Foreplay

     The Smee’s main objective may be his foods, but first he flirts: rubbing against legs as The Misters prepare their dinner (thinking (falsely) that The Smee is being friendly).
     Nope: it’s the smell of the foods! 
     And, sadly, it’s not even foreplay.
      For when those dim Mister still don’t get that all he wants is food, he marches over to his dish, sits his wee bum down, twists his head back over his shoulder and seems to say,
    “Enough foreplay, human. Give me my foods!”

   

   

Le Chat C’est Moi

Like a guest from an exotic land who seems blithely unaware of your cherished cultural mores, The Smee lays himself down whenever – and wherever – he deems it fit.

“Noblesse oblige, yo.”

“Mo’ or Lese Majeste, no’m sayin’?”

Faux Paws, Part II: The Icebag Numbeth

After a recent storm – which necessitated the purchase of bags-o-ice, one such bag had to be unceremoniously jettisoned from the freezer in order to make room for artisanally crafted vodkas and the like –

“ANY-way!”

Yes, anyway, the Exiled Ice Bag did, in certain slants of light, look, on the porch, like The Smee.

“Hello, Mr. Sm---. Oops!”

“Mister, that’s a tricky bag of ice. I thought it was The Smee!”

“Mister, he want us to think that!

Faux Paws, Part I: Quit Abstractin’ Me!

The Misters’ recent consumer industrial complex purchase of a porch heater left large unsightly molded styrofoam halves

-- one which was carted off by the county, the other, storm-strewn, had to be retrieved from a ditch and currently inflates The Misters’ (otherwise shrinking) carbon footprint –

“ANY-way…”!

Anyway, the whiteness of the styrofoam whale, lodged at some 20 yards from the house, can, in dim light, be taken for The Smee.

[coherence, finally! – ed.]

“Mister Smitty… Oh shoots! That’s not The Smee. It’s the styrofoam sculpture … of The Smee.”

“But wildly abstractified: The Smee has no right angles like that.”

“Except when he folds his front leg back.”

“Tru dat.”