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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.

  • Big Brother veille sur vous

    Is there a link between Facebook and WordPress? I know that they’re not owned by the same people, but is there some sort of creepy algorithmic link, in the same way that every keystroke that we type is monitored somewhere?

    I ask this because, since my last post, my Facebook feed has been full of unsavoury animal ads, of which the most alarming was: “Are your dog’s anal glands full?”

    Jésus, Marie et Joseph, et le petit âne.

    I am shuddering, sweating and bleeding from the eyeballs as these words fall from my once-clean hand, and I pray that it will be the only time I ever have to write this. After today, let us never speak of this again.

    Worse yet, the offending ad was a VIDEO. Naturellement, I didn’t watch it all the way through, but what I did see – and what my brain visualised – was enough. Could it be that the mention of animal arses on WordPress somehow triggered Facebook to bombard me with all this?

    This is not the first time that we have suspected Them of spying on us. Cat Daddy once had a brief discussion with a friend about a magic wallet into which you could stuff multiple credit cards, without the wallet getting fat and bulky. The next morning, his Facebook feed was full of ads for said wallet.

    On another occasion, my students were telling me about some crypto-currency that I’d never heard of, called Moondoggy or some such thing. When I Googled it whilst chatting to them, it was top of my search menu.

    Students: “WHAT? It should be, like, the seventh or eighth thing, not the first! They’re listening to us!”

    The most bizarre of them all was when Cat Daddy and I were watching Fargo, and we discussed one of the actors having also been in The Usual Suspects. Forty minutes in, we paused the film to get some snacks, then resumed … to find that we no longer recognised the characters or understood the plot. We wondered if Louis Catorze had spiked our popcorn with catnip … until we discovered that we were no longer watching Fargo. We were watching The Usual Suspects. And we weren’t even watching it from the start but from about – yes, you’ve guessed it – forty minutes in.

    No, we did not switch films when we paused (and, if we had, we would have started it from the beginning, like normal people). No, we do not have a smart remote control prompted by voice commands, nor do we have Alexa.

    Even more peculiar was that I’d made a mistake, and in fact the actor whom we were discussing was NOT in The Usual Suspects. Which disproves the theory that either we or They had somehow summoned a menu of All Films Starring Steve Buscemi, and selected one to start playing randomly from the middle.

    Not even my tech-savvy students could explain this one. However, one of them, who has a chat noir and therefore knows exactly what they’re like, said, “Miss, erm … was your cat around at the time?”

    “At the apex of the pyramid comes Big Brother. Big Brother is infallible and all-powerful.”

    I don’t recall seeing Catorze but, of course, that doesn’t mean he wasn’t there. I would definitely remember, however, if he’d sat on the remote and switched films with his arse.

    OH GOD, WE ARE BACK TO ANIMAL ARSES AGAIN.

    On that note, here is Freya, whose fluffy hindquarters started off this whole thing:

    “You mock my arse? You can kiss my arse!”

    It wouldn’t surprise me if Freya were the mastermind behind all this.

    Meanwhile, I am mystified by how They can be clever enough to know that I mentioned animal arses, but not clever enough to pick up on the tone and to understand that I was talking about my AVERSION to them. If it were all some marketing ploy to sell me dog anal gland cream/pills/whatever, They have failed.

    However, one thing in which They HAVE succeeded is getting me to buy is more vodka – lots of it – to numb the trauma.

  • Hors de ma vue! Tu infectes mes yeux!

    *WARNING: CONTAINS GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF CAT ARSE*

    Anyone who knows me knows that a cat’s rear end is my least favourite part of it. In fact, I’d go as far as to say it’s one of my least favourite things in the world. I would rather face War, Famine, Death or whatever the fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse is, or even all four at once, than have anything to do with a cat’s arse.

    Obviously the only solution to this is finding a cat with no arse, which is unlikely to happen unless someone in a lab were to create a genetically-modified Doctor Doolittle-style push-me-pull-you thing (younger followers, ask your parents). But a short-haired cat is a reasonable compromise. Hairless cats have everything permanently on display, with no barrier whatsoever between the arse and your furniture. And long-haired cats, whilst the arse is concealed from view, can have all manner of unspeakable horrors lurking within the depths of that fur.

    On Saturday Cat Daddy and I went to Leicestershire and, whilst there, we visited one of Louis Catorze’s favourite pilgrims, who lives with her husband and FOUR feline overlords. And the cats very generously allow two dogs to lodge in their house, too.

