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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 nouveau mode de vie (Partie 8) 

    Although I am very lucky to be able to go to such beautiful places on holiday, I really enjoy being back home. 

    One thing I am not enjoying, however, is having to administer Louis Catorze’s thyroid medication. Two weeks away from it has made me forget just how non-fun it is. 

    That said, it’s interesting (well, not “interesting” by most people’s standards, just for those of us who have to administer meds to bastard cats) how our methods evolve, and how we adapt to make a really shit process perhaps 0.01% less shit. 

    I do the morning application by myself, before I go to work. This involves applying a drop of medication to the finger of a glove, then Acting Normal until I am able to pounce on the little sod. Very often, I just pick up the glove and wipe the gel onto his ear. I don’t bother to put the glove fully on as it would be utterly impossible to do this with one hand, whilst restraining a screaming, writhing bastard cat in the other. 

    However, the evening session is a two-man job; Cat Daddy holds Catorze and has what he calls “one of their man-to-man chats”, and that buys me some time to actually put on the glove and do it properly.  

    The most recent chat went something like this: 

    Cat Daddy: “Louis-boy! Your fur is feeling nice and soft, isn’t it? Have you been out in the rain? Are you enjoying the summer? Lots of birds and bugs to see out there.”

    Catorze, hanging limply in his papa’s arms and listening intently: “Mwah.” 

    Sometimes, if I’m taking too long to fetch all the medication paraphernalia, Cat Daddy will tell me to hurry up, but he says it in his Cat Daddy voice to avoid alerting Catorze. 

    Between us, with Cat Daddy providing the diversion and me doing the actual deed, we get the job done. 

    I know that there are people out there who have to deal with worse. But I still hate this. 

    Bastard cat.

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • La malédiction du chupacatbra

    Have you heard that saying: “You’re only ever one mouse click away from cats and their bullshittery”?

    Meet Pumpkin: 

    Yes, she’s quite comfortable, merci for asking.

    In a truly exploitative fashion that only a cat could get away with, Pumpkin conned her way into someone’s house (including a break-and-enter through an upper floor window at 3am, scaring the merde out of the resident) and refused to leave. Unfortunately the bloke who hosted her wasn’t able to keep her due to family members being allergic to cats so, after being scanned and confirmed chipless, Pumpkin moved in permanently with Antoine (Louis Catorze’s frère-from-another-mère) and Boots (Antoine’s usurper stepbrother). 

    Pumpkin had only been in her new abode for a few hours when she disappeared. Her mamma found no trace of her, although she did find … an open bathroom window. Nobody had actually seen Pumpkin leave but, having searched the house, the humans came to the most logical conclusion: that the little sod had done a runner. 

    Where on earth does one start when looking for a cat who isn’t yet chipped (the vet appointment had been booked for three days later), and who knows neither her house nor her own name? 

    That evening, both Pumpkin’s mamma and I looked at maps and messaged one another about where she could have gone, and how easy it might be for anyone to find her. The surrounding area included a cemetery, which wouldn’t have been the most fun place to trawl at night, not even with the hilarity of shaking a bag of Dreamies and pointlessly calling out, “Pumpkin!”

    One of the traditional strategies in this sort of situation is to place the humans’ dirty clothes in areas surrounding the house, in the hope that the smell of home might lure back the absconded kitty, but of course Pumpkin hadn’t been in her house for long enough to know that smell. My single, desperate idea, if she still hadn’t been found the next day, was to ask Cat-Hosting Bloke to give us some of his worn clothes – ridiculous, I know, since Pumpkin hadn’t been in his house for long, either – but it was all we had. 

    The following morning, Pumpkin’s mamma found a trail of cat food pouches strewn across the house, each punctured, with the contents drained. This isn’t Antoine’s style, and Boots, whilst food-orientated, is far too lazy to bother with this kind of caper, so the resident cats were swiftly ruled out. Either there was some sort of chupacabra at large … or Pumpkin was still in the house. 

    The little sod was finally found under the coffee table. And thank goodness for that, because I was ready to drive to the home of Cat-Hosting Bloke, bang on the door and shout, “Hey, you don’t know me, but I need you to take off your clothes and give them to me.”

