According to the creepy old magpie rhyme, seven indicates “a secret never to be told”. In this case, it’s not much of a secret: Louis Catorze is on the other side of the fence, winding them up, and they’re all cackling at him. If you zoom in, you can even see the bottom right one with its beak open, mid-caw:
Seven against one doesn’t seem like a fair fight.
Cat Daddy was so concerned that he actually went to look over the fence to check that his boy was all right. Not only was he perfectly fine, but he didn’t even appear to care about the apocalypse unfolding around him. The skies were darkening, the avian army was gathering, and all the while Sa Maj was happily slow-blinking away in the Zone Libre, enjoying the last few remaining rays of sun.
The same kitty sixth sense which informs him of when I am about to give him medication, somehow failed to alert him to this. In fact, WE were alerted long before Catorze was. I don’t think I will ever understand this.
Worse yet, I have just discovered that the French version of the creepy magpie rhyme says “Sept pies: enterrement”, which isn’t especially reassuring.
I really don’t want any trouble … yet I fear that is exactly what I will get.
In June we discovered that Louis Catorze was at his lowest weight ever, and we had no idea why since he was eating and drinking fine and his test results were normal. His royal physician instructed us to, erm, feed him unlimited amounts of the most expensive food on the planet and bring him back in a month for a second weigh-in.
If you have ever had to take an animal to the vet, you will know what a cirque de merde it is. I don’t just mean getting them there; I also mean the awkwardness of the few hours prior, when you are having to Act Normal. Acting Normal when things are not is like trying to sleep when you can’t, or walking with a broken leg: the more desperately you want it to work, and the more effort you put into it, the worse the problem becomes.
Eventually Cat Daddy managed to trap Le Roi with a fake Boys’ Club meeting and, whilst the two of them were snuggling, I tiptoed off to fetch the transportation pod. I also took his vial of Broadline to the appointment, because the little sod had been dodging me for days and I hadn’t been able to de-flea him.
The consultation didn’t take long and was relatively trouble-free, apart from a little whining. And it turned out that Catorze has gained … 50 grams.
I know. Non-Brits, this is probably the weight of about three lip balms.
It’s not much, but at least he isn’t in a worrying cycle of inexplicable weight loss. And it seems that either the Post-Vet Sulk is now a thing of the past or he is so thick that he forgot where we’d just been, because he was back to his usual pitter-pattery, screamy self as soon as we arrived home.
Let’s hope that continued helpings of Orijen will get the little sod back to normal. Whatever “normal” may be.
It’s no secret that cats somehow know when we are about to take them to the vet and, if they are outdoor cats, they disappear on the morning of the appointment. Even Louis Catorze knows that all he has to do is slip through the hole in the fence separating the Zone Occupée from the Zone Libre, and there is nothing we can do about it.
When Donnie was booked in for his neutering, I advised his mamma to lock him in the night before; in fact, I would have bet my entire house and savings on him doing a runner that morning. What I didn’t expect, however, was for him to absent himself that morning, the day before AND the day before that.
The cheeky little sod eventually showed his face the day after his appointment, having been AWOL for almost four days. His mamma then locked him in and kept him in until the deed was done.
Here he is (pictured in his own house, for once) the day after the fruit harvest, under house arrest and feeling very sorry for himself. If only there were some way of communicating to him that it’s all for his own good.
Today is Cat Daddy’s birthday, and it’s his last one as the oldest of the household. Because twelve cat years are equivalent to sixty-four human years, next year Louis Catorze is set to take over as Le Doyen du Château, which is both strange and incredibly funny.
Cat Daddy is the man who has everything (except patience for troublemaking black cats), so it’s hard to know what to give him. However, one of my fabulous fellow bloggers happened to point me in the direction of a U.K. website that sells juneberry – aka Saskatoon berry – produce: https://www.juneberries.co.uk
If you have never heard of Saskatoon berries, you’re not alone. I only found out about them when they featured on the ingredients list of Catorze’s Orijen Six Fish. Since my discovery that they are real and not some made-up fairyland fruit, there has been quite some talk about them on WordPress, with another excellent blogger posting this article about them:
As nobody has complained more than Cat Daddy about Catorze’s expensive food choice, I think it very fitting that his birthday gift should be a bottle of Saskatoon berry gin liqueur. Every time he takes a sip, he will be reminded of just how fancy and exacting his boy’s tastes are.
