J’adore mon nouveau lit (enfin)

Cat Daddy and I spent the weekend in the Midlands, watching Brentford beat Wolves. And, whilst there (not in the stadium, obviously, but in the place where we were staying) we bumped into these two magnificent chaps:

Twice the size of Sa Maj … but then who isn’t?
The same one again, caught mid-scream.
This tailless one was nervous but still very sweet.

Cat Daddy: “Is this, like, Black Cat Town or something?” If it is, I’m definitely coming back.

In other news, merci à Dieu et à tous ses anges: we appear to have a result with the new bed, with Louis Catorze finally sleeping in it the other day:

FINALEMENT!

However, he hasn’t used it to sharpen his claws, not once. He is still using both the stair runner carpet and the outdoor cushions, and Cat Daddy has yelled at him at least 963 times in the last day or two for doing this.

I should be switching to his autumn-winter igloo from Wednesday onwards. However, because Catorze is so dense, there is a real risk of him forgetting that his spring-summer bed was ever a thing and, when I reintroduce it next March, he will most likely stare at it as if it were some alien life form sent to destroy the planet. Oh no, wait … THAT’S HIM.

So I shall keep it in place for a little longer but, as soon as October hits, only the El Día de Los Muertos igloo will do.

Je n’aime pas mon lit

It’s been a couple of weeks since we (Cat Daddy: “What do you mean, “we”?”) bought Louis Catorze his new bed, and he still hasn’t slept in it.

In fact, as if to try and spite us, he has been making a special effort to sleep in as many places as possible that are not his new bed. Mind you, this is not unusual, because he once spent about half an hour trying to make himself comfortable on a surface that would never have been comfortable even if he had spent the rest of his life trying. Despite the fact that he has human beds and sofas galore, it seems there’s nothing quite like … a paper bag containing plugs and wires:

Seriously?

I even found him sleeping on a pile of Cat Daddy’s clothes in the bath* last week. I know that this kind of behaviour would usually be an indication that all is not well with poor kitty but, trust me, there’s nothing wrong with him. He’s just being an idiot.

*Before Cat Daddy goes to bed at night, he puts his clothes in the bath. I know. Nobody understands it.

Right now, on an uncharacteristically hot September day, I would bet my savings on him having rejected his cool cardboard bed in favour of being in the attic, which is the hottest room in the house. In fact, no, I would bet HIS savings on that, since the little sod has more money in his account than I do.

As we roll on towards the autumn equinox, which is when we would ordinarily swap from his open spring-summer bed to his enclosed autumn-winter igloo, we are running out of time. But I know that there’s no point in trying to force it, and that he will just inexplicably start using the new bed at some arbitrary moment. In fact, he will most likely do this on the morning of the planned changeover.

I would usually end such a post by saying something about so-called cat logic. But I am starting to have my doubts that Catorze is even a cat.

Le lit invisible

I have treated Louis Catorze to a new spring-summer bed, as his chaise longue is now buckled out of shape and no longer fit for use. And, yes, I realise that the timing is silly as summer is coming to an end, but I’ve done it now.

Cat Daddy winced as he watched me unwrap the package, bearing the sort of facial expression and body language more appropriate for watching someone defuse a bomb.

Him: “That looks awful.”

Me: “…”

Him: “Oh God, PLEASE tell me that’s just the wrapping and not what it actually looks like?”

Me: “…”

When it finally emerged from the box, HE was the one who was silenced when he realised not only that the bed was reasonably attractive, but that it was designed for scratching, so hopefully Catorze will stop wrecking the stair runner.

One surprise was that the bed came with a sachet of suspicious-looking herbal matter. A friend who is a regular buyer of cardboard scratching beds has confirmed that it’s quite normal for the purchases to be accompanied by drugs, to entice cats into using the beds. No doubt they are aware of what contrary little sods they are, and they know exactly what to do to make them play ball. New bed? Non. New bed with drugs? Ouais.

It’s not what it looks like. Oh, wait … IT IS.

I decided to firstly try the bed on its own, and to unleash the narcotics only if Catorze wasn’t interested. And it’s been a few days now and he hasn’t gone anywhere near it.