    Anyway, the moral of this story is that, unless you see the cat escaping, you should assume them to still be on the premises, and keep all perimeters closely guarded. The naughty miscreant is now under room arrest and won’t be going anywhere for the foreseeable future, apart from to attend that vet appointment which didn’t quite go as planned; Madame refused to be chipped and vaccinated despite four veterinary staff members’ best efforts.

    How will the balance of power shift with Pumpkin’s arrival? Will Alpha Male Boots retain the crown, or will he be toppled by the young upstart?

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • Le bon accueil est le meilleur plat

    How would you describe yourself to someone?

    Louis Catorze would probably describe himself as a very fine cat indeed. However, we know that this is a lie. 

    It’s 17:05 on Sunday, and Cat Daddy and I returned home from our holiday almost an hour ago. 

    Louis Catorze was in his favourite place, atop the back of the outdoor sofa, when we arrived. He watched us through the patio doors as we unloaded our stuff, emitting the odd meow. Then, once we were all unpacked, the little sod decided to bugger off somewhere else.

    We discovered that he had settled into the corner of the sofa, out of sight.

    Just to clarify: he knew that we were home. He even made eye contact with each of us, on several occasions. But he made the conscious choice not to come and greet us. 

    At about 17:15, Cat Daddy opened the patio doors for some air (very reluctantly, because he didn’t want this to be interpreted as a sign of weakness). No reaction from Catorze. 

    I don’t know why I expected a cat who truly couldn’t give even the square root of a shit, to greet us like a loving, loyal dog. 

    We shall continue to sit here until someone blinks first. 

    Thank you to our lovely chat-sitter for looking after him. He obviously had such a lovely time with her that he couldn’t care less about us.

    Updates:

    17:30 – still not in. 

    18:00 – still not in. 

    18:15 – Cat Daddy really wants to go outside and see how his tomato plants are doing, but “doesn’t want to look like he’s giving in”. So he doesn’t. 

    18:33 – FINALLY! 

    Catorze feels so small compared to the distillery cats. Probably because he is.

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • Trop de bon whisky est à peine suffisant

    What’s the story behind your nickname?

    Anyone with the name “Butthole” surely has some explaining to do? Even more so, if this were a real name and not a nickname?

    Now, please hear me out.

    Cat Daddy and I are lucky enough to have a whisky distillery just a few minutes’ walk from our holiday let, so we stopped by on Wednesday. Unfortunately there was nobody around, but we were greeted by their very friendly front-of-house manager: 

    “Hello. Do you have an appointment?”

    This was a most unusual-looking cat, with a tuxedo front half, tabby shadows on his body, and a tail locked in an anti-clockwise spiral position. That tail didn’t budge at all, nor did the cat utter a sound, except for purring when we stroked him. 

    His tabby markings are very clear here.

    A silent cat, to us, is like an alien being, and we don’t quite know what to do with ourselves when confronted with such a thing. Perhaps, when they were handing out vocal volume and tail straightness, God mistakenly omitted this one and gave Louis Catorze double helpings? That said, it’s highly unlikely that Catorze would accept anything God had to offer; he would probably be barging his way to the front of Satan’s queue instead. 

    Yes, Cat Daddy really did say, “It’s just a cat.” In the past these words have had a 0% success rate in making me stop filming.

    We returned to the distillery yesterday, hoping to see the cat again. This time, we were greeted by both him (emitting one or two squeaks) AND his much more vocal sister.

    Well, hello.

    Both came to live here as kittens, because the distillery owner wanted to control the rodent population without using horrible rat poison which contaminates the surroundings. The cats are super-friendly and love cuddles, but the owner told us, very emphatically, that they are WORKERS. He looked genuinely perplexed when we told him that our cat just lies around the place doing bugger all. 

    The tabby girl is called Tiger, on account of her lovely stripes. And, as you probably guessed at the start of this post, her almost-tuxedo brother is called, erm, Butthole, because of the way in which his weird tail curves around and accentuates his rear end. Curiously, on our second visit, his tail was initially normal but, when he saw us coming, he curled it. Apparently he is perfectly able to hold his tail normally. He just doesn’t want to. 