Cat Daddy, when I explained the thought behind the gift: “…”
Below is a special royal birthday cocktail that I created for Sa Maj Cat Daddy, which I’m thinking of calling Chat Gâté but other suggestions would be welcomed. It consists of one part Saskatoon berry gin liqueur to four-ish parts Crémant, with a sprig of (I think) lime mint. And, yes, I did make him open the bottle early just so that I could take a photo for Le Blog.
I think it’s hilarious to tell people that Cat Daddy’s drink is made from an ingredient found in cat food. Yes, I know that there is some vital context missing. But it’s funnier that way.
Cat Daddy drew the line at having cat mint as a garnish.
I have settled into a rather pleasant summer holiday routine, as follows:
1. Wake up when I want.
2. Bid good morning to Louis Catorze who, more often than not, is lying at my feet.
3. Make a pot of green tea.
4. Fashion a Trojan Horse amuse-bouche consisting of tuna rillettes surrounding a steroid pill, and watch with pure joy as greedy Catorze gobbles it up.
5. Watch horror movies or read books with the little sod on my lap until Cat Daddy wakes up.
Regretfully, Reflets de France tuna rillettes contain three huge baddies: wheat, sugar and butter. I know. However, anyone who has ever tried to Greco a writhing, yowling, hostile shite of a cat will understand. We would happily feed the little sods molten lava and strychnine if it meant they would just eat the pill and not give us any grief.
What’s more, getting one over on Catorze and having him think I’m giving him a treat when, in fact, it’s a pill, brightens my day more than I ever thought possible. Every time he eats one, an angel gets his wings.
Bon appétit, mon Roi.
Maybe I’ll wrap the next pill in grass, for a Cornish Yarg effect.
It’s a Hallowe’en miracle! (Yes, I know that it’s July, and only JUST July, at that. But it’s never too early to dream of Hallowe’en.)
Just as I thought that our one and only pumpkin plant had been suffocated by Cat Daddy’s murderous potato plants, it turns out that IT LIVES. You can just about see its orangey-yellow, pointy-petalled flower peeking out from behind that big leaf (below). It could be that, far from smothering the life out of it, the potato plants have actually protected it from the likes of the squirrels and Foxy Loxy and, with any luck, they will continue to keep it safe from harm until it’s ready to harvest in October.
Perhaps this is a good omen. After many attempts over the years at Louis Catorze’s Official Hallowe’en Portraits, which have almost all been dismal failures, maybe this is an indication that, this year, it will go according to plan?
I am excited beyond measure at the thought of little sod posing alongside a home-grown pumpkin. However, I hope he will adopt a prettier facial expression than this one:
Regretfully, this year my usual arsenal of weapons doesn’t seem to have made much of a dent in my hay fever, despite me preparing myself early. The start of the season was delayed, but I feel that it was the same for everyone. And it is now in full swing.
If you suffer from hay fever and have outdoor cats, it may help to wipe them down. The best way of doing this is with a damp towel, but Louis Catorze isn’t a fan of this. So, instead, a good old brush every evening gets rid of cruddy, gross fur and means that he scatters much less pollen onto our furniture and bedding. Brushing regularly also has the added benefit of improving the soreness around his eyes (we have no idea how, but it does).
Cat Daddy thinks that keeping Catorze off our beds would be much more effective, and he probably has a point, but I would rather know where Catorze is at night than wonder if he’s scrapping with Donnie, goading foxes, harassing neighbours or, most likely. doing a bit of each.
Here is Sa Maj, about to be brushed by Cat Daddy. Unlike his previous grooming devices, including the FURminator, he absolutely loves this brush, which Oscar the dog gave him for his 10th birthday. Because he has the short-term memory of a swatted gnat and doesn’t remember what the brush is for, he runs when he sees it coming … but, once the brushing starts, he flops onto his back and purrs like a revving motorbike.