    Indy and Dyson (with Cat-and-Dog Daddy reflected in the television, encouraging them to look in the right direction.)
    A visual representation of what Indy’s tail feels like when he wallops your leg with it. (He is a VERY happy dog.)

    Upon arrival, we became acquainted with the canine contingent and three-quarters of the feline contingent. As ever, when meeting other cats, I kept saying “They’re ENORMOUS!” over and over again when, in actual fact, this is what all normal cats are supposed to look like.

    Draco, initially shy but soon gave in to cuddles and play.
    Pumpkin, who struts into other people’s houses and makes himself at home.
    Weasley, the smallest of the bunch (but still much bigger than Catorze).

    Cat-and-Dog Daddy brought the fourth cat – a stunning, long-haired beauty named Freya – to us and she pitter-pattered elegantly around us as we talked, with her fluffy tail aloft. As she did so, I noticed solid matter stuck to her hindquarters.

    Be careful where you put your hand.

    Me: “Freya’s got something stuck to her arse.”

    Cat-and-Dog Mamma: “Oh, has she?”

    Me: “I think it’s a leaf. It’s definitely a leaf, isn’t it? Isn’t it? Please tell me it’s a leaf. PLEASE TELL ME IT’S A LEAF.”

    Cat-and-Dog Mamma, glancing at Freya’s arse: “Erm … no.

    Saint. Jésus.

    Freya then pitter-pattered off. I had awful visions of her returning to us with the offending substance still affixed to her arse … or, worse, returning to us with the it NOT affixed to her arse and the Cat-and-Dog Parents having to do the Chasse de Trésor around the house.

    I don’t know how the offending substance was eventually dealt with, and I didn’t ask because I was too busy thanking the universe that Freya didn’t deposit it onto my lap.

    Freya is OUTRAGED that her lower portions are being discussed.

    Never did I think I would be GRATEFUL for the Catorzian arse, yet here I am. If my only direct dealings with it involve colouring in photos using the iPhone’s black markup tool, I have got off lightly. As for indirect contact, I don’t want to know. If I thought too hard about where Catorze’s arse had been, I would never touch anything in Le Château again.

    Nicely in shadow, just the way it should be.

  • Le jus de ronronnement

    Most cats dribble a bit, but Louis Catorze does it a lot. This is mostly because his mouth cannot fully close on account of his protruding vampire teeth, leaving a permanent escape route for his spit.

    Since the spit is at its most plentiful when Catorze is purring, Cat Daddy has coined a rather delightful nickname for it: purr-juice. I love it. Somehow calling it by that name makes it seem less revolting and almost, dare I say it, endearing.

    Photographing the purr-juice is quite difficult as you have to be quick with the camera, but Cat Daddy managed it. On this occasion Catorze had joined him on the weekly Zoom call with his boozy pub mates and was purring like crazy, overwhelmed by the heavenly chorus of male voices:

    Blame it on his juice, baby.

    Before anyone starts to panic, this is NOT drooling due to heatstroke – in fact, this photo was taken before the heatwave – and there is nothing wrong with his teeth. (Cat Daddy: “I should f***ing well hope not, after a grand’s worth of dental work.”)

    This is pure Catorzian happiness. And there’s more where that came from.

  • Le téléphone noir

    I didn’t think there was much in life worse than Louis Catorze’s screaming. But, as ever, when I think we have reached rock bottom with the little sod, he hands me a shovel and tells me to dig until I strike the Earth’s core.

    Taking a brief break between screamathons.

    He has now begun to scream during phone conversations, especially highly sensitive and/or important ones. There were a few isolated incidents in the past (such as when I got a new job and my now-boss called to discuss terms) but now it’s becoming a much more regular thing. I don’t even have that many people call me. But Catorze actually comes running when the phone rings, as if the sound somehow activates his “Urge To Be A Massive Idiot” switch. And this is embarrassing beyond measure.

    He screamed when Cat Daddy was consoling a friend with a sick relative. He screamed when I was offering condolences to another friend who had just lost her dad. And when Catorze’s cat food didn’t arrive, he delivered a fine, Day-Lewis-worth performance during my phone call to Ocado Zoom, in his portrayal of a starving animal who had never been fed.

    Each time (apart from the last one because, on that occasion, the screaming actually served me well) we tried to leave the room but Catorze simply followed us, continuing to scream, even jumping onto our laps to get closer to the phone.

