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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.

  • Un cocktail digne d’un Roi

    If you could have something named after you, what would it be?

    A cocktail would be very cool, non?

    It’s Louis Catorze’s thirteenth birthday at the end of this month and, in preparation for this, I have been toiling away* to create a birthday cocktail worthy of a Sun King. (A cocktail for the humans to drink, I mean, not for Catorze. You’ve seen the trouble he causes when sober, so the last thing he needs is alcohol.)

    *Mixing random alcohol together.

    One of my favourite cocktails is the French 75, which has a gin and champagne base. I have decided to reproduce it for Catorze’s birthday, since he’s French, and I have stuck to the traditional champagne, although Crémant would be a perfectly acceptable alternative. (Definitely no Prosecco, though; not only is it too flowery to do justice to an evil vampire cat, but it would no longer be a FRENCH 75.) For the spirit element, instead of standard clear gin, we have opted for a cherry gin steeped in Transylvanian oak casks, called Prince of Darkness.

    Sun King or Prince of Darkness?

    Cat Daddy and I have taste-tested this, and not only does it pack the required punch but its blood-redness makes it look the part. We love it and can see it reappearing in our celebrations throughout the year, including Hallowe’en. The only thing it lacks, however, is a name.

    “À la santé du Roi.”

    After researching how the French 75 came to be so called, I was troubled to discover this:

    “The inspiration for the title was apparently a 75mm Howitzer field gun used by the French and the Americans in World War 1. The gun was known for its accuracy and speed, and the French 75 is said to have such a kick that it felt like being hit by just such a weapon.”

    Hmmm. Not very cheery. Whilst I like the idea of the name celebrating the strength of the hit, is there a different name that would perhaps echo the bombardment on the soul that is life at Le Château, minus the getting shot part?

    Here are our favourite ideas so far, in order of preference:

    1. Vampire Kitty

    2. Louis Catorze (quite distinct from the Louis XIV, the gin and Chambord cocktail that honours the human Sun King)

    3. Screaming Roi

    4. Catorzian Scream

    5. [Various Unrepeatable Expletive-based names suggested by Cat Daddy]

    If you have any other name suggestions that might work, or if you feel the burning need to buy cocktail ingredients to celebrate a special cat in your life, please let us know.

    How do we like our cocktail? Pour 1 x 25ml shot of Prince of Darkness in a champagne flute, then top up with champagne, with an optional half-teaspoon of sugar. Or, if you’re Cat Daddy, hold the gin bottle in one hand and the champagne bottle in the other, and pour both freely into a pint glass until full.

  • Le soleil et l’ombre

    On Good Friday, Cat Daddy and I strayed onto the Dark Side and met up with a DOG. (With the Dog Parents present, obviously. We wouldn’t have the slightest clue what to do with a dog by ourselves.)

    This is Shadow, who belongs to one of my old school friends:

    Gorgeous girl.

    Despite being a member of the opposing faction, Shadow has a remarkable amount in common with Louis Catorze: they’re the same colour, they’re similar ages, and both have dodgy teeth, iffy legs and weird tails. If they ever met in another life, they would probably be friends.

    It was a gloriously sunny day when we met in Richmond Park, so everyone else and their dog was there, too. Given the unpredictable mix of different types of dog (and human) plus geese, deer and whatever other animals lurk in the undergrowth invisible to human eyes, I expected utter carnage. However, Shadow was impeccably behaved throughout, sticking close to her Dog Parents even when off the lead, and showing no interest in looking for trouble. There was only one minor disagreement with a couple of chihuahuas, and they were the ones who started it.

    Cat Daddy: “It’s always the small ones, isn’t it?”

    Chihuahua Mamma, looking sheepish: “Yeah … sorry.”