I had my second vaccine a couple of days ago and have been hovering between life and death ever since. (Cat Daddy’s Helpful Comment of the Day: “Just think positive.”) Although the unpleasantness is less severe than that of my first vaccine, it is certainly longer-lasting. Louis Catorze’s response has been to mostly ignore me during the day but to be an utter pest at night, leaping all over me, screaming and whining. In fact, he is probably why the pain is so enduring, but that’s just what he does.
The disappointment continues: a week after tapering him off his pills, he was scratching again and the skin around his eyes started to swell and split. I cannot express how disheartening this is, given that the summer used to be his time of peak health. The one small positive in this situation is that, as ever, his mood is unaffected.
Having been through this many times, we know to deploy the pills as soon as we see the first signs. However, Catorze used to eat Pill Pockets with no problem, and now he doesn’t. We imagine that this is because he loves Orijen so much that he can no longer be bothered with the second best thing on his plate – and, to be fair, I understand where he’s coming from. Who wants moderately acceptable food when they can have great food?
So now we have had to resume our quest for a Trojan Horse-style pill conduit. This is our progress to date:
⁃ Jambon de Bayonne: has a very short shelf life and Catorze won’t eat it if it’s been frozen and thawed, so we are paying £3.99 per 70g for something of which he will only eat 10g
⁃ Organic aged Comté: can sometimes work if room temperature, but is rejected if straight from the fridge
⁃ Every other food known to humankind and catkind: rejected
I have had a few lucky strikes with the one weapon left in my arsenal – Reflets de France tuna rillettes – but, knowing Catorze, the moment that this goes live, he will have changed his mind about that, too.
Meanwhile, we are considering reverting back to the less-troublesome steroid injections. We are also slowly coming to terms with the fact that the little sod may have reached the point where he needs medication for life.
We can’t say they didn’t warn us.
Bit rough around the edges but still loving himself.
My school holidays are here. (Yes, U.K. teachers, I break up much earlier than the rest of you.)
My holiday time so far has consisted of the following:
1. Writing a list of the books I want to read this summer.
2. Writing a list of the cocktails I want to make, and spending inordinate amounts of money on random, niche ingredients that I will most likely use just one time, for one drink. (Mezcal, anyone? A bit of Fernet-Branca?)
3. Watching football.
4. Reading the comments on Matt Hancock’s Instagram and laughing so much that I almost need to be sedated. (If you have not done this, please try it even if only for a few minutes. It will brighten your day more than you ever thought possible.)
So, in all, I have been pretty productive, even if I do say so myself.
In other news, we know that the Omega 3 oil wasn’t supposed to have so many Parties. However, we have hit upon a huge deal-breaker of a stumbling block: the supplements make Louis Catorze stink like a rotting corpse.
It’s very unfortunate because his dandruff is hugely improved, and we are sure that further use would have continued to show positive results. But, given the choice, I’m pretty sure most people would choose a cat who didn’t stink like a rotting corpse over one who did.
Honestly, it’s not a mild smell that can be disguised by room spray, scented candles or suchlike, not that we use any of that kind of thing anymore on account of our sensitive mutual friend. It’s a truly gut-wrenching stench, just awful.
Cat Daddy’s Helpful Comment of the Day: “I’d actually rather have the dandruff.” (Regretfully, I am inclined to agree.)
Anyway, the vet has never heard of this side effect before – the fact that it’s only ever happened to Catorze will, of course, surprise nobody – but she has suggested some other brands to try, and I am hoping that one of them will make him smell better. They certainly can’t make him smell any worse.
When you don’t need to set an alarm, because the smell wakes you.
Louis Catorze is strutting around Le Château with some swagger. He’s alert, happy and in fine voice. (Non-Brits, “in fine voice” is just an expression. There is nothing fine about his voice.)
He also appears to be gaining weight. And so he should, given that we are feeding him unlimited quantities of a food that is better than anything we’ve ever eaten ourselves and more expensive than gold and crystal meth combined.
