Describe one simple thing you do that brings joy to your life.
We’re finding them anything but simple, but Cat Daddy and I are enjoying our guitar lessons and, happily, there have been no further Code Brun incidents. We have lost all sensation in our left hands, but at least we are now 0.1% less dreadful than we would have been had we not practised. And we are having great fun discovering all the songs we can play using the same few chords over and over. I don’t suppose our neighbours are having quite so much fun with this, but tant pis.
Whilst I accept that we aren’t great, and that it will take us years to become even passable, Cat Daddy is unbelievably impatient; he wants to be Dave Gilmour tomorrow. I have tried to explain that even Dave Gilmour took time to become Dave Gilmour, but he won’t listen.
Louis Catorze can’t stand the guitar. I am mystified as to how he can sit through hours and hours of pounding Led Zeppelin during Boys’ Club yet, after just hearing a single note of my guitar, he’d had enough. And I don’t even mean a single chord; I mean A SINGLE NOTE. I plucked one string one time and, after flatlining his ears and glaring at me in absolute horror as if I had just set fire to the last remaining pack of Orijen on this earth, the little sod was off.
I found Louis Catorze’s mouse on the afternoon of that incident. Luckily I didn’t have to search under the bed because, erm, the flies very helpfully guided me to where I needed to look. And it had no head, which either means that he has a taste for them (ugh) or I need to start shaking out every single under-bed item (much worse).
Two nights later, there was a further altercation: a squirrel (I think?) was scrabbling around in the wisteria outside my bedroom window, making the most infernal chattering racket. Sa Maj, perched atop my feet in bed, was deep in conversation with it.
And, yesterday afternoon, another mouse. Good grief.
So I’m not too happy with the animals of TW8. However, at least I don’t have to deal with live rat visitors, like my friend in India who has named her most recent house guest MonsterRat Caballé. She is quite the behemoth (the rat, I mean, not my friend).
In very slightly less awful news, hay fever season is upon us and, because I’ve been a bit useless at remembering to take my daily dose of local honey from Hen Corner, I haven’t fully escaped the symptoms. And I’ve had it with the “Can’t you take antihistamines?” brigade. Wow, I never thought to try antihistamines! Thank you for your insightful help!
Cat Daddy: “You get all the ailments, don’t you? You must be a little runt, like Louis.”
Me: “Sorry, what?”
Him: “Not that that’s a bad thing. I mean, I took him in, didn’t I? I took you in, too.”
Me: “SORRY, WHAT?”
[Silence, tumbleweed, crickets.]
Anyway, Le Roi does not approve of my symptoms.
If he is on my lap when I sneeze, he swiftly departs. In fact, even when he feels me do the deep intake of breath that leads to a sneeze, he’s off, doing the bird-chatter noise as he goes. (Yes, I know this is weird beyond belief, but, y’know, Catorze an’ all.)
The last time I sneezed, the little sod took off, muttering obscenities under his breath. He returned but, when I sneezed again, he decided that enough was enough and went to sit on another sofa, glaring balefully at me.
Now, it may not sound surprising for a cat to dislike sudden noises such as sneezes. However, Cat Daddy has a a sneeze so monstrous that it sonic-booms birds from trees several miles away. He even apologises when he can feel one coming because it’s THAT offensive. And, would you believe, when Catorze is on his papa’s lap, he doesn’t even flinch during this absolute beast of a sneeze. Not so much as an ear-flick.
Clearly boys can do no wrong in Catorze’s eyes. But then we knew this already, didn’t we?
Boys’ Club. And what looks like a piece of grass seed shrapnel on Catorze’s arm.
I am prepared to cut Louis Catorze some slack when it’s a full moon; there’s no way that a black vampire cat CANNOT be affected by it so, sometimes, maybe he just can’t help it (whatever “it” may be). However, when the moon is in its NEW* phase, it’s more difficult.
*This is not a new moon in the way that most selenophiles would understand; in this household, NEW stands for No Excuse Whatsoever, meaning it’s not full yet the cats are still pissing us off.
On Saturday morning, at 4:15am, I was awoken by galloping and squeaking. I realised that Catorze was under the bed, and that he had company. This is never good.
