, many followers of Le Blog assume that he is so called because we don’t get along with him, but it’s really because he is the one who always brings Catorze back when he escapes out at The Front and wreaks havoc. When I related the latest drama to a friend and asked them to guess who escorted the escaped inmate back to his cell, the friend would always say, “Not that neighbour again?” And so the nickname was born.
As for what makes a good neighbour, these are our criteria:
1. Liking cats. Or, at the very least, not hating them.
2. Being kind enough to ignore any cat-fight sounds and, if asked, claiming not to have heard them.
3. Pretending to believe my lies when I deny all knowledge.
I don’t feel that we ask for much. But then anyone who lives near us has to put up with Catorze, so I don’t suppose we’re best placed to be fussy.
“It must have been some other small, black French cat with vampire fangs and a crocodile tail.”
Never mind me: what are CATS working on? What the heck are they all up to? Mark my words: something is afoot.
Caught communing with The Count.
At the weekend, Cat Daddy and I went to Brompton Cemetery, where they host a series of spooky events throughout the month of October. Our talk on necromancy took place in the chapel and, not long after the presenter had started speaking, he was interrupted by an unearthly wailing.
We thought we had finally solved the age-old debate regarding whether we could communicate with the spirit world. However, it was actually this cheeky sod (below), who had followed everyone in from outside and then caused utter mayhem when he couldn’t get out again:
A magnificent cat. Also a total piss-taker.
Meanwhile in TW8, Louis Catorze is prowling suspiciously and swishing his tail in the kitchen. Someone or something is in here and, whether it’s a mouse (likely) or a demonic entity (equally likely), I know that Catorze was the one responsible for bringing it in. The little sod is also relentlessly bullying me to let him out at The Front, and pushing coasters and pens off the table, one by one, if I refuse. He only ever does this when I’m home alone with him and is much better-behaved with Cat Daddy; this is partly because he knows that his papa will relent and let him out at The Front, but also because he knows it will make me look melodramatic and unhinged when I tell people about his behaviour.
Has something happened to make all the cats in the world start acting like massive shites? And how badly will it escalate in the next few days? Suddenly I feel the need to burn lots of sage and sit in a circle of salt until Hallowe’en is over …
“What do you wish me to do next, O Dark Master?” (I didn’t quite catch Catorze’s reply.)
*WARNING: THIS POST GIVES AWAY THE PLOT OF NEVER LET ME GO. IF YOU INTEND TO READ IT, AND WANT TO BE SURPRISED WHEN YOU DO, STOP READING NOW.*
I run a book club at school, and we have just read the fabulous Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro. If you haven’t read it, DO believe the hype. It’s written in an approachable and, dare I say it, almost mundane style, yet the story is gripping.
Naturellement, the discussion in the club turned to cloning, its place in society and the surrounding ethical issues. One of my students then piped up, “You can buy cloned cats now!”
Me: “Are you sure? I mean, I imagine it’s possible to clone cats, but I doubt if the general public can buy them commercially.”
Our good friend Google confirmed that the kid was right, and I was wrong.
Many questions ensued, but this was my favourite:
“Miss, what if the first few clonings go wrong before you get it right? What happens to the weird wrong cats afterwards?”
All of a sudden, things make sense. My initial concern regarding this topic was the idea of multiple Louis Catorzes, but now I realise that he must have been one of the weird wrong cats produced by accident.
I considered the idea of a Zoom call with Catorze during the session, to help the kids to understand what life is like with a weird wrong cat. However, one or two of them met him during our lockdown online lessons, so they probably already know. (Oh yes: the now-Year 13s who were around during lockdown have some Catorzian stories to tell.)
If the little sod’s behaviour isn’t enough to convince you that he is one of the weird wrong cats – and if you still don’t believe it after all this evidence, then there’s something wrong with you – maybe these photos will?
I love watching horror films. I have just watched one called Crawl, which is all about a girl and her dad who end up trapped in the crocodile-infested, rapidly-flooding crawl space under their house during a storm. It’s pretty silly – the girl is a competitive swimmer (believable) who can outswim crocodiles (considerably less believable), but then I have never watched horror films for their accurate depiction of real life, so I don’t really care.
The true hero of the film is a dog called Sugar. I only know about four dog breeds and she isn’t one of them, but she was, erm, medium-sized and black, possibly with some white bits, if that’s any help?
Anyway, Sugar does exactly what she is supposed to do, when she is supposed to do it. On two occasions, her barking draws the attention of the rescuer to the exact location of the rescuee. And yet, when she is required NOT to draw attention to herself, for example when they are wading silently through the water, aware that the slightest sound or splash would alert the crocodiles, Sugar is perfectly quiet and doesn’t move a muscle.
Good doggy. (Picture from screenrant.com.)
Dogs in horror films can generally be relied upon to do the right thing. Cats, however, are another matter entirely.
This is how I imagine a Catorzian horror panning out:
1. Cat Daddy and I are trapped in a crawl space under the house, which is rapidly filling with water and crocodiles. Catorze ignores our cries for help and lets us scream ourselves unconscious.
2. Rescuer arrives. Catorze does not react.
3. Catorze sees that rescuer is male and switches to purring, rolling and flirting mode(s).
4. Catorze realises that the end of Cat Daddy would also spell the end of Boys’ Club, so he informs the rescuer of Cat Daddy’s plight. Cat Daddy is rescued.
5. Water rises. Rescuer asks if anyone else may be trapped below. Catorze says “Non”.
6. Cat Daddy regains consciousness, flees the scene and lives happily ever after with Catorze.
7. The End.
If you would like to watch Crawl, it’s on Netflix.
And, if you would like to witness true horror, please come and visit Sa Maj.
