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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.

  • Le pouvoir de la lune

    Cat Daddy and I felt miserable and out of sorts the other day after a dreadful night’s sleep. And I expect you can guess the reason for that dreadful night’s sleep.

    Cat Daddy [edited version]: “He was absolutely ****ing awful: going out, coming in, jumping on me, screaming, sticking his wet nose in my ears, rubbing his whiskers on my face. He’s a ****ing pest.”

    I must admit I was surprised as he’s not usually this bad (Louis Catorze, not Cat Daddy). I am often aware of his presence during the night, but he tends to utter just a few closed-mouth whines and not much more.

    My friend: “Are we approaching a full moon, by any chance?”

    I checked the date.

    Merde.

    I don’t dare tell Cat Daddy that this is no one-off, but something that is likely to happen 12-13 times a year. And, yes, most cats of Catorze’s age are winding down, but clearly The Mothership has failed to send him the “All seniors, stand down” memo.

    Anyway, Cat Daddy is still livid and says we need to give him to a rescue for a few days’ respite so that we can get some sleep. Is this even a thing? Do rescues or catteries – or does ANYONE – offer this service?

    “Réveillez-vous! Aucune raison!”

  • Le gobelet

    One of Louis Catorze’s favourite people in the world – with the exception of, erm, all the men – came to visit us recently.

    Sa Maj’s visitors are always very generous with their gifts to us and to him, but this lady is especially kind and thoughtful. Her gifts include his vintage French cat bowl, the like of which we have never seen before, a beautiful cat silhouette picture made up of the most commonly-used words on Le Blog – excluding the swear words – and, of course, his beloved igloo.

    Her most recent gift to us is below. And, unbelievably, Cat Daddy – yes, he who complains non-stop that “this house is full of cat shite” – loves it so much that he has claimed it for himself. Even though he is now retired and so isn’t really in the market for a travel mug, unless you count his long journeys from the kitchen to the sofa.

    Thank you, Lizzi, for this:

    C’est le diable Louis-même

  • Dieu doit penser que je suis un chat génial

    A further addendum to Little Sods’ Law is now in place: a black cat’s attraction to a ball of wool is directly proportional to the cost of the wool.

    Louis Catorze showed moderate interest when I was knitting cotton scarves at £2.50 per ball but, now that I have made a start on The Special One (my scarf made of merino wool at £783.99 per ball), his “Urge To Kill” switch has been well and truly activated.

    I have learned the hard way that knitting with merino wool is complicated if you are a novice and not following a pattern. It takes several goes with different sizes of needle and various numbers of stitches to get it right. And drink-knitting is an absolute no-no: just a couple of glasses of Crémant give me the dangerous false confidence that I can fix anything that goes wrong, which invariably leads to making everything worse. And there are only so many times that I can message Wife of That Neighbour with Knitting SOS distress signals before she and her husband become even angrier with us than they already are because of Catorze’s disturbances.

    In short, my task is arduous enough and I could really do without him attacking both the wool and the needles every few seconds and generally being a shite.

    I have to wind the wool around the table leg as I work to stop it from twisting and, as you can see, this is like an injured seal to Catorze’s great white shark. In the last picture he decided to actually SIT ON MY WORK to take a break from his tomfoolery, and I am very unhappy indeed with the position of that needle.

  • Les chiens ont des maîtres, les chats ont des serviteurs

    Not long ago we decided to try a little experiment inspired by this link:

    https://honesttopaws.com/dogs-told-theyre-a-good-boy/?bdk=a*undefined&ch=bt

    It’s true, Mesdames et Messieurs. Dogs’ faces visibly change when humans say “Good boy” or “Good girl”, because they actually value our opinion. Cats, on the other hand, aren’t even listening to us. And, in the highly unlikely event that they hear what we say, they don’t care.

    Anyway, here is Oscar the dog:

    Before
    “Good boy!”

    A hint of a smile from Nala the dog:

    Before
    “Good girl!”

    (We did not conduct this experiment with Gizzy as her weird face-fur conceals any type of facial expression. Plus we’re still not sure what she is.)

    Noah the dog:

    Before
    “Good boy!”

    And, erm, Louis Catorze:

    Before
    “Good boy!”

    So … does this prove that dogs are loyal, eager-to-please companions and cats are dastardly villains?

    Cat Daddy: “Yeah, because we were all racking our brains over that one.”

    Thank you to the Oscar’s Dog Parents, Nala’s Puppy Parents and Noah’s Dog Aunty – and to the doggies themselves, of course – for being such good sports.

  • L’écharpe à trous

    I am not pleased.

    Cat Daddy and I have a present box in the attic and, every time we see something that reminds us of one of our friends or family members, we buy it, put it in the box and save it until Christmas or their birthday.

