What are the most important things needed to live a good life?
Caffeine, books and the love of a devoted cat.
I’ll let you know when I find the last one.
For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com
louiscatorze.com
Je crie, donc je suis
-
Big Brother is watching us. -
Le Blog is ten years old today. I can’t believe it; I never thought Louis Catorze would still be
being a massive shiteproviding me with material, all these years after that very first post.Here are quatorze of my favourite Catorzian escapades from over the years, in no particular order:
- Bird on the wire(less headphones).
- Our first dinner Chez Oscar the dog.
- The curly-haired rat.
- Screaming, then being escorted off the premises (someone else’s, not ours).
- More antics with Oscar.
- The Curious Case of the Rat and the Cleaning Lady.
- The beautician’s first visit.
- The slug. Eurgh.
- Curfew Part 1.
- Curfew Part 2.
- Curfew Part 3 aka Cat Daddy drops the ball.
- What The Postman Saw.
- The hairy-gileted mouse.
- More screaming, more mice.
I hope that you enjoyed the journey back through time. Dare I imagine ten more years of him? Of THIS?
My all-time favourite Catorzian photo. No AI here; I really did spread out a huge French flag and plonk him on top. For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com
-
Describe your dream chocolate bar.
Louis Catorze doesn’t eat chocolate. However, if he WERE chocolate, he would be a Montezuma’s Absolute Black 100% chocolate Easter egg: dark, pungent, and hollow inside.
Yes, I know that the question specified a DREAM chocolate bar. Nobody said it had to be a good dream.
Catorze is the one on the right. For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com
-
What jobs have you had?
Louis Catorze would never knowingly work for a living. However, over the years, he has held the following posts at Le Château:
- Alarm clock
- Hot water bottle
- Inclement weather broadcaster
- General town crier
- Pest exterminator (Cat Daddy: “WHAT? He’s the worst pest of them all!”)
Catorze continues to perform roles 1 to 4 on a regular basis. However, the fate of role 5 is in question as he hasn’t caught anything for some time.
Both the rescue and Catorze’s foster mamma sold him to us as a non-hunter, so it was something of a surprise when he produced such horrors as this. Yet, so far this year, Catorze has caught a total of 0 (zero) birds and 0 (zero) rodents.
Has the little sod permanently hung up his hunting boots? Or is broadcasting the diminishing body count the quickest and most certain way of resuming it?
Nah, nothing to worry about here. Ahem. For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com
-
When it’s 21°C outside and you’re a black animal covered in fur, you might feel like cooling down. Even if you’re a Sun King.
Catorze sought out this thin strip of shade, about 15cm wide/long (depending on whether you’re a portrait or a landscape kind of person), underneath our outdoor table. He did his best to squeeze into it but couldn’t quite fit, possibly on account of his recent chubbing up.
Gotta tan those legs. The little fat sod bravely bore these hostile desert conditions for about, erm, ten minutes before adjourning to the more comfortable cat plinths above, where he was fully shaded:
That’s better. And that is where he remained, until Cat Daddy went outside to relax in peace. Catorze, straight in like a heat-seeking missile, made sure he failed in his mission.
Whilst 21°C isn’t far off a Dantean hellfire for us Brits, this is by no means the worst it gets here. We have suffered temperatures much higher, including that one apocalyptic day when it was 40°C a couple of summers ago. Yet, when it’s THAT hot, Catorze isn’t quite warm enough and seeks out sunbathing spots.
No, we don’t understand it, either. Our place is just to serve the Sun King, not to question his affairs.
For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com
-
Most cats dribble whilst purring. However, with Louis Catorze, because of his protruding fangs which prevent his mouth from fully closing anyway, the problem is much worse. And, when he shakes his head after a massive purring session, it’s like monsoon season in the tropics.