    We are very lucky that Catorze’s misbehaviour tends to take place out of sight, often under cover of darkness, and, if we’re stuck, we can always wheel out the old “It must have been some other black cat” excuse. It’s rather more difficult to deny the transgression if it’s in broad daylight, in public, and you’re standing there holding one end of the lead whilst the crazed animal at the other end is going absolutely ballistic. If you have a psycho dog, rightly or wrongly, people judge you and think you’re a useless, negligent parent. But if you have a psycho cat, everyone seems to accept that there’s not much you can do about it. In fact, if your cat is especially bad, they might even feel a bit sorry for you.

    Shadow thoroughly enjoyed her walk and made the most of every sunny moment, as you can see from this picture:

    Easter weekend dog goals.

    And, as if we needed evidence of how fundamentally different they are, this is how Catorze passed the time on that same day:

    Easter weekend cat goals.

  • Le lapin de Pâques

    Louis Catorze’s tattoo sleeves have fully grown back. So now he looks more like a normal cat, and less like a [insert name of cryptozoological beast undiscovered by science].

    However, his evil eye – the mysterious bald patch on his left shoulder – is taking some time to grow back, and its cause remains a mystery. We don’t understand it. The vet doesn’t understand it. Nobody understands it.

    ???

    We have been truly perplexed as to what substance could have such an almost-corrosive effect on his fur. Then one of Catorze’s favourite pilgrims made me realise that there’s only one substance which would affect a vampire in such a way: holy water. And there happens to be a church within walking distance of Le Château.

    Oh. Mon. Dieu.

    Could Catorze have screamed at the poor, unsuspecting Reverend who, not knowing what on earth he was, panicked and threw holy water at him? And can we trust the little sod to leave the churchgoers alone on this, their sacred Easter weekend?

    My niece, aged seven, created the fabulous piece of art below, depicting Catorze as the Easter bunny. The chances of him wearing such a costume in real life are slim-to-zéro, however he may well hop from garden to garden leaving little chocolate treasures …

    Joyeuses Pâques à tous.

    Picture by @earthtoevazarina.

  • Le jumeau maléfique

    When Louis Catorze goes on the rampage in the neighbourhood, and we’ve been forced to wheel out the “It must have been some other black cat” excuse, we haven’t actually had a specific one in mind. What we say isn’t exactly a lie as such, nor is it quite the same as directly BLAMING another cat for Catorze’s misdeeds. … is it? It’s more like a simple omission, non?

    Anyway, when Cat Daddy went for a walk the other day, he saw this fine gentleman at the wrong end of our street:

    Well, hello.

    I say “the wrong end” because all the things that good cats would avoid, but which are irresistible to the troublemakers – a busy junction, dogs galore and a pub with marauding drunk men – are there. However much we malign The Front, the real danger is at The Wrong End.

    The only time Catorze has shown any interest in The Wrong End was on this excruciating occasion, years ago. Since then, a few people have claimed to see him there, but now it’s clear that it was this other black cat all along. To me, they don’t look remotely alike … but, if others think they do, maybe I should just play a strategic game and go with it?

    No, that’s definitely some other black cat. Ahem.

  • Se faire comprendre est impossible

    What’s something most people don’t understand?

    No further words are required.

  • Pas prêt à manger

    As it’s now properly spring AND the Easter holidays have started, I have just had a good old clear-out of Louis Catorze’s cupboard. It’s supposed to be bad form to enter the new season still weighed down by needless tat that isn’t serving a purpose – and, knowing Cat Daddy, when he reads this post, he will make some comment about a certain 3kg weight that he wishes we could shed.

    Once again, the cat cupboard clear-out was like disposing of the belongings of a deceased drug dealer before auctioning off their flat; there were pills, powders, capsules, syringes and suspicious herbs galore. However, there were also cat treats of which our mutual friend had sampled maybe one or two pieces before deciding that it was a firm NON.

    Evil Catorze.

    We can’t abide food waste, especially in these unpleasant times. We go to great lengths to avoid throwing away food, including cutting the mouldy bits off food before eating the good bits, reheating leftovers multiple times (which we know you’re not really supposed to do), and so on. We cannot fathom the world of an individual who gets to take one bite and then reject – or, worse, take multiple bites and pretend to like it, wait until we buy 9,004 packs of the thing and THEN reject.