Since he loves his food, as opposed to just liking it, feeding him is a completely different experience and is probably starting to resemble what life would be like with a normal cat. Previously, I would serve his food and he would keep his distance as the pellets hit his bowl. Then he would wander over, sniff it, eat a couple of pellets and walk away, saving the rest for later.
This is the experience at present:
⁃ Waking me at a ridiculous time of the morning
⁃ Circling my feet like a hungry shark as I open the Orijen packet
⁃ Screaming
⁃ Rearing up on his hind legs and putting his front paws on my legs as I pour the food into his bowl
⁃ More screaming
⁃ Leaping onto his food the minute I step away, and even sometimes clearing his plate in one sitting
⁃ More screaming and creepy staring at various intervals throughout the day, to request more food
⁃ Late-night screaming at Cat Daddy for more food
The last of the above is so severe that I can hear it from upstairs, and I am starting to wonder whether Catorze deliberately waits until late as Cat Daddy’s portion-measuring is, erm, less accurate after a few wines.
I am just grateful that he’s eating SOMETHING. Cat Daddy, however, is still not over the fact that the little sod chose the most expensive food there is, and the fact he is shovelling it down at such a rate just adds insult to injury.
Here is Le Roi, not really giving a merde about what we think:
If you have been following Le Blog for a while you will be aware that, if Cat Daddy sits down next to us, Louis Catorze climbs off my lap and onto his. Usually he does this in under ten seconds (and Cat Daddy has timed him).
Yesterday I’d had him on my lap for a good hour or so and, when Cat Daddy sat down with us, he said, “You know what’s going to happen now, don’t you?”
Me: “Yes but, to be honest, I could do with him getting up and leaving because I want to go and get a glass of water.”
And, as soon as those words were out of my mouth, that was it. Catorze wasn’t moving.
Twenty minutes later:
Me: “I can see his ears twitching. He’s preparing to move.”
Catorze didn’t move.
Forty minutes later:
Me: “I can feel his paws twitching. He’s preparing to move.”
Catorze didn’t move.
An hour later:
Me: “I’m actually really thirsty now.”
Cat Daddy: “You can’t chuck him off! He’ll be upset!”
Me: “…”
Should they find my body in months to come, dehydrated and lifeless on the sofa, you’ll know what happened. And, most likely, Catorze will still be on my lap, mainly to make sure that I’m really dead.
It’s the summer solstice. Usually, by this time of the year, we are not even close to hitting the heady heights of 28+ degrees – that tends to come in July/August – but this month has been a hot one.
However, the one good thing about it all is that cat mischief is inversely proportional to soaring temperatures; it’s simply too hot for cats to misbehave. And we imagine that Donnie has been feeling it, too, since he hasn’t been round in a while. Apart from, erm, last night, when he showed up and started a yowling match with Louis Catorze in front of our horrified dinner guests. And that time when a neighbour whom I don’t even know had to break up a fight between the pair of them. Oh, and that other time when I was awoken by that awful cat fight sound, and I looked outside to see their unmistakable forms on the fence. (Yes, it was definitely them. I know their silhouettes like I know my own name.)
Sa Maj has been flopping languidly around Le Château and Le Jardin, spending inordinate amounts of time at his Rodent Duty station (the gap by the fence separating us from the Zone Libre). He was outside with Cat Daddy the other day, happily pitter-pattering around, when the birds in the Zone Libre started screeching.
Now, we all know full well that, when birds screech in unison, it’s never good. Anyone with any brains would run in the opposite direction. So, naturellement, Catorze decided to run into the Zone Libre to investigate.
It was Foxy Loxy.
Cat Daddy was powerless to help on the other side of the fence, and all he could do was stare (and curse the fact that he didn’t have his phone to take a picture). Then, unbelievably, Foxy Loxy took one look at Catorze … and fled.
This is not the first time we have seen this; in fact, Cat Daddy has seen THREE foxes run away from Catorze. Obviously it’s no bad thing that a predator who could finish the little sod in an instant would choose, instead, to retreat. But we are puzzled and terrified that the birds’ screeching, something we thought to be a universal sign of abject peril – yes, known even to a dimwit like Le Roi, surely? – would send him running TOWARDS it.