I’ve never had any photographic evidence of this, until now. It would actually be strikingly pretty, were it not so gross:
Aww. And also eww. For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com
-
Cat Daddy checked the weather forecast and saw that it was about to rain, so he started bringing in the cushions from the outdoor sofa. However, Louis Catorze was lounged across two of them. (He’s a tiny cat so he fits perfectly well on one, but he always lies across two.)
He thinks the sofa is for him. Me: “You can’t dislodge him. Look how comfortable he is.”
Cat Daddy: “But it’s going to rain later.”
Me: “Just leave these two cushions for now, and bring them in later.”
Him: “We’ll forget.”
Me: “We won’t!”
I went to bed early, leaving Cat Daddy responsible for remembering the task. You can see where this is going, can’t you?
I was awoken at 5:50am by the most infernal Catorzian screaming. As you are very much aware, he screams a lot anyway so this isn’t news. However, first thing in the morning, Catorze usually has the decency to tone it down, giving relatively few utterances at moderate volume. On this occasion, it was urgent, full-blast and relentless. I bet there are prison klaxons which are gentler and more pleasant than this particular sound.
After fifteen minutes of trying to ignore it, I was wide awake. I shuffled downstairs, fed the little sod, conducted my usual morning ritual of electrolytes plus fruit with yogurt plus collagen coffee, all the while cursing Catorze for his rude awakening.
I then realised that it was raining outside. The wake-up screaming wasn’t urgent, full-blast and relentless simply because Catorze is a massive shite (although that certainly plays a part). It was his “Il Pleut!” scream.
Oui, Mesdames et Messieurs: because Catorze loves the rain, he has been known to scream to announce it, and his “Il Pleut!” scream is distinctly different from the other screams in his extensive repertoire. He was delivering my own personal weather update.
I should have known this. But, instead, I ignored it.
And – not that this is much of a plot twist, because you’ll all have seen this coming like a high-speed freight train – Cat Daddy had, indeed, forgotten to bring in the cushions. Had I listened to Catorze at the time that he first raised the alarm, I could have saved them.
Anyway, the cushions are now indoors and drying off, not that there’s much point because it has stopped raining. And, because Catorze loves the rain, he has gone out to gad about, which means that I can’t find him to do his thyroid medication.
I can’t even say “Bastard cat” because he did his duty. It’s the humans who have let the side down this time.
For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com
-
What are you good at?
Cat Daddy is a master at both photography and being a massive hypocrite: he has just typed “cat” into his iPhone photo library, and there were 2,615 results.
Oui, Mesdames et Messieurs: the person who ridicules me for being obsessed with cats is almost as bad as me (I had 3,525 results, which is more than him but not THAT much more).
Cat Daddy handed me his phone and invited me to send any of the photos to myself, for use on Le Blog. Among the many photos I was able to see, before I started laughing at his catness and he got angry and snatched his phone back again, were the following:
- Louis Catorze (obviously)
- Catus Interruptus from down the road
- A fluffy, grey neighbourhood tabby whom I don’t think I’ve ever seen, but Cat Daddy has seen Catorze attacking him at least twice (sorry if this is your cat)
- Random cats seen during Cat Daddy’s walks
- Boys’ Club shenanigans
This was my favourite photo of the lot. I imagine alcohol was involved, because it was taken at 2:01am:
I see. For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com
-
What personal belongings do you hold most dear?
If you were to ask Boots, I bet he wouldn’t say “collars”.
Anyone who knows about cats will, most likely, know about the Cat Distribution System. This is the idea that, when the planets are aligned in a particular way, the universe will send you a cat. Mind you, I’d like to know what was going on when it sent us Louis Catorze; was it a dark moon alongside Mercury Retrograde with Beelzebub Rising? Someone certainly has some explaining to do.
Anyway, it has come to my attention that, as well as a Cat Distribution System, there may also be a Collar Distribution System.
After Boots’ last collar disaster – it seems we ordered a dog one by mistake – we had to resume our search for a new supply for him. (Oui, Mesdames et Messieurs: the big sod has managed to lose nine, or maybe 187 – we’ve lost count – Chelsea collars, in and around the CR4 area.)