    And we pathetic humans are enabling this behaviour.

    If you are visiting Le Château, much as we appreciate it when guests bring treats for Catorze, please may we request no more. He loves visitors, so all you have to do to make him happy is turn up. If you are a man, or if you can bring one with you, tant mieux.

    Do not feed Le Roi.

  • La faculté de médicine

    You’re going on a cross-country trip. Airplane, train, bus, car, or bike?

    Ok, so a vet appointment isn’t, by most people’s reasonable interpretation, a cross-country trip. However, if you have ever had to transport a screaming animal to somewhere it doesn’t want to be transported, you will know that it really feels like one.

    At present, it’s a ten-minute walk across the park, and Catorze is so gossamer-light that even I, with my back problems, can manage to carry him in his swish transportation pod (apart from that one time when I couldn’t). The ease of the walk is such that the convenience outweighs the massive embarrassment of his screaming, which rings out through the park like an air raid siren and causes people to stop in their tracks and look over. However, the vet practice will be closing sometime soon, because the building complex in which it’s situated is due to be renovated. Nobody knows when, or if, it will return to the same place once the renovation is complete.

    Luckily they have other branches in W4, W5 and TW3, all of which close by. However, they are further away than our current short walk to the TW8 branch. And the W5 one doesn’t have parking, which means that I would have to either carry screaming Catorze on the bus (no) or drive him to work, somehow keep him contained there all morning and then walk him to his appointment during my lunch hour (HELL, no – his path and those of my students should absolutely never cross).

    So my means of transport really depends on where will be going the next time the little sod needs a vet; will it be Happening Hounslow (car), Charming Chiswick (car) or Exciting Ealing (still no idea how)?

    A black basket case in a black basket case (pictured during a vet appointment a couple of years ago).

  • L’ailurophobie

    We recently had a cat-disliking friend visit us. Now, before you ask how I could invite such a person to Le Château, I don’t care whether or not visitors like cats as long as they pretend whilst they’re here. After all, I have to pretend all the time with people’s kids (and I do a fine job, if I say so myself).

    When Cat-Disliking Friend saw Louis Catorze for the first time, he said: “That’s a BEAUTIFUL black cat! He’s like something from a story book!”

    Well, that rather depends on the book. Perhaps he had something like this in mind:

    Picture from Etsy.com.

    Good pretending, though, mon gars. Keep it up.

    Cat Daddy: “To be fair, the lighting in this house is pretty dim.”

    Watching Catorze interact with Cat-Disliking Friend was interesting. He was curious, creepy-staring and screaming, but he wasn’t all over him as he usually is with men. Cat-Disliking Friend did well with the pretence, stroking the little sod whenever possible, and he even respected the sanctity of being TUC by fetching something from the kitchen whilst I was in this holy state, without me having to ask. But I would describe the Catorzian comportement as “friendly but reserved” (well, by his standards, anyway). Despite being thicker than a concrete milkshake, HE KNEW.

    What a shame he couldn’t have behaved like this a few years ago. Cat Daddy and I had offered one of our spare rooms to a refugee girl in her late teens, with a view to her living with us during her university holidays until she had completed her course. However, her agency reported that she was afraid of cats.

    Cat Daddy told them that we had a cat, and suggested that they bring her over for tea one day to see how comfortable she felt around Catorze before deciding whether or not to move in. Since she was a girl and not a boy, I imagined that Catorze would behave. I know. I KNOW.

    The horrid little sod pounced as soon as she arrived, rolling all over her coat, hollering his guts out, with a mortified Cat Daddy repeatedly trying to shoo him away. As I was making the tea I heard the poor girl scream because Catorze had suddenly jumped onto the arm of the sofa, startling her. It was excruciating. We could have shut him in another room during her visit, but this seemed pointless if the end goal was having her live here for three years.

