Vive l’indifférence

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It’s been just over a week since my surgery, and what a week it’s been. We’ve had some British Wimbledon wins, a French football failure, and Louis Catorze is still fiercely waging his campaign of apathy towards me.

He’s not unhappy, nor is he descending into his allergic state (quite the opposite, in fact: it’s been over 2 months since his last steroid shot and he’s still riding high on it). He and I have the odd moment at bedtime when he naps at my feet but, during the day, he steers clear of me. Then, when Cat Daddy comes home, he races to the door to greet him, as if to say, “Merci à Dieu!”

A friend mentioned the fact that he might object to my hospitally smell, in the same way that some cats reject their kittens/buddies when they return from the vet and smell vetty. But, surely, even with my mess of Medusa-like tendrils of hospital hair, he can see that it’s me and not some impostor?

Another friend suggested that Louis Catorze might be so intelligent that he’d figured out that I can’t pick him up or bend to stroke him, so he was thoughtfully saving me the strain of trying by avoiding me. Believe me, it’s not that.

Cat Daddy’s response, when I complained about Catorze’s treachery: “But he’s always liked me better. He isn’t doing anything different now and therefore, technically, hasn’t betrayed you.”

Silence, tumbleweed, crickets. I get the feeling that will be the theme of the next few weeks.

La France prospérera?

I don’t know why we’re bothering, but here we are. Again.

And Cat Daddy has done a massive U-turn: not only did he agree to letting Louis Catorze make a prediction for the France v Switzerland match, but he took responsibility for researching an appropriate representative for the Swiss plate. The result of his efforts is, erm, a Swiss mountain dog.

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This time Le Roi bouffed both Dreamies, but curiously lifted the Swiss one away from the plate first before eating it off the floor (bottom left photo). What could this mean, Mesdames et Messieurs?

My view: a French win (based on Catorze’s form for the last match, i.e. a result that is not in any way indicative of what takes place on the predicting plates).

Cat Daddy’s view, expressed after I asked him for the 4th or 5th time whilst he was engrossed in a TV debate about the EU referendum: “Oh, for God’s sake, I don’t bloody know. It probably means he was hungry.”

On verra …

Le Roi se trompe: vive Le Roi!

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Oh, Louis Catorze: you are a sweet cat, but a rubbish psychic.

Luckily he doesn’t know that he’s rubbish. He thinks he’s doing great. After the final whistle of France v Albania, he came screaming into the room, tail up, as if to say, “See? Wasn’t I just MAGNIFIQUE?” Erm, not really. But I cuddled him anyway and he purred, wafted sweet lime into my face and then trotted out, none the wiser.

So, France v Switzerland on Sunday: is there any point in a last-ditch attempt at that one? Cat Daddy says no. In fact, his very words were: “He’s shit. It’s beyond humiliating now. Please stop.”

L’égalité?

Usually, when things go wrong, we do everything possible not to end up there again. Today, however, we decided to give Louis Catorze the benefit of the doubt and let him have another stab at the football prediction.

And he has an unlikely cheerleader in the form of Cat Daddy, which is a surprise given how cross he was when the last attempt went awry. Not only is he championing our boy’s second chance, but he is even suggesting that perhaps we were at fault before for not understanding Louis Catorze’s strategy. Cat Daddy’s theory is that Le Roi was eating the LOSING team, not the winner. And I have to admit that it makes more sense to leave the victor intact and to obliterate the loser.

So, with Napoléon once again representing France, with King Zog of Albania flying the flag for his people, and, most importantly, with enough iPhone storage to record the event (having deleted 300 cat photos over the weekend and leaving a mere, erm, 1,000 on my phone), this time Catorze predicted … a draw.

There is no way on EARTH that this could be right. I sense impending embarrassment.

Oh dear.

Je ne suis pas Paul le poulpe

Although we had a fabulous time watching the football with Cocoa the babysit cat’s folks on Friday night, Louis Catorze’s match prediction was a disaster in every way. I’m not remotely bothered because it’s not as if anyone is going to judge him for it (apart from, erm, the whole internet), and he himself is about as unbothered as one can be.

But Cat Daddy, who had hoped that Louis Catorze would become the feline equivalent of Paul the octopus, isn’t taking it too well. “Useless piece of fur! He had one job, and that was to EAT! I’m shocked, but not that surprised, that a fleshy sea spider with a tiny brain is cleverer than he is.”

Actually, octopi are supposed to be very intelligent and cognitively evolved, and I told Cat Daddy this, to which he replied, “Yes, intelligent among molluscs. AMONG MOLLUSCS. So just about cleverer than a slug, yet still cleverer than our cat.” Oh dear.

Catorze’s official Euro 2016 photo shoot yesterday evening was also somewhat chiant, with outtake after outtake sucking up the storage on my phone and (I suspect) being what tipped me over the edge and left me with insufficient space for the match prediction video. We did get this one beautiful shot (below), and, as they say on America’s Next Top Model, “You only need one shot”. But it would have been helpful not to have to sit through all the rubbish ones, during which the silly sod wriggled, rolled stupidly and, at one point, rubbed his arse over France (which was probably considered high treason during the days of the human Sun King).

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Anyway, the next French game is on Wednesday; let’s see if Louis Catorze can kick-start his predictive powers by then.

Le foot rentre chez nous

The Euro 2016 football tournament, which is held in Le Roi’s fatherland this year, starts today with France v Romania. Louis Catorze could not be more excited. He’s not showing it on the outside, but we know he feels it in his heart and that he’s hoping Les Bleus will bring it home.