“Whatever. Another one will turn up.” However, just as Boots donned the very last collar of his collection, That Neighbour* posted one through his letterbox, after finding it randomly lying around and knowing that it belonged to Boots. Then, when Boots’ mamma bumped into That same Neighbour in town, he mentioned that he’d just found another one and had posted that through, too.
A just-posted Chelsea collar, lying on the doormat of Maison Boots. *Not the TW8 That Neighbour, who escorts Catorze home when he escapes. There is also a CR4 That Neighbour, the one who always happens to find Boots’ discarded Chelsea collars around the neighbourhood. Yes, it’s the same person every time. And he happens to be a Chelsea fan, too,
Regretfully, the bell is missing from one of the collars, and the bell is all-important for warning Chat Noir Antoine of the presence of his usurper stepbrother. But, that aside, the Collar Distribution System appears to be working. Whenever Boots is in need, just at the point where his mamma thinks it’s time to buy more collars AGAIN, one appears.
So Boots has recovered two of his lost Chelsea collars, and he’s just taken a delivery of some new, properly-fitting Crystal Palace ones, too, in the very likely event that he loses those two. And now all is well with the universe.
Was Boots the FA Cup lucky mascot? For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com
-
Miraculously, Louis Catorze has not scratched his wound and it’s healing nicely. I don’t know whether this means the stars are aligned in some magical way or the apocalypse is just around the corner but, frankly, I’d even take the latter if it meant not having to Cône him anymore.
His eye area, although no longer bleeding, is still bald and shows his freakish paper-white skin. It looks just like the eyebrow tattoo of a gang member on Death Row:
Catorze is the one on the left. (The other guy’s photo is from pinterest.com and he may or may not be a gang member or on Death Row.) Meanwhile, his thyroid medication is supposed to get easier, right? Well, it doesn’t.
Sometimes, very rarely, it goes smoothly. I glove up, apply the gel to one finger, then Louis Catorze approaches me and I grab and swipe in a seamless movement.
The key seems to be that the little sod approaches me. If ever I’m the one having to seek him out – for instance, if I need to get the job done so that I can go to bed – that’s when the bother starts. Despite being thicker than a concrete milkshake, the sight of me heading towards him with a suspiciously scrunched-up fist makes him rightly wary, and then he’s off.
I had a failed mission last night when I managed to grab the little sod but he wriggled free and escaped. Any further approaches, even the ones in which I tried to Act Normal and pretend I was doing something else, were met with mistrust, and he kept scampering just out of my reach. Eventually he jumped over the fence and into That Neighbour’s garden, where he knew perfectly well that I wouldn’t follow.
As I say to my students: “All you can do is your best.” Even if your best is a bit shit.
(I don’t tell them that last bit).
Pouncing whilst he sleeps is usually a good move. For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com
-
How do you balance work and home life?
Luckily my work as a secondary school teacher acts as respite from being bullied/gaslit at home by a psychotic black cat.
Were it not for being able to escape a few days a week and spend time with angst-ridden teenagers, I’d probably be sectioned or dead.
Monday can’t come soon enough. For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com
-
The votes have been verified and counted, and I can now reveal that there is a tie for the choice of Boots’ new collar:
Trust me, it was a tie. Hear me out (below). I know that the above chart shows the St George’s Cross to be the winner. However, I took this screen shot before I set the poll to “one vote per computer”, when the only way I could view the results was to vote for a second time. So, if we remove the illegal surplus ballot paper that I cast, we have a tie between Crystal Palace and the St George’s cross.
The solution, it seems, is to provide Boots with a supply of each but, in the time that has elapsed between researching the available collars and conducting the poll, there are no more St George’s cross cat collars available in the UK.
There are plenty of dog collars. However, they don’t have the safety mechanism required should the cat end up in a fix. (And Boots is a gadder-about, so he would really, really need this.)
