Les merveilles de l’hiver

There are many fun things that can be done in the snow, but I don’t suppose schlepping to the vet to pick up Louis Catorze’s Broadline is one of them.

Cat Daddy came with me but he wasn’t the best company, complaining all the way about Catorze and his inconvenient, money-haemorrhaging connerie. And, because the walk took us a few minutes longer than usual due to slipping and sliding on the ice and snow, that meant I had to listen to more complaining.

When we got there and were told how much it was, Cat Daddy swept his contactless card across the scanner thing but it was declined.

Vet: “I’m afraid you can only use contactless for payments under £30.”
Cat Daddy. “Oh. Did you not say it was £14?”
Vet: “Erm, no. £44.”

Silence, tumbleweed, crickets. And, after we had paid and left, Cat Daddy complained about Catorze and his money-haemorrhaging connerie all the way home again. Sa Majesté, meanwhile, had been out enjoying some snow play and hadn’t even noticed we had gone.

It’s a good thing we have Le Royal Sick Fund. And it’s a good thing we love the little sod.

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Il y a de l’orage dans l’air

Louis Catorze doesn’t like storms. Who knew?

Well, I didn’t. But I do now, thanks to his decision to inform me at regular half-hourly intervals, all the way through last night. And, comme d’habitude, Cat Daddy slept through both the storm and the whining.

I understand that thunder and howling gales aren’t everyone’s thing, but telling me once would have sufficed. And, if you don’t like them, you’d just stay away from them, right? NON! Judging by the wetness of Sa Majesté’s fur each time he woke me up, it seems that, for reasons that I cannot fathom, he chose to keep going out and sitting in the rain for at least 15 minutes before then coming indoors to express his outrage. I just don’t understand it at all.

Just one blog post ago, I was bragging that, perhaps, I had underestimated the little sod’s intelligence. Now I am wondering exactly what planet he’s on.

Cat Daddy: “Probably Uranus.”

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Sous mon parapluie, pluie, pluie

This afternoon and evening they issued a severe weather warning in some parts of the U.K.: gales, heavy rain, possible flash flooding, you name it. How typical, then, that Louis Catorze should choose today to slip unseen out of the house whilst Cat Daddy was chaining up his bike outside, and end up stuck out at The (Forbidden) Front for ages.

On my arrival home, after working late, I was greeted by a yowling black cat in the front garden, and I knew immediately that no other cat would be stupid enough to be out in this weather. Luckily for Catorze, when our new media unit arrived we dumped all the packaging temporarily in the front garden, along with the old unit (I know – we’re a classy bunch) so he had been using it as a kind of makeshift Anderson shelter. And it was somewhat reassuring to know that he’d probably been there the whole time and hadn’t felt the slightest inclination to go wandering.

Le Roi is now safe, dry and pitter-pattering about Le Château, chirping and trilling. “It sounds like he’s asking us to switch off the storm so that he can go out,” said Cat Daddy. “Well, even if I could, I wouldn’t. He doesn’t deserve it. He’s a little shit.”