I nervously pointed my phone over the edge of the bed like a periscope, and captured this:
Cat Daddy, much later: “Maybe he was chasing one of your socks around?”Me: “Does this LOOK like a sock?”Cat Daddy: “…”
By the time I had fully registered what was going on, both Catorze and the mouse had darted under the bed and were right in the middle, so I couldn’t reach them. I then decided to, erm, shut the door and leave both gladiators to fight it out in the amphitheatre, with the survivor being declared the winner. At that stage I didn’t care which one it was.
Cat Daddy was asleep in the attic bedroom (because we sleep very badly together), so I went to join him.
Me: “Louis has brought a mouse in and released it under the bed.”
Him: “Oh. So you thought the best thing to do was wake me?”
Me: “…”
Him: “Where is the mouse now?”
Me: “Still under the bed. I’ve just left them until one of them dies.”
Him: “We can’t just leave them there. We’ll have to try and catch it ourselves.”
We shuffled downstairs and Cat Daddy went to fetch a dustpan and brush. Catorze was still under the bed, tail swishing.
Cat Daddy: “We won’t be able to get the mouse out if he’s there. Can you grab him from that side?”
Me: “I can’t reach.”
Him: “Try! Grab his tail!”
Obviously I wasn’t going to pull Catorze’s tail in case it came off in my hand, but I managed to get my fingertips to his rump, haul him out and shut him out of the bedroom. However, we then realised that we needed him in order to locate the mouse, like a water-divining rod, so we promptly let him back in again.
Unfortunately, due to the amount of stuff under our bed, we had no way of actually seeing the mouse. So we reverted back to my original plan of shutting the bedroom door and leaving them to it, gladiator-style.
After a couple of hours of strange dreams involving all manner of dead and undead mice, I cautiously tiptoed back into the bedroom, hoping to find a dead mouse tastefully presented in the middle of the floor. However, all I saw was a sleeping Catorze on the bed. No mouse.
“Nothing to see ici, mes amis.”
Did Catorze eat it (unlikely, but then he’s all about the element of surprise, especially if it’s a surprise that nobody wants)? Is it living it up in the box containing Cat Daddy’s cycling gear? Has it managed to squeeze underneath the floorboards? Is it decaying acridly in the June heat, ready to be discovered by our easily-scared cleaning lady, like that other time when she found a rat that Catorze had saved for later?
Tune into the next episode of Le Blog, when the answers to all of the above will, erm, most likely still not be revealed.
If you have a spare 729 hours, type “Fluent Pet Buttons” into YouTube. (Merci, Raven. This is all your fault.)
If you are sensible and daren’t do this, don’t worry; reading this post will give you enough information whilst also saving you from the abyss. (I am reluctant to call it a rabbit hole because, despite their labyrinthine twists and turns, rabbit holes have exits. Abysses – that word looks so wrong but I think it’s right – don’t.)
In short, Fluent Pet Buttons are devices onto which we can audio-record different words, and pets learn which one to press according to what they want. The entry level kits contain four buttons and suggest basic instructions such as “Outside”, “Play” and “Bed” although, as you will see from the YouTube videos, it seems that one can’t stop at four buttons. The more you get, the more you want, rather like cats themselves (obviously not mine, though).
Picture of Billi from news.vin.com.
Would I buy these for Louis Catorze? Probably not. Firstly, erm, I don’t think he is heavy enough to apply the required pressure; they claim to be easy to press “even for small learners”, but his “small” isn’t like most animals’ “small”.
Secondly, Catorze already has us under his spell with his powers of mind control; we have come to know what he wants. So why exert himself by pushing stupid buttons when he can just THINK about what he wants and get it?
Thirdly, and most importantly, Cat Daddy already complains about Catorze’s stuff every time he goes into a room. He would never condone adding such tone-lowering baubles to an already-extensive collection of garish cat playthings, and I’m not sure I could cope with the Unrepeatable Expletives that would ensue if I bought them without telling him.
What do you think would be the four sets of words recorded, in the highly unlikely event of Catorze losing his powers of mind control and me having to buy the starter kit? Certainly “Feed Moi”, “Boys’ Club” and “The Front”, but what else?
