“Mr. Smeetee is playing with a grasshopper.”
(He found it in Mister’s slippahs).
“He’s petting it.”
“Checking it out, pro’ly.”
“Mister can try move the wall to let him ec-scape?”
I move the wall so a crack of railing shows. The grasshopper tries to get away, but Mister Smitt-tit-tee keeps it close, like a hand of cards.
Poor grasshopper!
The grasshopper goes away from the railing, back toward the sliding glass, and ends up between the Misters’ chairs. The Smit’ follows along or runs in front, bemused, but totally in control.
He doesn’t pet it.
He doesn’t eat it.
When I come back from answering the phone, The grasshopper is gone and Mr. Smitty has moved on to staring East as he is wont to do of an afternoon, morning, or anytime, really.
It’s where the wind’s from.
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