    As our visitor left, Cat Daddy suggested that, perhaps, she might consider spending a trial weekend with us. She said she’d think about it.

    We never heard from her again.

    Imagine experiencing war, poverty and destitution, yet spending a weekend with Catorze is just beyond the pale. That said, we get it. We live with him mainly as an act of civic duty, so that nobody else will have to.

    “Who wants to live with moi?”

  • Le regard qui tue

    This is Luther, Louis Catorze’s big brother, who left us in 2014:

    The Lutheran method: evoking guilt.

    Luther would have been fourteen years old today. He only celebrated two birthdays during his too-brief time with us, but we always remember the date every year and have his favourite food – prawns – to celebrate. His picture popped up recently on that social media “Memories” thing and, according to the accompanying text, I was eating a burger with mustard and melted cheese at the time. This is no surprise, since Luther was the KING of being my best friend when I had food.

    I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. Since Catorze hasn’t always been a creepy-starer, and only developed it after a few years of living with us, I can only imagine that he must have learned it from someone. It’s comforting to think he is able to channel his frère aîné, even though Luther managed to look disappointed whereas Catorze just looks scary.

    Happy birthday, Luther. Hope you have prawns galore, wherever you are.

    The Catorzian method: conjuring fear.

  • La place d’un chat est au sommet (Partie 2)

    Louis Catorze is positively ebullient with springtime joy.

    Usually, when I have my morning tea and he lies on my lap, he sleeps. But, on the morning of the equinox, it was as if a switch had flipped and he knew something was in the air; he was upright and alert as he lay, ears twitching, eyes darting back and forth and tail swishing. And he’s been like that ever since.

    Catorze’s favourite outdoor place to be is next door’s shed roof. He likes it much better than our shed roof because theirs is just plain wood, whereas ours has plants on it that must be less comfortable for the derrière royale. They have a second mini-shed next to their main one, which he has also claimed as his.

    When Disco the dog’s folks still lived there, and they came over one December for our annual “Mince Pies and Apology for Catorze’s Behaviour” evening, we learned that they often observed Catorze up on his viewing platform. However, they pointed out that Catorze wasn’t going there just to relax. Mais non. He was going there to catch birds.

    Dog Mamma and Dog Sister recounted how they had seen Catorze swiping at birds. On one occasion it seems he actually managed to catch one, although we never found a body (so we imagine Blue the Smoke Bengal took the rap for that one).

    We didn’t give it too much thought back then, since it was the middle of winter. But, now that we are into CST and almost starting BST, and therefore Catorze is likely to spend more time on the shed roof, we are hoping that, in his advancing years, he will tend more towards watching the world go by, like an old man sitting on his veranda. However, the fact that the little sod brought Cat Daddy a headless rat the other day, doesn’t bode well.

    Here he is, photographed by Cat Daddy earlier this week … and, worryingly, the body language suggests that he’d spotted something of interest:

    Don’t even THINK about it. Whatever “it” might be.

  • Et l’Oscar va à …

    What movies or TV series have you watched more than 5 times?

    I can think of one show in particular that I have seen countless times, although I still haven’t figured out whether it’s a film on repeat, a horror-themed Groundhog Day-style soap opera, or something Trumanesque whose participants don’t know that they’re part of a reality show and you’re torn between laughing at them and feeling really sorry for them.

    I think its name is “Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” and it stars Louis Catorze, playing the part of a cat who is outraged or alarmed about something. His skills at portraying this, when in actual fact there is nothing whatsoever the matter, are quite extraordinary.

    The pilot series aired in 2014 and, nine years on, it is still running. The content is very much the same as it was at the beginning, but it is clear to see that the leading actor has evolved; whereas, originally, there was just screaming – well, I say “just” screaming as if that were unworthy of note, but we all know that his voice is enough to make us tear at our own ears with our fingernails – but further dramatic techniques that he has developed over the years include, although are not limited to, creepy staring, whining and 3am parkour.