    More recently, he screamed when the doctor called to arrange an appointment for a steroid injection in my shoulder. Catorze was especially bad during this call, almost as if he knew we were talking about steroid injections and was saying, “This is what they do to you! Proceed à vos propres risques!” During the other phone calls mentioned above, the callers asked, “Do you have a cat with you?” or, if they knew him, “Is that Louis?” Conversely, this actually breaks the ice and makes the situation about 1% less embarrassing. However, the doctor said nothing. NOTHING.

    The latter part of the conversation went something like this:

    Catorze: “Mwah!”

    Doctor: “Let me check the availability for later this month.”

    Catorze: “Mwah! Mwah!”

    Doctor: “How about [whatever date it was – I’m too traumatised to remember now]?”

    Catorze: “Mwah! Mwah! Mwah!”

    Me: “I’m afraid I can’t make that day. I could do the Monday, though? Sorry about the noise, by the way. That’s just my cat.”

    Catorze: “MWAHMWAHMWAHMWAHMHWAAAAAAHHHHH!”

    Doctor, without hesitation: “Yes, the Monday looks fine. How about midday?”

    I know that doctors are busy, but come on. This was as awkward as having a high-five ignored.

    Naturellement I’m not able to video the little sod and talk on the phone at the same time. But below is an old video demonstrating the kind of sound that hapless phone callers can expect to hear.

    There really are no winners when it comes to phone calls to Le Château.

    Honestly, just text me instead.

  • Le renard et la panthère

    Not long ago, we spotted this fine gentleman in the Zone Libre:

    Foxy Loxy.

    The fox stared at us, motionless. And, in the time it took us to debate whether or not to supervise Louis Catorze in his outdoor jaunts that evening, the little sod had slipped through the hole in the fence and out into the Zone Libre.

    For a few seconds, Cat Daddy and I stopped breathing.

    Catorze and the fox locked eyes, then Catorze decided he was … bored. Yes, bored. He yawned a little, then looked around at the scenery and had a little wash.

    After seeing that neither party intended to move, and that Catorze was neither traumatised nor looking for a fight, we left them to it (but kept the bifold doors wide open, just in case). Catorze remained there until darkness fell, then casually strolled in, ate a few pellets of Orijen and went back out again. He didn’t even give the square root of a merde that the Zone Libre contained one visible predator plus any number of concealed ones.

    What on earth is he thinking? Why isn’t he scared? Should we be concerned about the fact that he isn’t scared? We have many questions although we suspect that, even if he were able to answer them, he still wouldn’t.

    Meanwhile, he is just going about his business as usual and living his best life.

    Pretending to sleep but secretly planning more Zone Libre shenanigans.

  • Danser dans le noir

    Cat Daddy and I recently had friends over for dinner. Two of our three guests were men so, naturellement, Louis Catorze found this very pleasing indeed and spent the evening pitter-pattering back and forth between our gathering and ICB in the Zone Libre.

    When our guests were about to leave, I made sure that the coast was clear because I really didn’t want Catorze escaping out at The Front at 2am. I was tired and couldn’t face the sleepless night that I knew would follow if I went to bed with him still outside.

    Just as I was closing the door after saying our goodbyes, we heard the most almighty BA-DOOMPH, BA-DOOMPH, BA-DOOMPH. The little sod, who had been waiting silently on the landing for the right moment to strike, galloped down the stairs like a wild deer. You would be forgiven for wondering why the loud stomping didn’t trigger us to shut the door more quickly, but it was so un-catlike that it took us by surprise and we froze.

    Catorze shot out and under That Neighbour’s car.

    Guest 1: “Oh. Is he allowed out here?”

    Me: “Not really. But, as you can see, he doesn’t give a shit.”

    Guest 2 tried to entice Catorze out, without success. I know from bitter experience that, in situations such as these, the more one tries to chase, the more resistant he becomes, so the only thing to do is wait until he decides to come back. Regretfully there is no way of knowing whether that will be in the next few minutes, or at sunrise.

    Cat Daddy decided to have a go at calling Catorze, to see if he would respond better to his favourite human. But Catorze, seemingly buoyed by the novelty of the quiet, empty street, taunted him by dancing tantalisingly out of his reach and refusing to come in.