    If you are passing through the Isle of Lewis (not the most conveniently-placed thoroughfare, but anyway), please stop by at the Abhainn Dearg distillery, buy some of their incredible whisky and say hello to Tiger and Butthole.

    Cat Daddy: “This is what it’s like taking pictures of photogenic cats.”
    Buy a bottle, get a free cat. (Wishful thinking on our part.)

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • Orange est le nouveau noir

    I usually go to bed early and wake up early, whereas Cat Daddy is late to bed and late to rise. And, during our holiday, we have kept to these patterns; I am the lark and he is the nightingale, with our respective time zones about three hours apart. 

    When Cat Daddy was having his evening cocktail* a couple of nights ago, he noticed that an outdoor light was on. He didn’t recall switching it on himself. I imagine that he thought it was me, and cursed me for my inattention (although he won’t admit this). 

    *This is Cat Daddy’s cocktail of choice at the moment.

    He went through the whole cottage flipping every switch, yet none of them were the magical one that turned off this outside light. Eventually he went into the garden to see if, perhaps, there might be a switch somewhere outside, and he was greeted by this sight: 

    What the absolute WHAT?

    Oui, Mesdames et Messieurs: this cheeky sod had triggered the motion-activated security lighting. 

    What the flippin’ heck would a cat be doing here? There are a few farms dotted around, but he looks far too well-kept to be a farm cat. (Mind you, Louis Catorze doesn’t lift a finger around Le Château and is indulged to the point of ridiculousness, yet you all know what he looks like. So appearances don’t really mean shit.) 

    We are miles away from anywhere. Yet not, it seems, too far away to be given the runaround by a bastard cat.

    “Bon travail, mon pote.” The Elder Statesman of Bastard Cats approves of this foolishness.

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • La meilleure marchandise 

    After a dog interlude and a seagull interlude, it’s time for Le Blog to return to cats. But not Louis Catorze – at least, not just yet. This time it’s Mittens, a famous Stornoway cat who, sadly, is no longer with us, but she remains very firmly rooted in local residents’ hearts and minds.

    Taking a break from about-town gadding. (Picture from Mittens’ Facebook page.)
    In her happy place. (Picture by Ann Baird, from Mittens’ Facebook page.)

    Mittens was known for gadding about in all sorts of places, just for fun, but the Co-op in Stornoway was her favourite hang-out. Well, it’s a splendid supermarket, so why not?

    Mittens’ manor covered quite an extensive area, according to her tracker. (Picture from Mittens’ Facebook page.)

    When she passed away in 2022, the store displayed a wall plaque as a tribute to her, alongside a donation trolley where customers can give cat items in her honour. Most cats have such a high opinion of themselves that they would expect nothing short of an annual national holiday with open-top bus parade upon their passing, but ongoing charity towards less fortunate kitties is rather nice, too. 

    Awww.

    I asked Cat Daddy whether we could organise a similar tribute to Louis Catorze, in Brentford’s Lidl, when the little sod leaves us, but he said it wouldn’t be the same because Catorze has never actually been to Lidl. My first thought was to take him there and just let him roam free, but now I realise that Lidl shoppers don’t deserve this. In fact, no shopper does. Encountering a beautiful cat like Mittens whilst buying your weekly groceries would be a pleasant shopping experience. Having male shoppers chased down and screamed at by a small, weathered-looking black vampire beast, not so much. After all, a man’s gotta buy his bananas and his scuba diving gear in peace. 

    Meanwhile in TW8, Catorze is on his best behaviour, although the chat-sitteur’s social media feed is reminding her not to get too comfortable:

    Looks nothing like h- … never mind.

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • La nostalgie de l’ange

    The Outer Hebrides really are just like heaven. In fact, if, indeed, heaven exists, rather than clouds and pearly gates and angels playing harps, we imagine it to be the same as one’s regular life but without the shit bits, just like in that book The Lovely Bones.

    If we were in heaven we would live here, go for walks, visit the local shop a couple of times a week, buy what we needed, then come back, cook, eat, read books and make whisky cocktails. And we’d just keep doing those things forever.

