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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.

  • 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

  • Les résultats de la prise de sang

    Louis Catorze’s blood test results are in. 

    His thyroid reading is now at a healthy level, which means that his medication is at the right dosage for him. However, his kidney reading is slightly elevated, most likely due to the thyroid medication “unmasking” a previously-hidden kidney condition (that same one that seems to come for all old cats in the end). 

    This isn’t the best news, but it’s perhaps not surprising at his age.

    The vet’s next suggestions were as follows: 

    1. A urine sample to confirm the kidney disease. Given that Catorze doesn’t use a litter tray, and didn’t even use one when he was Côned and under house arrest for months, extracting this from him is not going to be fun. 
    2. A diet of shitty renal food. Well, ok, the vet didn’t use quite these same words to sell it, although she did say that most cats found the food “not very palatable”. Catorze refuses jamón serrano because it’s not as nice as jamón ibérico, and once went on hunger strike for two days because I wouldn’t give him Michelin-starred hot-smoked salmon as his regular food. Is it likely that he will eat Royal Canin renal food, containing 4% meat and 96% scrapings from the factory floor?

    Cat Daddy and I have some thinking to do. Meanwhile, Sa Maj has just had an ice cube massage and is out enjoying the sun, as a Sun King should. 

    I’m saving that piece of ice to do his tail.
    He’s more dinosaur than cat here.

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

  • La gratitude ouvre des portes

    How do you express your gratitude?

    Louis Catorze thinks it’s everyone else who ought to be grateful for knowing him. But merci for asking. 

    He loves himself to the sun and back.

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

  • Le massage aux pierres très froides (Partie 2)

    We have had some searingly hot days recently, and having to go to school through it has been pretty grim.

    However, Louis Catorze is fine, merci for asking, because his ice cube massages have become a regular, daily thing, so much so that we’ve even put it on the House Document for our holiday chat-sitteur. Even Cat Daddy looks at his watch, around late afternoon, and says, “Isn’t it time he had his ice bath?” 

    Catorze can’t get enough of it. When he sees the ice cube coming, just as he does with his brush, he’s a little alarmed but, once he realises what it is, he settles into it, purring and purring. 

    Yes, we do admit that part of us enjoys making Catorze look silly. And, yes, we do mess around with the ice. Sometimes we place two pieces on his head, like horns: 

    Ice devil.

    And, sometimes, we line pieces along his back, like they do in publicity photos for hot stone massage: 

    Catorze is the one on the right.
    (The left picture is from facesspa.com.)

    Once the ice cubes have completely melted away, and he’s covered in a layer of cold water, Catorze pitter-patters off to lie down and dry off. The next day, at the hottest point of the day, we start again. 

    We all know that the little sods are spoiled, but how many of them have their own personal masseurs? (And, if yours don’t, perhaps they should?)

    He loves it.

    *WARNING: if the ice gets stuck to them, leave it to melt off on its own. Trying to pull it off won’t work. Don’t ask us how we know this.

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

  • Qui craint la facture, ne doit pas avoir de chat

    When it’s a Dantean hellfire outside, what could be more fun than dragging a scowling animal, in the car, to a place that he really hates? 

    Cat Daddy and I had hoped to delay this vet visit until just before our holiday, but Louis Catorze has been uncomfortably scratchy, to the point of breaking the skin around his eyes and ears. It’s not visible in the photo below but, trust me, in the right light it looks awful.  

    Catorze was chillingly and unusually silent on the car journey there, but let loose in the waiting room, where there was enough of an audience to make it worthwhile: us, two receptionists, plus a couple whose two trembling white cats were so tightly entwined in their transportation pod that we initially thought it was just one cat. Every so often, one of the white cats would unwind themselves, look out to see what the noise was all about, then return to the comfort of snuggling their sibling. I can’t imagine what Catorze was saying, but I imagine he was like one of those evangelical Armageddon people whom everyone tries to avoid – you know, the ones who stand in the street and shout, “The world is doomed! We’re all gonna DIE!” 

    Catorze is now down to 2.87kg, which is no surprise on account of the fact that it’s CST*; he’s been doing intermittent fasting for a while now, with his eating window being between 9pm and 1am. However, it seems that he was due another blood test three weeks after starting his thyroid medication, to determine whether the dose was right for him, and we didn’t do it. The vet may well have told me that it was required, but I forgot. Oh dear. 