    Eventually I went to bed, with Cat Daddy promising that he would wait up and keep trying. But I decided that I couldn’t leave Catorze to the mercy of his papa, who was drunk and therefore highly likely to forget and/or fall asleep, so I came back downstairs at 2:40am for one last attempt. Luckily Catorze was waiting on the doorstep when I opened the door, and he gave me a little squeak of gratitude, then pitter-pattered up to bed with me and lay across my stomach like a living, furry belt.

    What IS this peculiar beast who can both float silently and BA-DOOMPH like a charging rhino, and who can sense exactly when we don’t want him to do something and then do that very thing? One thing is for sure: no way in the world is he just a cat.

    Bastard cat/deer/rhino.

  • J’adore le ventilateur

    During previous searingly hot summers, I have sat in the living room with a fur-covered animal on my lap, a blanket over my knees (because said animal doesn’t like contact with bare skin), a candle burning (because of said animal’s allergies) and the fan off (because said animal doesn’t like the breeze), all the while hating myself and wondering how I became such a pathetic excuse for a human being.

    However, Louis Catorze has decided that he does like the fan after all. So I am proud to declare that I now only do three of the four things mentioned above, making me merely SOMEWHAT pathetic as opposed to an utter loser.

    Here I am, sweltering in the blistering heat, whilst Sa Maj relaxes in comfort:

    You just relax whilst my internal organs melt and leak out of me.

  • Le maillot arc-en-ciel

    A couple of days ago, I went into the kitchen where Cat Daddy was watching the Tour de France. Louis Catorze had squished himself so hard into his papa’s leg that it was a while before I spotted him.

    I then noticed that THIS was happening:

    Apologies for the Tour de France commentary in the background.

    Me: “What’s going on?”

    Cat Daddy, without taking his eyes off the Tour de France: “It’s Boys’ Club. This is what we do.”

    Well, I wouldn’t know. I’m not a member, and if I so much as pass by when meetings are taking place, I am met with baleful glares from those in attendance.

    It’s not really fair, is it? I am the one who organises all Catorze’s important stuff and, in return, I am merely tolerated. Cat Daddy, the one who swears at him, calls him names and roughs him up to the point of flatlining ears (Catorze’s ears, I mean, not Cat Daddy’s), is treated with utter adoration.

    It would be annoying were it not for the fact that it’s also hilariously cute. I can’t help but love their partnership and, despite Cat Daddy’s protests to the contrary, I know that he does, too.

  • L’eau est la vie

    We are still suffering the after-effects of the crippling heatwave that peaked last week. At least we HOPE that was the peak, and that it isn’t going to get worse.

    Most normal cats are flopping languidly around the place and not doing a great deal. Louis Catorze, however, is splitting his time between screaming, intensive Rodent Duty, more screaming, gorging on Orijen and indulging in all-night parkour around the back bedroom, including in and out of the window. (Don’t worry, there is an extension roof below and it’s not just a sheer drop. That said, he has tried to jump out of upper floor windows that DO have a sheer drop, and I’ve had to stop him.)

    Like good citizens, we have been dutifully putting out extra water for the local wildlife. Stupidly, I assumed that Catorze were too engrossed in his other summer activities to bother himself with the birds’ water bowl. When he’s on Rodent Duty not even Armageddon will shift him, as you can see here:

    Good boy.

    However, I have just busted him doing this:

    Nooooo.

    It’s not the clearest picture as I had to take it from some distance away; any attempt to move closer would have sent him scarpering and denied me any evidence. But we can all see what’s going on, non?

    And the prosecution would also like to submit this piece of evidence: on the same day that these photos were taken, the little sod came in from a long evening of Rodent Duty with a suspiciously damp body, when it wasn’t raining.

    We are now concerned that Cat Daddy’s greatest fear will come true: that Catorze will drink from The Iron Pool (assuming he hasn’t already done so), making it the most expensive cat drinking vessel on the planet. And the fact that it’s not even his MAIN vessel, and only a secondary one, makes it worse.

    Will the spooky Book of Hope work some self-preservation magic on its outdoor counterpart? Or will it and Catorze team up to form some unholy alliance that will take over the world?

    “Your maman snorts catnip in hell, you faithless slime!”
    “The haunted bones made moi do it.”

  • L’âme de la montagne

    During our stay in beautiful Durness, Cat Daddy and I embarked upon a magical voyage into the home – and creative imagination – of artist Lotte Glob. Words alone cannot adequately describe her world and it really has to be seen in person, but you can find out more about it here.

