Karl Lagerfeld is Officially a (Fellow) Crazy Cat Lady

by sassandbite


Karl Lagerfeld is my spirit animal. I adore him. As an artist he’s a genius, obviously; more than that, he has great personal style, he doesn’t put up with Heidi Klum’s pretensions to high fashion supermodel-dom, and everything he does is both gloriously over-the-top and somehow totally normal/expected. He’s eccentric in the best possible way, and the man has a way with words. The shit that comes out of his mouth is just, I can’t even do justice to it. He puts bitches in their place. He just says exactly what he thinks, even if half the time it only halfway makes sense. But it doesn’t even matter because it’s so entertaining, and he’s not trying to be. Karl Lagerfeld is not trying to make you laugh — he doesn’t care what you think, he’s just going to blithely tell everyone what he thinks. I will someday do a post dedicated solely to my favorite things he’s ever said on any subject and all the outrageous things he does on the daily as if they were nothing, but for right now I just want to focus on one aspect of his divinity: the fact that he is, like me, a crazy cat lady.


His Siamese cat Choupette has been declared (by him, first) “the most beautiful and famous cat in the world”; she has been profiled multiple times by Vanity Fair, i-D, and Harper’s Bazaar, among other publications; she got a shout-out from Cathy Horyn of the New York Times; she has her own Twitter and Pinterest accounts as well as a detailed Wikipedia page. She is an absolutely beautiful cat and I just want to put her in my pocket! Although I’m sure she’d insist upon a Chanel bag, given that she has her own iPad, two maids, and eats from a four-piece setting of silver Goyard dishes. You could not make this shit up.


And he just rhapsodizes about her. He dedicates entire interviews to discussing her. He assigns her human qualities and won’t hear of anything less. In typical Karl artistic over-the-topness, he gives a simple physical description of her as “snow white with touches of caramel around the eyes, ears and on her endless boa-like feather tail”, and “really a stunning beauty”. He lets her sit on his papers even as he’s working, which any cat owner knows is a constant struggle, authors her Twitter account (which is actually really clever), has the maids keep a diary of her behavior when he isn’t around. She’s his muse. Being Karl Lagerfeld’s muse is all I want in life! (Although I would also settle for being muse to Keith Richards or Mick Jagger). The point is that Choupette lives a lifestyle I can only dream of. And she’s prettier than me.

The cementing factor in his status as a crazy cat lady: he recently said he would marry her if he could. We have so much in common. Get at me, Karl.