On ne brisera pas les hommes

I have just returned home after a night away, having left the gentlemen of the household alone for a whole twenty-four hours.

Cat Daddy sent me many Catorze photos during my absence, proving that, for all his besmirching of us cat freaks, he is very much one of our number. This one was accompanied by the word “‘Elmo” and, after some confusion wondering who on earth Elmo was, I discovered that he had meant to write “‘Ello” but it had been autocorrected:

Nothing Saintly about this Elmo.

I thought perhaps at least one of the boys might be pleased to have me back, but this is what took place upon my return:

[Lots of Boys’ Club cuddles]

Me: “I haven’t seen him for a whole day, and he’s not even interested in saying hello.”

Cat Daddy: “Well, that’s because you abandoned him! [Turns to Louis Catorze:] Didn’t she? She abandoned us. It was just the two of us, wasn’t it? And didn’t we have the BEST time?”

Catorze: “Mwah!”

Me: “ …”

[More Boys’ Club cuddles]

Me: “ …”

It turns out that, during my absence, Cat Daddy had intended to shut the bedroom door overnight but, after a few too many Mâcon Villages, he had relented and left it open. So the little sod had pitter-pattered in and gorged himself senseless on the feeling of having his daddy to himself all night. And the pair of them are more smug and pleased with themselves than ever before.

This was Cat Daddy’s view when he woke up on Sunday morning:


Right now as I write, I am relegated to the end of the sofa whilst the boys continue their love-up. Such is life as the second favourite human in Le Château.

Le soir des rois, ou Ce que vous voudrez

Someone once told me, “Never eat anything bigger than your head” and, given that I have a head so fat that I can’t wear paper party hats without splitting them, I have been able to abide by this for most of my life without feeling that I am missing out.

Imagine, then, eating something bigger than your entire body. Considerably bigger, in fact. Louis Catorze had the opportunity to do exactly this when Cat Daddy bought a whole leg of jamón serrano for a ham and cheese night with friends. As you know, Catorze doesn’t really like food, but he won’t say non to some cured ham and, if it’s several times his own bodyweight, tant mieux.

Oui, Mesdames et Messieurs: nothing says “good hosting” quite like serving guests the same food that you gave to your cat to make him take his meds.

Cat Daddy: “It isn’t the same food that we gave to our cat to make him take his meds. We gave him the much higher-quality jambon de Bayonne.”

You’re welcome, les invités.

Anyway, unlike most cats, who hide from party guests or have to be shut away to minimise their own stress levels, Louis Catorze attended our gathering, even though he wasn’t invited. And, bien sûr, he conspicuously chose the boys’ corner of the room and mingled like a true socialite. It was like watching Hugh Hefner in the Playboy Mansion: spoilt for choice and not knowing what to do with himself.

And, yes, the little sod did get a few slivers of jamón, too.

Bonne année à tous!

Ma plus grande faiblesse est ma sensibilité


We have had a wonderful time in Somerset with Cat Daddy’s hilarious family. (Who else but they would be bonkers enough to wear sombreros and make margaritas on Christmas Day?) But, sadly, our festivities were somewhat marred by the fact that I am still ill, with all-night coughing and sweating. Being ill at Christmas really is the pits, because the next person to be struck down will probably get it in time for New Year’s Eve, and will definitely know that it’s from you (and hate you for it). And now I have come home to a cat who couldn’t care less if he tried, which isn’t helping.

Louis Catorze doesn’t like sick people. In fact, I’d go as far as to say that it’s more than mere “dislike”: it’s pure and unadulterated contempt. On Christmas Eve I happened to sneeze whilst sitting next to him, and the little sod glared at me and let out a nasty meow of utter loathing. He wasn’t even on my lap at the time, but clearly his abhorrence was such that he couldn’t/wouldn’t tolerate my sickness even on the periphery of his cosy little Boys’ Club bubble.

If cats can have a sixth sense for unhelpful things such as paranormal activity and when their humans are coming home from work, why the heck can’t they pick up on the fact that we are sick and show us a little love? Or, at the very least, just not be such cruel and heartless shites?

I am presently curled up at one end of the sofa, sneezing, sniffing and guzzling green tea with mint. Cat Daddy and his boy are cuddled up together at the other end, watching what appears to be every single Mike Tyson fight, back to back, in chronological order. And I have just looked down into my tea and seen a clump of cat hair floating in it. I don’t suppose Cat Daddy will make me any more, because he can’t possibly disturb Sa Majesté.

Perhaps, next Christmas, I should remind Catorze that Santa only visits good kitties who are kind to their mammas?