    We fell in love with one of Lotte’s pieces in particular, called The Book of Hope. It’s named after Ben Hope, the mountain from which the raw materials were gathered to make the book. But, somehow, it also sums up our optimism in putting a precious, fragile piece of art in the same house as a cat who always does the opposite of what you want. The exact combinations and proportions of clay, minerals, plants and bones (yes, BONES) that went into the pages are known only by it and its author, and that’s part of its wonder. It’s like the Cailleach’s personal book of shadows, excavated from deep within the earth, and we will never fully know its secrets. (Unless Louis Catorze smashes it up.)

    When we returned to Lotte’s place the next day to collect the book, a second piece also caught our eye. This one is called The Iron Pool, and we hope that it will provide the birds with some much-needed water in this heatwave whilst also being high-sided enough to keep it from inquisitive Catorzian paws/tongues. We love the fact that it looks like an earth-toned flower from a distance but, when you approach, there’s a surprise blue loch inside:

    The Iron Pool, supported by a small selection of the inordinate number of rocks that Cat Daddy insists on gathering, wherever he goes.

    I wasn’t allowed to plonk Catorze next to The Iron Pool for a photo (Cat Daddy: “Nooo, we don’t want to draw his attention to it in any way!”), but I did manage to capture the little sod with The Book of Hope. The more I think about it, the less weird it is that a household with a black vampire cat also has a sculpture containing hidden bones.

    “Magic et secrets et bones, oh my!”

    If you are in the Scottish Highlands, Lotte’s place is well worth a visit (by appointment only). As well as being talented, she is a delightful person and so easy to talk to. We would love to see her again when we return next year to climb Ben Hope.

  • Le cafard post-vacances

    Cat Daddy and I succeeded in our plan to beat the worst of the searing heat on Tuesday, and we were fortunate to spend much of the day in an air-conditioned car. However, when we arrived back at Le Château, it really was the end of days because the screaming started. Not that it had ever really stopped.

    Saint Jésus, Louis Catorze has been BEYOND horrendous since our return and it’s like having the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse all stampede us at once. Is this really the same cat who received a glowing behaviour report from his chat-sitteur during our absence?

    He screamed as we were unloading our bags from the car. He screamed as Cat Daddy watered the parched garden. He screamed as Cat Daddy let fly a string of Unrepeatable Expletives when it started to rain minutes after he had finished watering the garden. And, as if I wouldn’t already have difficulty sleeping with both the brutal heat and the grim realisation that all our summers could be this hot from now on, the little sod alternated between screaming, aggressive headbutting and parkour at hourly intervals throughout the night. And, naturellement, he only did this in my room, steering well clear of his papa (who was in another room as it was cooler than sleeping together).

    Catorze only quietened down when dawn broke … and that was when the parakeets started. My happy holiday feeling was gone in an instant, as if it had never existed.

    Here he is, watching the birds intently but doing nothing, nichts, niente and nada about their infernal racket:

    Bastard birds and bastard cat.

  • Plus chaud que la moyenne

    Whoever said “Truth is stranger than fiction” certainly knew what they were talking about (and had probably met Louis Catorze). So, when Cat Daddy came back from the bar and told me that he’d seen a memorial on the wall paying homage to a previous pub cat, I believed him. I also believed him when he said that the cat was called, erm, Craig David. (Non-Brits: ask your slightly older British friends.)

    Photo from chroniclelive.co.uk.

    Craig David was a stray who turned up one day at the Free Trade Inn in Newcastle and never left. He soon became an iconic feature of the pub, and customers would often find him asleep on a bar stool or on top of the jukebox. There was quite an outpouring of grief from the community when he passed away after four years of living his best life at the pub, and the staff decided to pay tribute with a commemorative blue plaque on the wall:

    They met the cat on Monday, gave him a few treats on Tuesday, he had moved in by Wednesday …

    They even sell Craig David t-shirts – and, yes, we bought one:

    Craig David all over your (shirt).

    I sometimes think of what we should do to honour Catorze when he is no longer here. But, since the little sod was forged in the raging fires of The Underworld, he will probably outlast every single one of us. And, just as Earth implodes, he will hop onto a spacecraft and return to his home planet, having accomplished his mission here.

    Why were you screaming loudly late last night? Can you fill me in?