Obviously this is no surprise to me as he’s never been one to do what we want, when we want him to do it, but he hasn’t simply sniffed it and then walked away; he pitter-patters past it as if it were just air, appearing not to even see it. So it looks as if I will have to deploy the magic herbs, or label the bed “Cats are not permitted to sit here” (which worked a treat last time), or – my Ace of Spades, guaranteed to reap results within minutes – advertise the bed on eBay and say it’s never been used.

Here is the bed. No idea where Catorze is.

More like a sculpture than a bed. Not that it matters because he still couldn’t give a merde about it.

Les draps de l’hiver

I really ought to have learned my lesson by now: spot-on flea treatment, plus clean sheets (Louis Catorze’s favourite brushed flannel ones) on our bed, plus bedroom door accidentally open, were never going to be a happy combination.

The cheeky little sod moved like lightning after the treatment to run upstairs and roll the liquid off from his neck onto the bed. And here he is (below), having done the evil deed, looking très confortable.

Cat Daddy: “He’d better not be on my side. Or anywhere near my pillow.”

[Silence, tumbleweed, crickets.]

Shocked but not surprised.

Je suis mon pire ennemi en personne (Partie 2)

Louis Catorze’s El Día de los Muertos cold-weather igloo comes out in autumn and remains in place until May. The little sod is always delighted and refuses to be removed from it during daylight hours. However, in late January, he suddenly stopped sleeping in it.

At first we didn’t think much of it but then we felt bad that we hadn’t checked for something nasty in the igloo (massive pile of puke, dead rat, mummified human body part plundered from some ancient burial ground, that kind of thing).

I peered into the igloo upon returning home after a walk to discover … a huge clump of cat hair. Oui, Mesdames et Messieurs: Catorze’s OWN DISGUSTO-FUR has repulsed him enough to propel him out of his favourite place and send him searching for alternative sleeping spots.

Anyway, the igloo has been cleaned, la personne royale has been brushed and normal service has resumed. As you were.

Zoom in for the tiniest glimpse of fang.

Le lit du Roi

Oscar the dog’s human sister came over recently for some Louis Catorze time. They spent a lovely afternoon together, playing with cat toys and old cardboard boxes, and Catorze was on his best behaviour, the way he always is when guests come so that nobody believes us when we complain about what a psycho he is. He played happily with her and meowed sweetly every time she spoke to him. (Yes, they regularly have actual conversations, with her speaking and him replying.)

Dog Sister’s time with Catorze is also teaching her more and more about the differences between cats and dogs, as demonstrated here:

Dog Sister: “What’s that box?”

Me: “That’s Louis’s bed.”

Her: “But it says “Cats are NOT permitted …””

Me: “Yup. That’s cats for you.”

During her visit Dog Sister decided to renovate Catorze’s bed by filling it with old cushions that we were going to throw away, and now he can’t get enough of it. His upgraded bed is his new favourite place, so much so that he even stayed put here during the beautician’s first visit since lockdown, instead of following her upstairs, rolling on all her stuff and screaming at her. The best thing is that he sleeps here most of the night, which means he isn’t annoying us, nor is he out picking fights with the local wildlife.

Here he is, enjoying the handiwork of his best buddy:

Yes, he has more beds than we do. Et alors?

J’adore mon igloo

Louis Catorze’s winter igloo has officially been reinstated. Even though I know that, once he’s in, he won’t be coming out unless it’s on fire.

Selfishly, I wanted to delay giving him back his igloo because I like having him on our laps. That said, I know how much he loves it. And it means we can have our blankets back. And, possibly most importantly, if he’s sleeping in it throughout most of the day and night, it’s less likely that he will be bothering the neighbours, howling at dogs / foxes / magpies / parakeets / other cats, or waking us up by bouncing around our bed and screaming in our faces. So, in many ways, it’s a win-win.

If anyone wants him – don’t all rush at once – he’ll be here until next May:

Cinq ans d’esclavage

Yesterday marked the 5-year anniversary of the glorious day that Louis Catorze came to live with us.

Because of this length of time, we thought we were highly knowledgeable in terms of the many sub-edicts of Little Sods’ Law. But it seems that more and more of them progressively come to light that we never knew existed. He really is the gift that keeps on giving.