    “Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” is aired multiple times each day and night, whether or not we want to see/hear it. And Catorze gives us the full Day-Lewis every time, repeatedly convincing us pathetic humans that something really is amiss, irrespective of how many times we have been duped in the past. Sometimes this has led to vet visits, only to find out that there’s absolutely jacques merde wrong with him.

    This show is worthy of many Academy Awards, aside from Best Actor in a Leading Role: it deserves Best Director, Best Foreign Language Film (subtitles not available) and Best Sound Mixing, to name but a few. If you haven’t seen it, hopefully Catorze’s misadventures in Le Blog will bring the experience alive and help you to feel as if you have. You’re welcome.

    Method acting.

  • Malades comme des chiens

    The spring equinox is here, and this year I am especially happy to see this day because the winter has been utter merde. The sore throat which plagued me throughout February and much of March, is now back. Even Cat Daddy, who is never sick, is suffering, and he can’t seem to shake it.

    Usually, whilst we peasants languish, the French monarchy would be flourishing. However, on this occasion, Louis Catorze is below par. He’s still eating, drinking and bothering the local wildlife, and he even put his internal clock forward to CST* a little early. But, one morning last week, Cat Daddy remarked that the little sod had lost his voice, with just a breathy rasp remaining where an almighty siren used to be.

    *Catorzian Summer Time is exactly as it sounds: sleeping late, breakfast at 4pm and nocturnal gaddings-about at The Front.

    On Wednesday Cat Daddy took Catorze to the vet for his steroid shot, with the intention of also mentioning the croaky voice. Naturellement, on the day of the appointment, the croak disappeared and his normal paint-stripping scream resumed. Luckily I had taken the precaution of videoing him earlier in the week and sending the video to the vet, because I knew full well that he would pull a stunt like this. Here is the piece of evidence which proved that Cat Daddy wasn’t a liar, a fantasist, a drama queen or a factitious disorder imposer:

    The chain-smoking drag queen voice.

    The good news is that there’s nothing to worry about; apparently croaky voices sometimes just appear and disappear of their own accord. The slightly more disquieting news is that Catorze is now at his lowest weight since this time last year (3.06kg) although hopefully the Steroid Hungries will chub him up.

    The day after the vet appointment, the croak came back. It would be implausible, if it weren’t so utterly Catorzian.

    Joyeux Printemps. Wishing you and your furry overlords the best springtime.

    In his happy place.

  • Faire flotter le drapeau bleu

    Where would you go on a shopping spree?

    Does it count if the spree wasn’t supposed to be a spree? If so, Louis Catorze would – and did – go to, erm, Kitbag, the sports equipment supplier.

    We had a Code Bleu situation recently, when Boots – usurper stepbrother of Louis Catorze’s frère-from-another-mère, Antoine – lost his collar again. Catorze visited the Kitbag site and bought three new collars which bore the name of Boots’ favourite football team. However, the delivery didn’t arrive.

    Catorze is usually very firmly Team Antoine, since Antoine is a fellow Chat Noir. However, Boots has a shady past and his collar performs the function of an electronic tag, with the bell informing his household of his whereabouts. So, whilst Catorze might appear to be betraying the cause, in actual fact he is doing his frérot a service. And the fact that Boots supports Chelsea gives a clear indication of the kind of cat he is and why he needs a tag.

    Très chic.

    Because Boots has previous when it comes to losing collars, his mamma has a stash of them in various snazzy styles. However, when she picked one from her supply and tried to put it on Boots, it wouldn’t fully open. Now, ALL collars open … don’t they? Anyone designing a cat collar that requires pulling down over the head, surely can’t ever have seen a cat before?

    Poor Cat Mamma tried it anyway, but the spanner in the works was Boots’ fat head (see below). And, since Catorze’s gift had gone missing, this meant that miscreant Boots was collarless and on the rampage. This simply would not do.

    Nope – not gonna happen.

    I contacted Kitbag to explain the situation and received a lovely reply from Bailey, who said, “I can certainly understand.”