    The only thing missing, of course, is a cat. I cannot imagine heaven without a cat. 

    In the absence of Louis Catorze, just as when we went to the north coast of mainland Scotland, Cat Daddy has adopted a pair of gulls, whom he has named Fred and Ginger. We made the mistake of giving them some food, and now they won’t leave us alone; we have to keep presenting offerings to appease the winged gods and, when we do, Fred usually swoops before I’ve even gone back indoors, having been spying on us from some unknown location. Then he does his terrifying velociraptor call to inform Ginger of the dinner situation. 

    Ginger is less pushy, but Fred has no shame. When it’s time to eat, he sits outside our cottage, screeching. He was even waiting for us when we returned from one of our beach walk the other day: 

    Bastard bird.

    So, whilst we don’t have a cat in our little slice of heaven, we aren’t short of animals who scream for food, then bully and intimidate us when we aren’t quick enough in dishing it up. It’s almost as if we never left home.

    Meanwhile, back in TW8, this is what Catorze is up to. And this is why he’s going straight to hell: 

    Yes, that’s the chat-sitteur’s water. No, Le Roi doesn’t care.

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • Le plus petit félin est un chef d’œuvre (Partie 2)

    Rodan and Mothra have a new cat bed. That is all. 

    Intriguing and mysterious … and the painting is all right, too.
    Where’s that enigmatic smile, Mothy?

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • Rejoic’d they were na men, but dogs

    Dogs or cats?

    If you have ever so much as glanced at one of my blog posts, you will know the answer to this.

    Cats. Especially small, black, fanged ones.

    However, since we are holidaying in a place where everyone is obsessed with dogs, I am giving the canine contingent a shout-out, just this once. From tomorrow, I’ll be back on the Dark Side, where I belong.

    We have seen more dogs than we ever thought possible. In fact, we’re now wondering whether the ferry was actually some sort of canine ark, because we saw each of the following (and there were probably more besides) during our crossing from mainland Scotland:

    • Dachshunds 
    • Those brown and white spaniels (the same kind as Simba, the fire investigation dog) 
    • Black Labradors
    • Tan-coloured Labradors  
    • Husky-type dogs 
    • Hush Puppy dogs 
    • Those ones that look like Frankenweenie  

    Every time we find ourselves in such a Dog Situation, we wonder whether it would work if cats were involved instead. Usually, it’s a no.

    Dog people: is it normal for that many dogs to share the same (limited) space and BEHAVE? Nobody barked or started a fight. Nobody, erm, bathroomed inappropriately. Everyone just minded their own business, in a way that most cats absolutely would not. 

    And, if you think that cats couldn’t possibly cause much bother on a ferry because they’d be encased in their transportation pods, trust me, this doesn’t stop them. Ask anyone who has ever been in a vet’s waiting room with Louis Catorze.

    On Tuesday, Cat Daddy and I had front row seats at the local sheepdog trials. Now, these are clever doggies. Each had learned, and was able to respond to, a series of whistles (different for each dog), and the trials involved running to the next field to collect their sheep, bringing them over, then herding them to through three gates and into a central enclosure. Apart from one participant, who steered the sheep through the barrier and into the crowd without completing the course, and a second, who ignored his human’s instructions and did his own thing, scattering sheep in all directions, all did a good job. However, there was one standout dog who didn’t put a paw wrong, who probably went on to win.

    Could a cat have done this job? Probably not. In fact, we’re not even convinced that many other dogs could; after all, there must be a reason why those taking part were all black and white Border Collie types (although watching a dachshund trying it would be pretty funny). 

    Human: “Lie down! LIE DOWN!”
    Dog: “Whatever.”

    Our favourite holiday dog is probably so because of his cat-like ways: keen to be in the centre of it all, yet not trying too hard. Here is Mac the West Highland White terrier, CEO of the pub where we had dinner on Friday night, relaxing on the bar (yes, actually ON TOP OF the bar):

    King of the pub.

    We’ve only been here for six days, yet it feels as if we’ve met every dog in Scotland. There can’t be many more out there? 

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • Un renard est un loup qui envoie des fleurs 

    What bothers you and why?