Is there anything we can do about this? There must be some kind of training or lessons, like teaching kids the Green Cross Code? (Younger followers: ask your grandparents.)
“I hear danger! I must interfere for absolument no raison whatsoever!”
It’s official: Louis Catorze is no longer on the steroid pills. And thank goodness for that because, after I came home from hospital, he decided to be extra difficult about eating his Pill Pockets, meaning that every pill has had to be a Greco job. This was how I found his Pill Pocket yesterday, on the floor next to his empty bowl:
For goodness’ sake.
He has upped his Greco game, too, having learned (from where?) to do a fake-swallow, spitting out the pill when he’s released. Cat Daddy, incidentally, refuses to Greco, using this defence: “But he loves me! It should be you because he doesn’t like you as much.”
Luckily it’s all over and the little sod is on nothing but Orijen and beauty oil, which makes life much easier.
Orijen claims that their food “mimicks the diet your cat’s ancestors would have hunted and eaten in the wild”. Although there is no doubt that their ingredients read like the tasting menu of a Michelin-starred restaurant, I find it doubtful that most cats would have been able to source them of their own accord. Venison: nope. Wild boar: nope. Bison: HELL, nope.
SASKATOON berries?
Catorze is very much a fish gentleman and his food is called “Orijen Six Fish”. I imagine hell would freeze over long before he successfully caught even one fish, let alone six. I chatted a few months ago with one of Catorze’s lovely blog followers about the size of tuna, and the smallest species is twice his size at 7kg, with the largest weighing in at up to 250kg (!). So the more likely scenario would be him falling into the water and the fish grabbing him in its jaws, then promptly spitting him out again after realising that he wasn’t a worthwhile snack (being only just bigger than krill and nowhere near as nutritious).
A true ancestral diet would, surely, have been small birds and rodents, although the idea of buying them freeze-dried in foil somehow doesn’t appeal. I think what’s REALLY going on here is that the good folk at Orijen are just like us, i.e. complete suckers who want the little sods to have the best of everything. And they’ve made up all the stuff about ancestors to shut up those who accuse them of spoiling their pets. “But Alaskan cod, garnished with Saskatoon berries, is what cats have always eaten, ever since the dawn of time!”
Here is Catorze, with his eyes locked on the green parakeets. His chances of catching one are zéro, and the parakeets know this.
Dreaming of confit de perruche aux baies de Saskatoon …
When Louis Catorze stopped eating his fish oil vol-au-vents, I tried smearing the oil onto his fur to see if he would groom it off. When it worked a treat, I decided to adopt this method permanently, using a teaspoon as an applicator as my finger was too melty and my lip balm pot was just too weird.
My morning routine now includes squeezing the contents* of a capsule onto the back of a teaspoon, taking said teaspoon into the living room with me with my morning cup of tea and waiting for the little sod to join me. When he does, I pounce.
*I do the whole lot every other day rather than half every day, which saves me from having to reserve a sticky, smelly, half-squeezed capsule. I choose the odd-numbered days because Le Roi is odd.
Now, Catorze wouldn’t be Catorze if he didn’t do something strange and off-the-wall in response to this. The first time I did it he was fine but the second time, unbelievably, he didn’t know where the smell was coming from. His sense of smell is supposed to be 972 times better than mine, and yet I could detect this foul substance from across the room but he had no idea it was ON HIS OWN ARM.
Catorze sniffed the coffee table, the window shutters and the lamp.
Me: “It’s on you!”
Catorze sniffed the carpet, the sofa and his igloo.
Me: “C’EST SUR TOI!”
It was quite some time before the penny dropped and he finally started to groom himself. Naturellement by this point he had done a few circuits of the whole room trying to find the source of the smell, with me nervously following him with kitchen towel and anti-bacterial spray (which I suspect are powerless against oil but I didn’t know what else to do) and desperately praying for him not to rub against anything porous.
The same company who makes the Omega 3 also makes a brain supplement. I don’t suppose we’ll be needing that.
