The Crowded Unknowing

Much tizzy-ing, tussling, and twitter-pating ensued (as The Misters waited for the re-biopsy of deeper Smitational ear tissues gleaned from the scabrous nubbin).

“Does The Smee have a living will -- or a will to live?”

“What would he look like without ears -- tragically snipp?”

RING !!

“Hello, is this The Misters?”

“Who wants to know, yo?”

“It’s the Vet.”

(That crash you hear is my stomach dropping).

“We can’t find any cancer.”

Haloo! Hurray!

The floors of the executive offices burst into ecstatic hoopla as writers, et al. jump up and down on their desks in celebration of The Smee’s apparent health.

And so the delusion of immortality extends its all-too-short-a lease another day...

Never on a Sun Day

After much hand-wringing and nail-biting that call from the Vet came

(The whip came down, the alea were jacta’ed and the jeux were faited).

From the official report:

“The thick black nubbin [on the sunny side of The Smee’s ear] has a dry, crusty, scabrous quality suggesting dead skin, infection, possible pre-cancerous lesions…”

Response:

“Keep that cat out of the sun, yo! Don’t you know nothing about white cats?”

“Mister, who’s going to break it to The Smee?”

“That he’s possibly got cancer of the ears and can’t go out in the sun?”

“No, that he’s white.”

“Too Much i’the Sun”

Mister Smitty has a growth!

Solutions:

           

a) juice the wound with $pecial $auce

           

b) keep The Smee outta the sun (to skulk only by night)

Dark days for The Smee!

Pictures were quickly taken of The Smee’s as-yet-intact ears to preserve their memory.