    Cat Daddy and I are holidaying in the Outer Hebrides, and Louis Catorze is someone else’s problem now in the care of his chat-sitteur. However, despite our distance, it seems we have not been able to wholly escape the little sod. 

    We saw this picture in a restaurant in Stornoway:

    Bastard cat – oh wait, this isn’t actually him.

    And Cat Daddy has remarked that the sound of bleating sheep is strikingly similar to that of the Catorzian scream. 

    He has a point. 

    As for what bothers us – well, being in such a breathtakingly beautiful place means that we have very little to worry about. However, on the morning that we left London, we saw Foxy Loxy hovering around the cat flap and, when he couldn’t get indoors, he strolled off down the path towards the Zone Libre. Catorze was asleep on the outdoor sofa at the time yet, curiously, neither party saw one another. 

    Catorze isn’t usually one for minding his own business, so let’s hope that things remain this respectful/inattentive (we don’t mind which). An all-out turf war, especially in our absence, would be bothersome to the highest degree. 

    The chat-sitteur sent us this. I bet the lazy sod will be in the same position when we go home.

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • Le vrai courage, c’est celui de trois heures du matin

    What time do you go to bed and wake up currently?

    Since it’s Catorzian Summer Time, Louis Catorze sleeps all day and parties all night. Nobody knows exactly what time he goes to bed or wakes up, because our body clocks are so at odds with his. 

    That feather wasn’t there when I went to bed, so goodness knows what bullshittery has been going on throughout the night.

    One night last week, I was woken at 3am because someone’s car alarm was going off. (And, whilst looking out of the window to see if I could see the car, I managed to stick my head through a spider’s web, so I then had a disgruntled spider on my hands and Cat Daddy was most displeased at having to get rid of it.) I went to sleep downstairs in the kitchen for a while, because it was cooler and because it faces away from the road. 

    When I walked into the kitchen I could see Catorze outside on the patio, but he didn’t see me. And it was very interesting to see what sort of things he gets up to when he doesn’t know he’s being watched. 

    It wasn’t a surprise that he was outside; because it’s CST, he spends every waking (and sleeping) minute in the garden or the Zone Libre. What was astonishing, however, was how active he was, especially in the blistering heat.

    As he’s an old boy, I imagined he would be relaxing and watching the world go by. Instead, he was hunting insects and eating them. Even when I settled down to sleep and could no longer see him, I could hear him battering against the glass patio doors as he hurled himself around. The little sod was committed to the cause, I’ll give him that. 

    Then there was the screaming. At the bugs? At another cat? At himself? Who knows?

    Finally, Catorze came indoors for an Orijen break. When he saw me dozing in the kitchen, because it wasn’t an everyday sight to him, the screaming resumed. And it went on. And on. AND ON. 

    Eventually I decided that I’d get more sleep with the car alarm, so I went back upstairs again. But for a few moments I felt pure joy to know that, whilst the world slept (or, rather, half the world, since the car alarm woke the other half), Catorze was having fun.

    He may be a creaking, ancient relic, but he’s certainly making the most of the time that he has left. 

    An old photo of nocturnal shenanigans.

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • Le massage aux pierres très froides (Partie 4) 

    We have had a Code Bleu emergency: Cat Daddy used all the ice for cocktails, leaving none for our holiday chat-sitteur to use on Louis Catorze. Neither Sainsbury’s nor the organic shop had any ice when we looked. 

    However, merci à Dieu for the mighty saviour that is Lidl: 

    And only £1.09, versus £2.25 (I think) from the organic shop!

    (Incidentally, we only buy ice from the organic shop if we happen to be buying other stuff too, to save us from having to schlep to a second shop. We don’t do it because Catorze is so fancy that he can only have organic ice. In fact, can ice even BE organic?)

    The chat-sitteur stopped by to collect keys and for a Château reorientation, not that a great deal had changed since her last visit other than different television remotes, a new coffee machine and a smaller Roi. Naturellement the conversation turned to cats and their exacting, unreasonable nature, and we were astounded to discover that Catorze is actually not her biggest pain in the arse client. (This is mostly because he behaves for chat-sitteurs, to make us look like delusional liars.)