    I spent November and December working flat-out to knit a scarf for someone in time for their late January birthday and, after completing it, I put it in our present box. However, a certain little sod has somehow managed to bypass my cleverly-constructed barricade, climb into the box, roll all over the scarf and make holes in it. So not only is it covered in cat hair, but it looks as if I drink-knitted it when I didn’t.

    Cat Daddy: “I thought it was a little strange when I saw that massive cushion in the middle of the floor.” The cushion, which was the barricade, is about 78 times the size of Louis Catorze and there’s no way he could move it on his own. Or so I thought.

    Anyway, I don’t have time to knit another one, so I have no option but to hand over a holey, hairy scarf. Thank goodness the recipient likes Catorze. Because I’m not sure I do at the moment.

  • Le mauvais écureuil

    Oh my: it seems we may have been a little hasty in accusing Louis Catorze of digging around in the sedums.

    To be honest we had started to have our suspicions some time ago, when we noticed that the soil disturbance incidents didn’t correspond with Catorze’s escapes at The Front. And, as we were leaving the house the other day, we caught this sizeable sod – he doesn’t look that large in the photo but, trust me, he was massive – having a fine old time in our recycling box planter. I wasn’t quite quick enough to catch him in the act, but here he is making his escape (below).

    I almost feel bad for blaming Sa Maj, but then Cat Daddy rightfully pointed out 1) that Catorze doesn’t care (and never did) and 2) that it makes up for all those times when he did things and got away with it.

    We can’t prove the things, nor do we know what half the things even are. But we know that THERE HAVE BEEN THINGS.

  • Le pré et la marée

    When Cat Daddy retired last August I imagined he would start spending time intensifying his fitness regime, learning a new musical instrument and attending language classes, but it seems I underestimated him and he has his mind on much higher things.

    He has been threatening for ages to stockpile Louis Catorze’s food in case of a no-deal Brexit. And, when I got home from work one day, he very proudly asked me to check inside the cat food cupboard. So I did … and I saw not one but TWO containers containing Catorze’s Lily’s Kitchen biscuits. I’d rather have found diamonds or champagne but, erm, ok.

    Me: “… ? …”

    Him: “I bought him some Delicious Chicken as well as Fabulous Fish, and I’ve put them into two separate containers.”

    Me: “Ok. That’s great …”

    Him: “He does like Delicious Chicken, doesn’t he?”

    Me: “I think so, yes.”

    Him: “So why haven’t we been giving him both? Why have we only been giving him Fabulous Fish?”

    To be honest I didn’t really know the answer to this, and I then had the lecture about whether I would like having to eat the same thing every day. (If having crisps for breakfast counts, then I think that ship has well and truly sailed.)

    That evening, I gave Catorze a helping of both foods together.

    Cat Daddy, looking disgusted: “What? Both? On the same plate?”

    Me: “Erm, yes. Why not?”

    Him: “They’re DIFFERENT MEATS.”

    Me: “But cats eat bugs and maggot-infested roadkill. I don’t suppose fish and chicken on the same plate will bother him in the slightest.”

    Him: “Would YOU eat fish and meat from the same plate?”

    Me: “Is that not what “surf and turf” is?”

    [Silence, tumbleweed, crickets]

    Anyway, Catorze now has two different foods. And, every time I feed the little sod, Cat Daddy yells, “Don’t forget: fish for breakfast, chicken for dinner!”

    I’ll be sure to let you know when someone turns this gripping story into a film.

  • Le figuier royal

    People who plant new trees are good. But people who are nice to existing trees are also pretty good, non?

    As if to make up for delivering us the devil-plant that is deadly nightshade, Mother Nature has gifted us a fig tree (pictured below when it still had leaves; at the moment it’s just a sticking-up twig).

    Oui, Mesdames et Messieurs: it quite literally just appeared one day, and I had no idea what it was until the delightful people on my social media tree group collectively Shazammed it. What a wonderful gift this is, and how very appropriate given that the human Louis XIV apparently grew figs at Versailles. That said, I am trying not to think too hard about the fact that the seed most likely fell out of a bird’s arse (and quite a middle-class bird at that).

    Unfortunately it seems that the fig is toxic to cats. Not in a “sit downwind of it and you die” type of way, like the nightshade, but ingesting any part of it will cause vomiting and general malaise. And yet, in a world that is wiping out trees by the minute as if they are some sort of liability, I am determined to love this one and to find some way of enabling it and Louis Catorze to coexist happily. This is not going to be easy, given his penchant for doing exactly what we don’t want him to do, when we don’t want him to do it.

    Anyway, as advised, we have moved the fig to a terracotta pot and are keeping it indoors until the spring. Can we trust Sa Maj to neither eat it nor turn the pot into les toilettes royales?

  • Que la force soit avec eux

    Nala the dog now has a new sister, and my messages to and from Puppy Mamma about their most recent family member went something like this:

    Her: “You’re not going to believe what’s happened. Promise you won’t judge?”

