The Diaspora, Part IV: The Departure (Remixed)

Day One:

Sad! Sad! Sad!

“Good-bye, Mr. Smitty!”

“Good-bye, Mr. Smee!”

Mr. Smitty’s eyes averted, head down, lost in thought…

(his peculiar combination of denial and dissing you that is S.O.P. for the feline of the species, it seems)

“--ANY-way!”

“We’ll be back soon, Mr. Smitty!”

(“No we won’t.”

“Shoots!”)

“We’ll be back just before you forget who we are.”

The Smitty thinks: “Jus’ as long you get back an; fee’me, yo!”

[the replacing of dropped letters with apostrophes indicates a misguided attempt by the Misters to ebonically ventriloquize the Smitty – a practice against which legal proceedings are being initiated as we speak – ed.]

The Diaspora, Part III: The Interregnum

As our gentle reader(s?) may recall from previous (tedious) blog entries, The Misters had to shuttle between their house and the Ponderosa to dog-s(h?)it.

The entirety of the experience is herein catalogued and indexed in the kind of excruciating detail one has come to expect in the (Too Much?) Information Age:

(WARNING: the following contains material suitable only for persons suffering from (The?) O.C.D., Catophilia, or any like obsession.)

Abandon all taste, ye who enter here!

DAY # 6:

Alone for many hours sans <>, the Smee could be fancy-free:

Standing up on two legs and dancing (as we know he is wont to do when no one is looking

--much in the way popes want to s(h?)it in the woods, but since no one is there it doesn’t make a sound).

But mostly, the Smitty fills his long hours away waiting for the return of any (or all) Misters by hanging with his peeps, who comfort him by imitating velvet-paintings of dogs smoking cigars and playing poker.

Mr. Smitty always wins, of course

-- and smokes the Cohiba, of course!

Mister Smitty’s Peeps

Mister Smitty has peeps!

The Smitty’s peeps include:

1. Mini-Me, the small white furry smitty who perpetrates the main smitty
(hard to tell which is which in the dark, yo) and

2. the fluffy, faux-Princess smitty (bigger, tougher, greyer) who has a sweet face but who don’t get around much anymore.

Other smitties are queuing up to be part of Mister Smitty’s entourage, but at press time they had not cleared the lengthy interview and vetting process --

--“lengthy” because the “viewin’ ‘n vettin’” is done in the slim window of time when Mr. Smitty isn’t sleeping, eating, or sitting in a Mister’s lap.

Avocado Advocate

Mister Smitty hunted an avocado!

(sound of one avocado falling)

“Uh-oh. What’s that sound, Mr. Smee?”

The Smitty (always on the alert to sounds) thinks, “Mouse, pro’ly,” plunges into the undergrowth, and emerges with dark matter in his mouth.

“Quick. Close the door!” (so as not to have him run inside with a half-dead “rich gift” for The Misters.)

“But what if it’s just an avocado, yo?”

“Then he’s pro’ly mashing it up to put on his face as moisturizer.”

“Shoots. Pro’ly.”

Comrade Smitski

Mr. Smitty is a high-ranking member of the Politburo!

Mister Smitty had his front feet up on the railing (see artist’s rendering) to take his place (symbolically) aside the other cryptically placed members of the Central Committee for their yearly May Day photo-op.

(Like a sock-hop, only seriouser).

Comrade Smitski appeared very auspiciously placed between Comrade Smitskov (Da, pravda!) and Comrade Smitskovich (ochen menoga!)

Horrorshow, Comrade Smitski!

Treed, Part Four : The Aftermath(matics)

“Mister, you saved The Smitty!

“Mister, I did.”

“Does The Smitty need to speak to a counselor?”

“Mister, he does.”

“We could call his mom. She’s a counselor.”

“But is trauma the same for cats as for humans?”

“We need a cat-whisperer –kine counselor.”

[All right, time-out: we must step in here and cut off this obvious attempt to set up for a sequel to this already tired “Treed” tetralogy – ed]

[Yeah! What he said! – other ed.]