    Speaking of hellfires, later today we will be heading back to the inferno that is London, having had a relatively lucky escape here in that tiny strip of England that wasn’t in the Red Zone. Cat Daddy tried to cheer himself up by Googling places hotter than London, only to feel worse when he discovered that Seville, Cairo and Addis Ababa are all COOLER.

    Much has been made of animals in the heat, with advice involving extra water and fans but, unbelievably, this is one area where I trust Catorze to do the right thing for himself, however insane it may seem to me. After all, he has ninety-nine problems but a heat-related illness ain’t one.

    As ever, there is online panic, with people on my local neighbourhood forum telling cat owners to keep cats indoors. However, I disagree. Unlike dogs, who would blindly follow their owners across hot lava if they had to (and even if they didn’t have to), cats won’t do things that they don’t want to do. Also, if cats are used to going outside and they enjoy it, keeping them in would drive them round the bend; we would be able to hear Catorze’s screaming even from up here. So we have just told our neighbours to feed him smaller portions, keep an closer eye on the levels of his one water glass, and let him do as he wants. (He doesn’t need extra water glasses; trust me, he won’t drink from them. And, when the fan is switched on, his ears flick back and he moves away.)

    Incidentally, our chat-sitteur reported that Sa Maj was the perfect angel during our absence, with no pukes, no rats and no 3am parkour. For heaven’s sake.

  • Un tableau noir à la lumière

    Cat Daddy and I have decided, last-minute, to extend our holiday, to avoid the London heat which now looks set to peak at 41°C (FORTY-ONE DEGREES CELSIUS). Sadly we can’t stay in the eco-croft as it’s reserved, but we have booked a place in the north-east, in the same complex where KettleGate took place. It’ll still be 30°C there, but come on: 30°C or 41°C? The latter sounds like a made-up number, applicable only to Death Valley and to that place in Ethiopia with the acidic water.

    Non, non and thrice non.

    We are very lucky indeed to be able to do this, and our wonderful, kind neighbours have agreed to take over Catorzian duties for the extra few days. We feel for anyone who has to endure this weather covered in black fur, but not enough to go and join them in it. Sorry, Louis Catorze.

    Anyway … cats and circles. We all know about that. (If you don’t, please have a look here.)

    However, cats and RECTANGLES? That’s a new one to us. But for Catorze, who always does the opposite of whatever is expected or wanted, it’s absolutely perfect.

    It’s not often that Catorze creates perfect moments but, on this occasion, he did. The little sod decided to position himself in a rectangle that isn’t even a real rectangle, but a shadow one cast by the trellis above him. Perhaps he understands that every work of art needs a frame, and in this case the masterpiece is himself.

    Here he is, demonstrating that rectangles are, apparently, the new circles. This was taken some time before the raging inferno into which London has just plunged but, to be fair, Catorze would do this whatever the weather:

    This art installation created itself.

  • La queue du monstre

    Cat Daddy and I are on the last part of our holiday, which is a week in a secluded eco-croft in Durness. And, whilst London sizzles in a heatwave that looks set to hit 37°C on Monday, we are luxuriating in the joy that is 23°C and below. It’s absolutely blissful, although I do miss the company of Louis Catorze. (Cat Daddy, however, says he doesn’t.)

    I have brought my Great British Map of Folklore and Superstition on holiday with me, and the north coast of Scotland is packed with spooky creatures of interest. These include ghosts, mermaids and even witches who shapeshift into cats, the latter of which made me think Catorze would probably feel quite at home here:

    Us: “Do you think our cat is a baobhan sith, or is he a cait sith?” Scottish people: “Aye.”

    I’ve said it before but it’s worth repeating: Catorze has the weirdest cat tail I have ever seen. Although the tail itself is still nowhere near as weird as the fact that, when making him, God/Mother Nature/Satan/whoever decided that he wasn’t quite weird enough in his personality, so a weird tail was also necessary:

    Nope. We have never seen anything like it, either.

    We have various theories in terms of what could have inspired this crocodilian creation. Here are some suggestions:

    A friend sent me this, and I see the resemblance.
    Catorze’s hindquarters could make a fine hat one day. A very small one, obviously. (Sent by another friend.)
    The branch of a monkey puzzle tree. Quite apt as Catorze is both a monkey and a puzzle.
    Caterpillar segments, anyone?
    A snazzy, snaky bangle, perhaps?
    Maybe he’s more haute couture than we realise?

    Are there any other Catorzian tailalikes out there? Please let me know, if so.