    Excusez-moi? So … Kitbag are FAMILIAR with queries regarding fat-headed, Chelsea-supporting cats and their missing collars?

    Further investigation revealed that the failed delivery was due to, erm, user error. The collars had been sent to entirely the wrong post code, and I don’t just mean a couple of letters/numbers off; I mean that, of the six characters required, four were wrong. I shamefacedly confessed this to Bailey, who informed me that it would not be possible to redirect or cancel the order.

    Catorze then placed a second order and, happily, Boots now has his Chelsea collars, so all is well in his world. The original order, I imagine, will keep going to the made-up post code (which is actually a real post code, just not the one where Boots lives) until someone accepts it.

    If you live in the CR0 area, look out for random cats wearing Chelsea collars. None of them will be Boots, since he doesn’t live there, but tant pis.

    EDIT: By some miracle, the lost delivery somehow made it to Boots despite the wrong post code, so he now has SIX Chelsea collars. Photographing him in one is something of a challenge as his fluff splays out and covers it, so his mamma needs two hands to separate the fluff, and a third to take the picture:

    There really is a collar under there somewhere.
    Snoozing happily whilst his mamma manhandles him.
    Smart boy.

  • La Géorgie dans mon esprit

    I recently visited an old school friend for lunch, and he and his wife have a cat. I love meeting fellow cat freaks, not only because we always have plenty to talk about but because there is a chance that their freakishness is greater than mine, making me feel a bit better about how much we indulge Louis Catorze.

    It’s better still when said cat freaks weren’t cat freaks when we first met, but have become so over time. I love seeing Cat Daddy’s look of horror when I tell him that someone used to be very cool but now follows a cat around and obeys its instructions. I also love reminding him that he was the one who asked our builders to create a pillar in our kitchen, so that Catorze would have a designated feeding station.

    Georgia is one of the few cats that I know who, at fourteen, is older than Catorze, although she looks a hell of a lot better (but then most cats do). She is one of the prettiest cats I have ever seen, with coppery fur that appears to glow from within, like the embers of a dying fire. The household very much revolves around her, and she strides purposefully about the place as if she knows this.

    She is the princess.

    Georgia has a cat flap in the patio door, but I noticed – and commented on – the fact that her Cat Daddy opened the door for her.

    “Oh, she won’t use the cat flap.”

    If you are not a cat person, and you are rolling your eyes at the princessiness of this, trust me, this is nothing. Opening doors for cats, when they have a perfectly adequate cat flap that they choose not to use because we humans open the door for them, is but a MINIMUM REQUIREMENT in most cat households.

    When Georgia is ready for her nap in her favourite spot in the upstairs study, she insists that her Cat Daddy accompany her there. And, when her nap is over, he must accompany her back down. This is a new one, even for me. At first, I heard this, I thought it meant he had to carry her. But, frankly, having to escort her each way isn’t much less princessy than that. And it’s only a matter of time before Georgia WILL expect to be carried. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if Catorze were to teleport his way to her and say, “Ma chérie, you’re missing a très bonne opportunité ici!”

    Waiting for her Cat Daddy to hurry up.
    A perfect oval.

    My only regret of the day is that I didn’t follow them and video the pre-nap procession up the stairs, because now I will be forever wondering whether my once-cool friend walked alongside or in front of his boss lady, or a few paces behind like the servile serf that he has become. Then I remembered our guest book … and our Louis XIV antique silverware … and our beeswax candles … and the jambon de Bayonne … and the organic aged Comté from the cheese deli (NOT plebby standard Comté from Marks and Spencer) …and the John Lewis cocktail coupes that I bought for Catorze’s birthday celebrations … and everything else that we lay on for our ungrateful cat who treats us like dirt.

    Oh dear. People who live in glass Châteaux, and all that.

    Here are some more Georgia photos, to take my mind off how pathetic and self-abasing I have become:

    Cooling off on a hot day.
    The grass really makes her fiery colours pop.
    Looking beautiful in her garden.
    Guarding her domain like a proud lioness.