We can now announce the following new addenda to the Law:

1. If you are in the middle of changing bed linen and become distracted, even for just a second, any black cat in the vicinity will be irresistibly drawn to the unguarded, undressed white duvet and pillows.

2. The strength of the cat’s attraction to the duvet and pillows will be inversely proportional to the cleanliness of the cat.

If you are easily repulsed by gross cats, please look away now.

I have no idea what he did to get into such a state. Nor do I know what most of this stuff even is, although I fear that those things on his left cheek (our right), are dead spiders.

Cat Daddy: “You’re going to have to move him. I’m not touching him. He’s your cat.”

[It hasn’t escaped my notice that Catorze is always “my” cat when he’s done something bad or cost us a lot of money.]

Cat Daddy again: “Oh. You can’t move him, can you, because of your shoulder? So I suppose I’m going to have to do it?”

Mais oui.

Anyway, the little sod wasn’t budging from the duvet and clung on as if the lives of every man on the planet depended on it. Eventually he was ejected but, somehow, in all the chaos, the dead spiders were dislodged. I now fear that they might be lurking somewhere inside the folds of the duvet. Ugh. The only thing worse than spiders is hidden spiders. IN YOUR BED.

Cat Daddy, sinking into a chair and rolling his eyes: “Oh, don’t worry, we’ll find them. First thing in the morning, probably stuck to your face or mine.”

And now I can never sleep again.

I am fairly sure that the best recovery from surgery does not involve restless nights fretting about duvet spiders. And I expect that this is all part of the Dark Lord’s grand plan to take me down – making it look like “post-operative complications” – so that he can have Cat Daddy all to himself.

Notre petite vie est cernée de sommeil

Louis Catorze disappeared without a trace at the weekend. After hunting all over the house, including in locked cupboards, we eventually found him in the guest bedroom, buried deep underneath the duvet and utterly out of sight except for the tip of his silly little tail sticking out. So, now that the weather has turned colder, and given that he has only used his warm-weather bed a couple of times, I have reinstated his winter igloo. 

The little sod initially sniffed suspiciously, as if it say, “Really? Pour moi?” But, when he realised it wasn’t some cruel trick, he was in. 

Cat Daddy was disgusted when I told him, as if I had given our hypothetical human child absinthe and cigarettes. “I can’t believe you’ve GIVEN IN,” he sighed. But he felt a little better when I explained that this meant Sa Maj wouldn’t be tunnelling into the guest bedding, leaving a trail of hair and whatever other unknown crud he always seems to be covered in. 

I am sure that, when the sun returns, the Sun King will be back out and on the rampage. But, for now, if anyone wants him [Cat Daddy: “I wouldn’t hold your breath, if I were you”], he can be found here: 

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Le printemps, c’est l’époque des projets et des plans

The dark winter seems a lifetime away now, and, somehow, the longer days give us the feeling that we have so much more time to do things. That’s what it all means to us, at least. To Louis Catorze, it means burrowing deeply into his igloo and never coming out.

Cat Daddy: “This isn’t normal. Staying in there all day is like one of those sensory deprivation torture things. This is what they do to prisoners of war.”

Me: “But we’re not subjecting him to it by force. He’s chosen to go in there.”

Cat Daddy: “Exactly: he’s so thick that he doesn’t even KNOW he’s torturing himself! He’s going to come out an institutionalised vegetable with no eyes, because he’ll have evolved not to use them. And he’ll be completely brain-dead because he won’t have used that, either. On second thoughts, maybe that particular ship has already sailed.”

I did remind Cat Daddy that evolution happens progressively over many generations of creatures, and not with just one animal over a couple of weeks, but he wasn’t really listening. He had a point about the brain-dead bit, though.

If Sa Maj were our human child, we would be picking up his bed and physically tipping him out (and possibly also making him get a job, as a 9-year-old cat is probably about 50 in human years). But, because he is a cat, he just gets to lie around in his pit and not deal with any other living souls if he doesn’t want to. And the worst we will do is complain about him to strangers on the internet and transform his convertible igloo into the warmer-weather bowl shape.  

Is it possible to be disgusted at his laziness and, at the same time, envious of his life?