    Me: “Ok.”

    Her: “I’ve got a new puppy!”

    Me: “Not meaning to judge, but what the ****?”

    Her: “I KNOW! I just blinked and it happened!”

    Me: “Send me a picture.”

    [She sends a picture.]

    Me: “That’s not even a dog.”

    [She sends another picture.]

    Me: “That’s still not a dog.”

    [She sends more pictures .]

    Me: “STILL NOT A DOG.”

    If you don’t believe me, look for yourselves. This is Gizmo, a.k.a. Gizzy:

    Not a dog

    No, I have never seen anything like it, either. And, no, I’m still not convinced it’s a dog. In fact, I’m struggling to even articulate what I think it is, although perhaps some sort of Chewbacca-alien hybrid is the closest thing.

    Anyway, I now have a second creature to add my list of animals who don’t need costumes at Hallowe’en (the first being Louis Catorze). And the Puppy Parents now have TWO unhinged beasts to deal with. The only thing that could possibly make their household more bonkers would be to add a psycho black cat to the mix and, quite frankly, I wouldn’t put it past them.

    If you have any suggestions as to what species Gizzy might be, we would love to hear them. We’re still undecided.

  • La tête de mort

    We have just discovered that the fall of the print pattern on the fabric of Louis Catorze’s igloo makes the hanging fish look like a sideways-on severed zombie head wearing some sort of scuba diving headgear. And, the more we stare at it, the more we wonder how on earth we could have failed to notice it before.

    Cat Daddy winced and shuddered when I pointed it out. But I rather love it that, just as we thought Louis Catorze couldn’t be any creepier, he adds an extra layer, intentionally or otherwise. I’m pretty sure that, if he were human, hanging the heads of dead scuba divers at the entrance to his home would be just his kind of thing. Maybe he would even wear one of the heads as a hat, as that guy from Con Air did and as he is attempting to do in this picture. (Yes, he is actually sitting with the fish resting on his head.)

    As they say on the internet: once seen, it cannot be unseen. You’re welcome.

  • La vérité sur les chats et les chiens

    Nala the dog’s Puppy Parents have been talking about getting a feline companion for Nala, as Puppy Daddy always had both dogs and cats whilst growing up. When I asked Puppy Mamma what kind of cat they wanted, she replied, “A small black rescue one, like Louis Catorze.”

    Cat Daddy spat his wine all over Puppy Mamma’s sofa at the thought of anyone getting a cat like ours on purpose. “That could definitely be arranged,” he said. He was 50% joking but, now that he has had time to dwell on the idea, and especially since we’re both so broke after Christmas that we’re seriously considering raiding Catorze’s delightfully buoyant sick fund*, that 50% has risen to around 70%.

    *I’m not joking. The few quid that I had to last me until my January pay day have now dropped to even fewer thanks to some emergency dental treatment on Friday night. Catorze, on the other hand, will never have to worry about such things, although Cat Daddy says that dental treatment to file down his freakish fangs “wouldn’t do him any harm”.

    “Louis loves people,” he said. “We’re doing him a massive disservice, keeping him in a house with one of us going to work most days and the other wanting to go out and do Important Retirement Things. Maybe the reason he screams so much is because he’s unstimulated? Maybe he’d like to go and live with [the Puppy Parents] and to have a permanent canine friend? Plus we’ve had him for seven years. Seven year itch, and all that.”

    Me: “Erm, it’s actually only been five and a half years.”

    [Silence, tumbleweed, crickets]

    Anyway, there is zero evidence whatsoever that Catorze would have a harmonious relationship with a dog, mainly because he tends to be over-keen and the feeling isn’t mutual. He has only met four dogs in his life (that we know of) as follows:

    1. Bert the dog (who would frequently yell at Catorze, only gradually stopping over time when he grew too old to notice him)

    2. Oscar the dog (who hates him and wants to kill him)

    3. Kiki the Elton John dog (ditto) https://louiscatorze.com/2016/11/27/le-samedi-soir-est-bien-pour-se-battre/

    4. The psycho fox from the park, who looks dog-like enough to be considered a dog (ditto, plus he has rallied all his foxy friends into also hating and wanting to kill Le Roi) https://louiscatorze.com/2018/09/30/je-suis-une-legende/

    Sa Maj hasn’t yet met Nala but my powers of perception have spied a pattern emerging here. I don’t know about you but I get the distinct feeling it wouldn’t go especially well.

    But I guess this is all immaterial because, much as she would love Catorze as her pet, Puppy Mamma wouldn’t wrench him away from his home. I wish I could say the same of Cat Daddy, who is sick of the 3am screamathons and has played out Catorze’s house move in his head a zillion times.