    *Catorzian Summer Time.

    I asked if he could have the blood test there and then, and warned the vet that it may have to be a two-person job. She replied that the vet nurse was available to help her, adding, “But then Louis is usually pretty good when he comes in, isn’t he?”

    Cat Daddy: “…”

    Me: “…” (Although it was tempting to respond with, “That must’ve been some other black cat”.)

    Whilst they did the test, we sat in the waiting room. The couple that we’d met upon arrival came out from their consultation, the white cats having separated in their transportation pod so we could easily see that there were two of them. Clearly all cats have A Thing that they do when they realise that the torment is over. (Catorze’s Thing is just shutting the hell up.)

    Catorze was returned to us after a few minutes, with the vet reporting that he didn’t bite or scratch during the blood test but was “very wriggly, quite the contortionist”. And, when they asked us to hand over the eye-watering sum of £452.39 (not a typo), I let out a whimper of such deep sorrow that the receptionist actually apologised.

    We are now home, recovering in front of a fan and wondering how it’s come to this. Catorze, however, has gone gadding about outside in some unknown location, and is probably trying to work out an inventive new way of costing us money. 

    Absolute bastard cat, literally the worst ever.

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

  • Le chien saucisse

    This is Willow, whose human brother was, until last week, one of my students: 

    What a sweet girl.

    For the last three years I have seen photos of Willow, and she was even mentioned in her human brother’s French speaking exam, in what would otherwise have been quite a boring task to conduct. (“Je voudrais réserver une table pour quatre personnes et aussi mon chien.”) Willow and I had never met face to face until the day of her human brother’s last exam, when he brought her to school to meet me. 

    We’d agreed to meet at 11:40 but it was past midday when they finally arrived. “Sorry we’re late, Miss. It took her half an hour to walk here because she’s only got short legs.” Poor Willow was a bit scared to approach me, probably because I was loud like an over-excitable child. But, eventually, she did let me stroke her. 

    Anyone walking past my school that day will have seen me lying belly-down on the ground, taking photos of a slightly suspicious sausage dog. Yet I don’t suppose it would be the weirdest thing anyone’s seen here. 

    Good luck to Willow’s human brother in his future endeavours, and hopefully I will see him, or one of his family, walking her in the park every now and again. 

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

  • L’enfer, c’est un Chat Noir

    How important is spirituality in your life?

    We know that hell is real.

    We also know that the devil walks among us, cloaked in fur of deepest black.

    If you hear a piercing scream carried on the breeze, you know that he is near.

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

  • Le massage aux pierres très froides  

    How do you practise self-care?

    When it’s a raging Dantean hellfire outside, and you are a black animal covered in fur, you may find it difficult to keep cool. 

    What a stroke of luck, then, that ice cube massages are a thing. If you don’t know what they are, they’re exactly as they sound. And Louis Catorze LOVES them.

    Here is one, in action:

    Doing this makes ME feel sweaty. But then it’s not about me.

    And this is how, erm, radiant and beautiful you look afterwards: 

    What do you mean, we only do it to make him look silly? Ahem.
    Letting it all dry off in the blazing sun.

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

  • Garder un œil sur nous

    Yesterday was the summer solstice, one of our favourite days of the year. Whilst most of the northern hemisphere will have marked the day with celebration, here at Le Château it’s war, and the avian army have placed a bounty on Louis Catorze’s head. 

    Now, you’d imagine that, if your cat didn’t like the local wildlife and vice versa, it wouldn’t really have much impact on your day-to-day life. However, here, when one party annoys the other, it results in a huge, cacophonous din in the early hours of the morning, after which it’s difficult to get back to sleep. And, yes, when we wake up to infernal avian screeching, we know it’s because of Catorze. I’ve actually got out of bed to look, and seen it with my own eyes. 

    So we have the option of stiflingly hot nights with windows shut and less noise, or a slight breeze with windows open and parakeets, magpies or whoever else making the most ungodly racket as soon as it’s light. Neither one is particularly pleasant.

    Here are the starlings, eyeing up their target on the morning of the solstice:

    Lead starling: “That’s the one who killed Dave back in 2016! Off with his head!”

    The magpies will be here later, for the afternoon shift, and the parakeets will take over in the evening. Whatever the time of day, some sort of feathered sentinel will be watching. 

    Oh dear.

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