After a week or so of assaulting Louis Catorze with hands covered in coconut oil – which he really didn’t like – his fur was 88% greasier than before, and the dandruff was 0.01% better. However, when I gave him his spot-on treatment, things miraculously improved.
Not quite there, but better.
A friend told me that her cats had a tendency towards dandruffiness when their flea treatment was due, and it seems that this is the same for Catorze. As you can see from the photo, he tried immediately to rub the liquid off his body and onto whichever surface happened to be available (the more expensive and/or absorbent, the better). And, on this occasion, he somehow managed to also rub it all the way down his spine, making himself look like a Rhodesian Ridgeback dog for the rest of the day. However, if spreading the liquid around means dispersing its magical, dandruff-busting powers, I am ok with that.
Now, however, this begs the question of what actually caused the dandruff. Was it a reminder from his skin that the flea treatment was due? Or could the little white specks have been – shudder – flea eggs? Having barely got to grips with the fact that fleas have shat on his body, the thought of them reproducing on it is almost too much to stomach.
Meanwhile, whatever shenanigans may or may not be going on within the depths of that fur, and for reasons that I cannot fathom, I am still letting Sa Maj sleep on my bed. I woke up a couple of mornings ago with him like this (below). I know. I need help.
I’m sure I’m just imagining the feeling of things crawling.
How do you know when it’s time to unplug? What do you do to make it happen?
Unplug what? My internet router? Well, this incident brought me pretty close:
Naughty naughty, very naughty.
On Saturday I received a yellow card from the Facebook Gestapo for a comment that contravened The Rules by “inciting violence”. They were referring to my statement that Louis Catorze needed, and I quote: “a kick up the arse”.
Cat Daddy: “Oh dear. You’re worse than Kurt Zouma.”
You know when unjustly-accused suspects tell the police, “While you’re wasting time on me, the real perpetrator is still out there”? Yes, that. Exactly that. I once reported some random Instagram user for writing “Send him back to Africa” on a black (English) footballer’s page, only to be told that the comment did NOT break the rules. In fact, that day, I reported countless comments expressing similar sentiments, and was repeatedly told exactly the same thing. Yet here they are, coming after ME for stating – on a closed forum, with no impressionable kiddos present – that my cat needed a kick up the arse.
Might I add, too, that Catorze absolutely DOES need a kick up the arse. Everyone knows this. Even people on the other side of the world who have never met him, know this.
So now it seems I’m not allowed to state facts about this coercively-controlling furry psychopath who rules our house, leaches our money and hastens our march to the grave. And it wouldn’t surprise me to discover that he had something to do with all this.
If a tree falls in a forest and nobody is around to hear it, does it make a sound?
Similarly, if Orijen is placed in a cat’s bowl and he is not around to witness the serving, does the food even exist? Having given this question the lengthy consideration that it deserves, Louis Catorze says NON.
I know that he was hungry, because he was creepy-staring long before I took this photo. I dutifully went to the kitchen and refilled his bowl. But, because the silly sod didn’t follow me and watch as I did it, he doesn’t know his bowl is full. And I’m not getting up again just to lead him – or, worse, CARRY HIM – to his feeding station just to say, “Voilà!”
So it seems as if we are stuck here for a while until someone blinks first. Which one of us will it be?
Louis Catorze’s fur collects everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, whether animal, vegetable or mineral. Part of the appeal of black cats is that their fur supposedly doesn’t show up the dirt in the same way that white cats’ fur does, but Catorze’s coat attracts crud just as a magnet attracts iron. Here is just one example of the delights that can be found within:
Ugh.
At the moment the crud du jour is, regretfully, dandruff, and, the more I brush, the more he churns out. It improved when he switched to the most expensive cat food on the planet (well, you’d hope so, wouldn’t you, since, gram for gram, Orijen is more expensive than cocaine and gold combined?), but now it’s back. And we don’t know why, although we strongly suspect it’s because his outdoor gadding about takes him away from the clean, crud-free environment of Le Château and into all manner of grossness that I daren’t even think about.