    One client, whose name has been withheld, requires feeding one teaspoonful at a time; any more than that gives him enough opportunity to decide that he no longer likes the food. In his fridge are four open sachets of wet food of different variants, and the chat-sitteur has to alternate between them throughout the visit, knowing that any or all could be jettisoned at a moment’s notice. 

    Another client, who shall also remain anonymous, went missing for the entire duration of the chat-sitteur’s stay. We’re talking posters up in the local area, social media alerts, trawling the streets daily looking for her, the works. The little sod came back eventually but, to this day, nobody knows where she went for TWO WHOLE BLOODY WEEKS. 

    The chat-sitteur revealed that, after reading about Catorze’s ice cube massages, she decided to try them on another of her clients, also a Chat Noir. She then messaged his humans to let them know how positively he had responded. 

    The humans replied that they knew this, having already tried it themselves.

    Oh. Mon. Dieu.

    So it turns out that it’s not just us; there is a whole subculture of feline ice cube massage going on. I don’t know what stopped the Chat Noir’s humans from listing it on their Cat Manual. Perhaps they didn’t realise, before they went away, just how hot it was going to be? Or perhaps, unlike us, they actually care if others think they’re massive freaks? 

    Anyway, the freezer now has plenty of ice, and Cat Daddy and I will be spending the next couple of days packing and getting the house ready. Catorze, however, doesn’t have much to do, other than greet his chat-sitteur politely and not be a shite. 

    I know that he will manage at least one of those very well. 

    That hindquarter arrangement has really confused me.

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • La naissance du reste de nos vies en vacances

    It’s the school holidays! And look at the tote bag that Willow the miniature dachshund’s human brother gave me, as part of his “Merci et au revoir” present: 

    I’ll let him know when I find a cat who cares whether I’m coming home or not.

    Cat Daddy and I are preparing to leave at the end of the week for our annual trip to the Scottish Highlands. So, naturellement, Louis Catorze has chosen now to start limping. 

    It’s not a “thorn stuck in the paw” type of limp. It’s more like a wobbliness in walking, something that’s coming from the knee or the hip. It’s not stopping Catorze from doing any of the things that he wants to do – in fact, on the first day of my holidays he was chasing a moth in the bedroom and woke me at bastard o’clock by bouncing around on the bed, doing the bird-chatter sound – so we will deal with it, if, indeed, it needs to be dealt with, when we return. 

    I have been trying to video the limp, since I would bet Le Château on the little sod pretending to be fine in front of the vet. But, of course, he won’t perform in front of the camera, either. I need to catch him walking away from me to get the best shot, but he won’t do it. As soon as I start recording, he either stops walking, or starts coming TOWARDS me instead. 

    Not a brilliant display, but the best I could get.

    Yesterday I threw a ball of scrunched-up paper down the stairs, hoping that he would waddle away after it, but he hurtled down the stairs so fast that I wasn’t able to start recording in time. Which didn’t particularly help us, but at least it reassured us that it wasn’t a “Vet, now!” emergency. 

    So, walking normally through the house, he places his back feet carefully. But chasing a paper ball down the stairs, he suddenly forgets his ancient, creaky body and is a rambunctious kitten again. I know, that’s Catorzian logic for you. 

    We were very sad upon receiving his blood test results, indicating that he probably has chronic kidney disease. But he neither knows nor cares, as you can see from this picture: 

    Resting his rear on the Waitrose newspaper.

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • Le massage aux pierres très froides (Partie 3)

    Today has been one giant step for feline, and one enormous leap backwards for man (and woman): Cat Daddy and I schlepped all the way to the shop and back again, in the searing heat, to buy ice for Louis Catorze’s ice cube massage.

    It would have added insult to injury had the bag of ice been heavier than Catorze but, luckily, it was only two thirds of his body weight. So that’s a relief. 

    It’s ok, it’s only 2kg. As you were.

    Here he is, pictured just after another session and begging his papa for cold, wet cuddles: 

    Like a drowned rat (except that most rats are bigger).

    What have we started? (And is it a good idea to continue it?) 

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com