    Here is the little sod, asleep in a box of stuff bound for the charity shop and utterly unaware of his papa’s dastardly scheme:

  • Chat Fou 2020

    Happy New Year! And what joy it is to bid adieu to the lopsided unevenness of 2019 and to glide into the delightful roundness that is 2020. Not since 2012 have we had a number which is utterly sublime to look at and even better to say.

    Cat Daddy and I cannot wait to see what this year will bring, and we are looking forward to the following events in particular:

    1. A number of landmark birthdays among our family and friends, ranging from 40 to 80.

    2. Louis Catorze’s 10th birthday in April (and, yes, we know that he neither looks his age nor acts it). Cat Daddy thinks he has vetoed any type of birthday celebration but I have A Plan.

    3. Hallowe’en aka La Fête des Chats Noirs taking place on a Saturday AND on a full moon.

    4. Lots more knitting, including a scarf for myself that Cat Daddy has nicknamed “The Special One” because it’s going to be made of MERINO wool – geddit? (Football fans will understand. Anyone else will wonder what on earth I am talking about.) The scarf doesn’t even exist yet, but I bet Catorze has already planned how he’s going to trash it.

    Don’t worry, we have started stockpiling holy water and Valium for numéro 3 and the chaos that will ensue. Come to think of it, we may also need them for numéro 2 and numéro 4.

    Anyway, thank you so much for supporting Sa Maj and Le Blog, and we wish you a happy and prosperous New Year.

  • Mon cerveau est la clé qui me libère

    We survived Christmas Day with Louis Catorze only escaping out at The Front once. After spending the morning thundering around the house, screaming, he then slept for the rest of the day and gave us some peace.

    Catorze may well be the expert in supernatural teleportation that defies the laws of science and nature, but his Cat-Cousin King Ghidorah is nailing the more terrestrial, Houdini kind of escapology.

    The little sod was under house arrest recently whilst he recovered from an eye infection, so my sister took the TRIPLE precaution of locking the cat flap, taping it up and placing the huge kitchen bin in front of it. The next morning she came downstairs to find the bin tossed aside, the cat flap like this (below) and no sign of King Ghidorah.

    It’s not hard to see how he might have toppled the bin, but we are utterly mystified as to how he unpicked the tape and turned the lock. And, the next day, he managed to move aside Barricade 2.0: a bucket full of bottles of Prosecco and beer that even my sister cannot lift on her own, although her double-taping and extra layer of cardboard defeated him.

    It makes a change for me to get to laugh at another cat’s abysmal behaviour. But, as all cats are connected and controlled by The Mothership, I don’t suppose I’ll have long to wait before it’s Catorze’s turn to raise/lower the bar (depending one’s perception). *EDIT: A few days after I drafted this, I woke to the sound of clawing and caught the little sod using my favourite dress as a scratching pad.*

    Here is King Ghidorah, looking the picture of, erm, innocence:

  • C’tait la veille de Noël

    'Twas the night before Noël, and in Le Château
    A creature was screaming; quite why, we don’t know.
    No stocking was hung by this cat’s human slaves.
    (Saint Nick only visits the ones who behave.)
    The well-behaved pets were all snug in their beds,
    While visions of summertime danced in their heads;
    Cat Daddy with red wine and I, with my gin,
    Had just settled down to watch “Holiday Inn”
    When, out at The Front, there arose such a clatter.
    We sprang from the room to see what was the matter.
    Away through the hallway we flew to the door,
    Our lightning-quick feet barely touching the floor.
    When what to our wondering eyes did appear,
    But an evil, horned demon with devilish sneer
    And the foul, rotting odour of sulphur from hell.
    We knew it was Krampus, the beast of Noël.
    More rapid than eagles his goblins they came,
    And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
    "Now, Beelzebub! now, Lilith! now Azazel and Adrian!
    On, Pazuzu! on, Satan! on, Lucifer and Damian!
    To the top of the porch!” we then heard Krampus shout.
    “Let’s grab that bad kitty, then get the hell out!”
    And then, in a twinkling, they heard small paws plod:
    The soft pitter-patter of one little sod.
    As they drew in their heads and were turning around,
    Sa Maj down the hallway approached with a bound.
    He was jet black in fur, from his toes to his head,
    And he screamed bloody murder, which filled them with dread.
    His razor-sharp fangs were both shining bright white. 
    He looked like a hideous beat of the night.
    Sheer terror filled Krampus and his entourage
    (Despite this loud kitty not being that large)
    And the shrill, piercing screams made the goblins’ ears bleed;
    First they froze still with shock, then retreated at speed.
    And, putting his fingers inside of his ears,
    With a terrified whimper, eyes filling with tears,
    Poor Krampus sprang back, to his team gave a yell,
    And away they all flew just like bats out of hell.
    But we heard him exclaim, ere he flew out of sight:
    “Even hell hath no demon like that little shite!”