At a sidewalk café along the Seine, on the ile de la C(m)ite, patrons sip their petits cafes and sketch the Smee.These cafes, clearly fronts for “kitty crack” (catnip), are perpetually h(a)unted by the Smee in search of his proverbial dragon, his Uncle Charlie, his fix.
Upon a routine (read “next-to-never”) cleaning of the Smee’s food delivery system, the aforementioned Smee jumped up onto his food’s shelf.
“Mister, he wants to plumb the mysterious recesses of his food-horde, his cache, his walk-in pantry.”
“Mister, The Smee is doing inventory.”
“He’s helping us look for the kitty crack!”