In the past the vet has suggested fish oil supplements, but the silly sod won’t eat them; we tried two types and it was a hard NON to both. We also tried blobbing it onto his fur so that he would groom it off, but he just left it to air-dry on his body, stinking out the entire Château in the process.
The next weapon in my arsenal is coconut oil, supposedly good for this kind of thing but without the smell of rotting fish guts. And, luckily, we have it in plentiful supply, since it’s my favourite cooking oil. The only thing is that we are supposed to rub it onto “the affected area” – so, erm, the WHOLE area? His entire rump?
EURRRGH.
I had intended to start with a fingertip of oil applied to the base of his tail, which seems to be the epicentre of it all. But now, naturellement, Catorze is nowhere to be found, despite having been right here a minute or two ago. So I guess I’m left with sitting here with one oily finger raised aloft until he appears, or alternatively I will have to conduct an intensive search of Le Château for him and hope that I don’t daub oil everywhere in doing so. Neither option is particularly attractive to me.
EDIT: I found the little bastard eventually, by which time the coconut oil had all sunk into my skin and/or just melted away. He had somehow broken into the spare room that I had just prepared for an overnight guest – and which I had shut to keep him out – and stomped/rolled both his dandruff and his dirty paws all over the once-clean sheets and pillows. Merde, merde and thrice merde.
On Saturday, Cat Daddy and I went to a fancy dress party. We dressed as goths, mainly because we, erm, already had most of the clothes.
As part of our costumes we painted our nails black, something to which Cat Daddy only agreed on the basis that I had the wherewithal to remove the nail varnish. And, naturellement, as his nails were drying, Louis Catorze chose that very moment to pounce on his papa, screaming and headbutting for attention.
“Mwahhhhh!”
Cat Daddy: “Oh God, Louis! Why now?”
Me: “He wants stroking. Stroke him!”
Him: “I can’t. My nails are wet.”
Me: “Use your elbows.”
Him: “…”
Catorze: “Mwahhhhh!”
Catorze eventually calmed down and settled on his favourite lap, and Cat Daddy was left with his hands flapping aloft. Not that that would have guaranteed safety because cat hairs are evil, insidious things, sneaking into the least likely places even when the cat isn’t in the vicinity; when my sister came to stay, she painted her nails that evening and managed to paint a single Catorzian hair onto her thumbnail. By the time she noticed, it was too late because it had dried on.
I would love to say that the nail varnish woes ended there. But after the party I discovered, much to Cat Daddy’s chagrin, that I’d made a mistake and, in fact, I did not have the wherewithal to remove it. Cat Daddy and I walked to the shops together to buy said paraphernalia, him with his fists tightly clenched so that nobody would see his nails, only to have his embarrassment further compounded during a pit-stop at the cheese deli: his contactless card wouldn’t work. So he had to handle the card device and punch in his PIN, with his jet-black manicure in full view of the cheese shop staff and other customers.
Catorze is moderately disappointed that his papa chose not to stay fully goth. And, no doubt, he will show his full displeasure the next time there’s something that we really, really don’t want him to do. We can’t wait.
Today is Dracula Day, which celebrates the anniversary of the publication of Bram Stoker’s iconic novel. I loved it when I read it years ago, and it remains my favourite book of all time.
Louis Catorze was perfectly placed for an Official Dracula Day Portrait – sitting beneath our Count Dracula decoration – when Cat Daddy tried to encourage him to scream, in an effort to capture the famous fangs. What better way to mark such an auspicious occasion? But the little sod wasn’t playing ball. Even with his mouth open, his jowls concealed the fangs.
(We have noticed that his jowls are less pert than they were when he was younger. In fact, one has sagged lower than the other, sometimes giving the optical illusion of just one fang.)
Monofang.
What are the chances of a black vampire cat, sitting next to a Dracula decoration, opening his mouth and NOT showing his fangs? Only Catorze could be so nonsensical.
Happy Dracula Day to you all. We will be cracking open the Prince of Darkness gin to celebrate.