In honour of this magnificent event, we decided to see whether Louis Catorze’s powers of perception were as finely-tuned as those of his brother, Luther, who, at the last World Cup, correctly predicted the result of England’s opening game by hoofing down the Italian bresaola and not even acknowledging the English Cumberland sausage.

Obviously this was going to be more of a challenge with a cat who doesn’t like food. So, with Napoléon as the face of France and UKIP’s Nigel Farage dutifully representing the Romanians (as a gesture of goodwill following his unkind remarks about them), we put Louis Catorze to the test with a very special occasion Dreamie atop a pile of Arcana Pacifica. The first to be eaten would be the winner of the opening game.

(And no, he’s not usually allowed Dreamies, ever. But, just this once, we thought we’d faire les choses en grand.)

So this is how things went:

1. No reaction whatsoever for several minutes
2. My video fails due to not enough space on my phone (too many cat photos)
3. Brief interest in the French plate, which Cat Daddy captures on his phone
4. His recording fails too (although he won’t say what’s taking up the space on his phone)
5. OFF CAMERA, THE ROMANIAN DREAMIE IS EATEN; THE FRENCH ONE STILL REMAINS UNTOUCHED AT THE TIME OF POSTING

We are in shock: this is not at all what we wanted or expected and we don’t quite know what to do with ourselves now.

Louis Catorze is sunning himself on the patio and couldn’t give a shit.

J’adore mes invités

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This weekend Louis Catorze had another visit from one of his many internet admirers. Cat Daddy rolled his eyes when I told him of this lady’s impending arrival. “Not because I mind people coming,” he said, “but because it must be such a massive anti-climax for them when they see Louis.”

Excuse-moi?

“They’re probably too polite to say, ‘We came all the way here for THIS?'” he continued. “And I don’t suppose it’s possible for them to post a message on the forum warning others not to bother coming, without you reading it too. So there’s going to be a perpetual stream of people coming, feeling disappointed and then leaving. Like being trapped in an eternal cycle of samsara without ever reaching nirvana.”

At this point I had to Google what the heck he was on about, hoping to catch him out by saying, “Actually, samsara is Hindu but nirvana is Buddhist” or some such thing but, annoyingly, he appeared to have got it right.

I told Cat Daddy that everyone who had visited Louis Catorze thus far had found him nothing but delightful (although this is probably because, when he’s feeling unwell and anti-social, I don’t have people round). “In that case, we should give everyone something to make their pilgrimage worthwhile,” Cat Daddy said. “Like those rosaries and trinkets that they sell at Lourdes. I think it would be hilarious to arm all the cat freaks in London with Louis Catorze stuff.”

Ok, so … you think people would be disappointed by our cat so, to compensate them, you wish to give them a keepsake of said disappointing cat? A keepsake in the style of a SAINTLY RELIC? There is no logic whatsoever in that, yet I do agree that it would be funny. A little creepy, and the kind of thing that some sort of subversive cult leader would do, but also funny.

So I shall happily take suggestions from Le Roi’s followers: what sort of merchandise would make you feel adequately recompensed for an “anti-climactic” trip to TW8? Fridge magnets? Key rings? Prayer candles? Do please reply and let us know. And, if you have already visited him, don’t worry: retrospective gifts can be sent to you so that you don’t miss out, even if you have come from overseas.

Oh my. So one day Louis Catorze is washing his arse and puking on the floor, and the next he’s being deified. No doubt this would seem weird to most but, when it comes to him and his ridiculous life, tout est possible.

J’adore faire la moue

In the almost-11 months that Louis Catorze has lived with us, I have experienced the Post-Meds Sulk. I have also been on the receiving end of the Post-Meds Mega-Sulk. I once even thought I was being shown a Post-Meds Mega-Sulk With Hunger Strike but, in actual fact, Louis Catorze is both stupid and unmotivated by food, so it’s likely he just forgot to eat. However, yesterday he introduced me to a whole new phenomenon: the Selective Sulk.

The SS is so insidious that you barely know it’s happening; or rather, the Sulk is very much present but the Selective element sneaks up on you somewhat. After medicating him and subsequently being ignored during what I believed to be a PMS, Cat Daddy came home from work and I vented my dissatisfaction about Louis Catorze’s miserableness. Seconds later, the little sod slinked out of La Cage and was on his daddy’s lap for their nightly Club Des Garçons cuddle session.

Not long after that, my friend came round and we sat outside with some drinks. Again, not long after I complained about my grumpy sod of a cat and told her not to expect to see him that evening, he meowed for her attention and trotted up to her with his tail up, purring and nuzzling. Sigh.

This must be what it’s like to have a kid who is sweet-as-candy to everyone else but is a total arse when you’re home alone. As well as this not being very nice, it makes you come across as a fantasist or a liar when you bleat about his objectionable behaviour. “What do you mean, he misbehaves/sulks/treats you like dirt? Look at him! He’s so cuddly and sweet!” Yeah, because I really have the time and the inclination to make this shit up.

At worst, rather than simply disbelieving you, they actually blame you. “Maybe it’s because you smother him,” Cat Daddy helpfully said recently. Ok, so when our only Louis-compatible duvet needed cleaning and we were forced to use an allergy-triggering feather one, who paid for an expensive same-day clean because they thought Louis Catorze “looked sad” shut out on the landing? Not moi.

I could buy the most amazing shoes with the money I’m spending on an allergy test for this ungrateful boy of mine. In fact, I’ve already seen some that I want …