So, for now, here is the large sod in his new, personalised Crystal Palace collar:
Oh dear. 
Goodness me. 
No. I think it might be a bit big (ahem), so Boots’ mamma plans to display this one rather than have him wear it (although it could work as a belt?).
And it’s back to the drawing board to find a properly-fitting collar for Boots …
For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com
-
Our plan to keep Louis Catorze Côned for twenty-four hours hit a slight bump in the road when Cat Daddy and I realised that we would both be out of the house all day on Wednesday.
Catorze is fearless, even when Côned, and has no hesitation in doing all the things guaranteed to kill him – scaling fences, wandering unaccompanied through fox-infested areas, hurling himself onto white-hot barbecue griddles, that kind of thing – but he struggles to do the sensible things that actually keep him alive. And we feared that, without adequate supervision, he would put even more effort into the dangerous things and far less into the necessary ones.
(Despite not living with him, you know this too, non?)
This is the kind of thing we’d sooner avoid. Côned Catorze manages to eat from his raised bowl, but he’s not able to do that weird feline thing of extracting one scrap of food and consuming it away from the rest, to see if I’m trying to poison him (you know the thing I mean). And, if he can’t conduct the Cyanide Test, he probably won’t eat the food.
Catorze also isn’t able to enter or exit the cat flap when Côned. We don’t have a litter tray for him and, even if we did, I’m not convinced that he would use it; he wasn’t a fan of it when he was Côned for months during lockdown. Cat Daddy had the genius idea of just leaving him to toilette willy-nilly “because the cleaning lady could clean it up”, but, quite frankly, poor Elena has enough to handle with the cacophonous screamathons delivered to her by Catorze every week. Subjecting her to his toilettes, as well as the screaming, would just be beyond the pale.
So we didn’t have much option, really. We would have to either leave the back door open all day (which solved the toilettes problem, but not the eating and drinking one) or unCône Catorze early.
We went for the latter.
Anyway, I sped home yesterday evening, anxious about whether Catorze would even still be together by the time I arrived back, or whether he would just be a mangled mass of screaming flesh. But, luckily, all was as normal as can possibly be expected in this household. Let’s hope that he continues to do the right thing by letting himself heal.
Here he is, scowling at me for interrupting his alfresco nap:
And the same to you! For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com
-
I’m starting to wonder whether we should just give black cats one Cône to share between them because, as soon as one of them stops needing it, a different one does something stupid. If it’s not one, it’s another. Bastards, the lot of them.
Cat Daddy and I went away on Friday, to different places, for two nights. And, naturellement, a couple of hours before we were due to depart for our respective weekend breaks, Louis Catorze decided to rock up looking like this:
Oh no. Obviously it was too late to find a live-in chat-sitteur or to set House Arrest plans in motion, so we had no option but to leave him to it and pray that he wouldn’t make it any worse. Neither we, nor Blue the Smoke Bengal’s mamma (who was feeding him), could do anything about it. When we returned home and discovered that God had forsaken us, we booked an appointment to see the vet.
Luckily the vet thought the facial injuries were only superficial. However, we have had to deploy Le Cône to prevent him from scratching his face any further, until the steroid starts to work its magic. This will be fine if it really is just for the prescribed one day, but I have horrible memories of lockdown when “just a day or two” turned into a couple of months.
But at least Catorze has chubbed up to a whopping 2.92kg. So there’s that silver lining among all this fire and brimstone.
Anyway, at the time of writing this, he is laying his vengeance upon us in the worst possible way: constant attempts to escape the garden over the fence, accompanied by gut-wrenching screaming, on an evening when all the neighbours are outside (and I think Family Next Door may even be entertaining guests). And, when Catorze discovered that Cat Daddy had bricked up his exit into the Zone Libre, the screaming worsened.
No, we don’t know how he got up here. 
Poor Catorze. Repeat after me: “It’s only for one day … it’s only for one day …”
For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com
louiscatorze.com 