After tiring of waking up every morning looking as if my face had been put through a trouser press (younger followers: ask your parents), I recently bought a couple of sets of those satin pillowcases. If you haven’t seen them, they’re a bit 1980s and not the most attractive of objects, but they are supposed to make you, erm, wake up NOT looking as if your face has been put through a trouser press.
Cat Daddy wasn’t convinced, so I showed him a list of the benefits.
Him: “It says here that satin pillowcases reduce the friction between the hair fibre and the pillowcase.”
Me: “I know.”
Him: “And it’s hypoallergenic, breathable, and less absorbent.”
Me: “I know.”
Him: “OH MY GOD.”
Me: “What?”
Him: “You didn’t buy them for yourself at all, did you? You bought them for HIM.”
He’s wrong on this one; the thought of Louis Catorze sharing a pillow with me really isn’t pleasant. But, to be fair, buying special pillowcases for their cat is the kind of thing that most cat freaks probably would do. In fact, I didn’t buy the 100% silk ones because they were ruinously expensive and had complicated care instructions, but I bet some of you would. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.
At the same time as buying the pillowcases, I also bought (from a different place, obviously) a cheap, scratchy tutu skirt to wear to a fancy dress party later this month. Which of the two do you think is Catorze’s new favourite sleeping spot? Go on, I bet you’ll never guess …
Le Roi loves to feel pretty. We don’t judge him.Guess it’s his tutu now.
Cat Daddy and I were lying in bed one morning, catching up on Match of the Day. Suddenly, he put down his cup of tea and said, “Nooooo!”
Me: “What’s wrong?”
Him: “Didn’t you hear it?”
Me: “What?”
Him: “The pitter-patter.”
Louis Catorze then jumped onto the bed and started screaming.
Me: “He’ll settle down soon enough.”
He didn’t. He walked up his papa’s body, bug-eyed and psychotic, headbutting Cat Daddy’s hands.
Me: “Just ignore him. He’ll soon settle down.”
Him: “That’s easy for you to say; you’re not the one getting the headbutts. Or the face. Oh God, the face.”
Me: “I’m telling you, he’ll get bored eventually.”
He didn’t.
Cat Daddy then decided that he couldn’t bear it any longer. “I can’t believe this. I’m being bullied out of my own bed!” he huffed, as he flung back the duvet, climbed out of bed and left the room.
Catorze didn’t quite achieve his aim of casting ME out of the bed so that he could have his papa all to himself, but he was still very happy to have warm space made available to him. So he settled in Cat Daddy’s spot, purring, rolling and thoroughly pleased with his efforts.
I’ve said this before and I shall say it again: we are pathetic for letting these felines treat us like dirt. And we’re doubly pathetic for knowing that it’s happening, yet doing nothing to stop it.
Louis Catorze does. However, at the moment that direction seems to be “downwards”.
I hardly ever see him these days. No more does he settle across my stomach and cuddle me until I fall asleep, no more is he the first person I see when I wake up, and no more does he snooze on my lap every morning whilst I drink green tea and read a book. And I have a combination of CST and general cat bastardliness to blame for this.
Remember this? Nope, neither do I.
When I come home from work, Catorze is outside. I approach him to say hello and he’s perfectly cordial and polite, but he remains outside. When he does come in and acknowledge my existence, it’s only to creepy-stare for food before he goes out again. We don’t know what he’s up to although it must be very important because, one evening, we saw him taking off across the shed rooftops towards Twiggy the greyhound’s place, at lightning speed.
However, Catorze does manage to find the time for Boys’ Club. Oh yes. Cat Daddy was triumphantly smug when he told me that, as soon as I go to bed, the little sod slopes indoors and enjoys some alone time with his papa. So it seems that he’s not wholly rejecting his boring domestic life. He’s rejecting his boring domestic life with ME.
Cat Daddy: “Have you two fallen out? What have you said to him?”
Yes, it’s bold of him to assume Catorze would give a shite about anything I said.
I suppose I ought to be grateful that, at the creaky old age of thirteen, our boy is being adventurous and enjoying himself. But I can’t help longing for the autumn, when the cooler weather will send him back to my lap.
Too busy for me … but still has time to prevent Cat Daddy from reading a paper.Bastard cat.
