Power of Prayer

Mister Smitty likes to pray!

“Mister, The Smitty is a very prayerful smitty.”

“Mister, what’s he praying for?”

(Let’s listen in, shall we? (dreamy music, blurry dissolve…))

“Yo, I’m praying for peace, love, and understanding.”

“Mister, the Smee is cute when he prays.”

“That’s ‘cos I prayed for some cuteness -- and I got it!”

Homie Soit, Qui Miao y Pense

Mister Smitty defends his honor!

“MIAAAOOUUU!!!”

“Mister, I do believe we are experiencing a catfight up in here.”

With that, That Mister boldly sprang into action to defend The Smee from his screeching nemesis.

Meantime, The Smee, racing to safety with ears fear-flattened back upon’s wee head, wide-eyed and busy-tailed, was most appreciative for the intervention.

“Mister, his human peeps showed up as his muscle.”

“Yeah. What he said,” said the tuckered-out, hunkered-down Smee.

Just a Hair’s Breath

Mister Smitty is generous with his hairs!

Just give him a pet (or a pat) …

(or should we say a gender-neutral fondling)

… and you’ll/one’ll/he-she-shir’ll shall surely find themselves full of white fluff from The Smee’s hairy back, bum, head, nether regions, et al.

These hairs float off slowly, wraith-like, fluffy et ceteras, like the flickering evanescent  letters of this blog, the forgotten key-strokes, mouse-clicks, tick-tocks, heart-beats, yea, the great globs (of hair) themselves, and leave not a (nice) rack behind...

We card such fluff as The Smee has made us (and our little Smee is rounded by a sleep).

All Ears, part II: Screech & Sniff

The fight to #SavetheSmee’sEars ticked up a step in intensity today when The Smee exercised his “sassy” tactics vis-a-vis the Vet.

“I don’t care if you’re all medical and officialicious with your white coats, you ain’t takin’ my ears!”

(said The Smee with his eyes).

“I got my own white coat, see?” he added. “I’ll do my own doctoring and vetting myself!”

(said The Smee in his inimitable Paw’n Screech language).

Sassed within an inch of their patience, the non non-plussed vets relented, backed off the knife, and The Smee’s ears went on to live another day.

All Ears, part 1: Schizo-frenetic Smee

When The Smee got an earful of The Misters’ Abrahamic plan to put his ears under the knife, well, you can imagine, those Misters got themselves an earful:

“I’se actually gonna submit at first, but then I realized they’re trying to get at that secret code in my ears so they can break into bank accounts and such,” posited a paranoid Smee.

“Mister, it’s a phishing scam to get The Smee’s sensitive informations.”

“Phish I don’t mind,” countered The Smee, “but don’t put me on the wrong side of the bait ‘cos I ain’t gonna do nothing phishy up in dere…”

… and thusly The Smee prates on in typical paranoid schizophrenic mode about peeps wanting to peep into his ears, the secret agenda of the vets.

(Unbeknownst to The Smee, the Misters have already divulged that information to The Smee’s medical team -- partly so that genetic Smee-cell research can begin to clone a line of Smees (an attempt to make the world a happier place with blogs like this one)).

“You’re really phishing now, Mister.”

Grime Time Smee

Mister Smitty is a grease monkey!

When The Smee came back with dirts on his ears and back, we dutifully commencified with some heavy petting -- but to no avail.

“Mister, these dirts are stuck.”

“Mister, it’s probably grease from The Smee’s investimigation of the undersides of the Misters’ cars.”

“Mister, The Smee does insist on smelling up’n under the tires and such whenever a car parks ‘Up in the Heights’ [of the driveway].”

“He’s just gettin’ a bit too thorough for his peeps to take care of.”

White Drivel-edge

Mister Smitty is a white male!

“Yo, it’s hard to be white.”

[Here we go … (ed.)]

White cats are high maintenance cats -- always lickin’ themselfs, cleanin’ & preenin’

“Life is hard,” they lament, “when you’re white!”

We at mistersmitty.com can only try to commiserate with these long-suffering males, victims of “white plight.”

Inspector Smee of the DMV

Need your car inspected? Ask Mr. Smitty!

Anytime a new vehicle shows up i’the ‘hood, the Smitty goes out to inspectify.

He’s got to smell all the tires (to discover the most recent been-there, done-that), chase up under your chassis, do some brake-dancing, look out for leaks, and generally luxuriate in the shade your rig provides him.

If you’re lucky, he’ll pop up on your ‘hood or even do a walk-through of your roof.

And if you want his optional inspection of sleeping spots on your back seat, just leave your window open!

Mister Smee has ADD (Adventurizing-Deficit Disorder)

“I can’t get no decent adventurizing goin’ on in this ‘hood, yo!”

Sequestered with the Misters in the semi-quasi-urban interregnum [read: concrete jungle] of this bleached bardo babylon, the Smee can’t cavort very far before he encounters concrete, cars, children, dogs, etc.

“It’s beastly, yo. I mean, it ain’t civilized. Well, it IS civilized -- OVER-civilized. Such an overdeveloped sense of being civilized that it’s uncivilized … yo.”

“We feel your pain, Mr. Smee!”

“Barely enough greenery to brush my teeths on!”

“Mister, see? There’s only one letter difference between dental hygiene and mental hygiene.”

Behind Closed Doors

The Smitty has an open-door policy.

“Don’t shut that door!”

The Smee does not tolerate finding a closed door in his path.

“Don’t be shutting that bathroom door. How am I supposed to drink my water?”

If the bathroom door closes, the Smee camps out in front of it like a homemaker at dawn on Black Friday.

“Open the door!”

The Smee demands complete transparency!

A Killing Smee

Mister Smitty went on a killing spree!

“Mister, ho-hum, the Smee has killed another birdy.”

“Mister -- yawn -- that’s nice.”

“And ate it.”

“No like waste um, huh, Mr. Smee?”

[burp]

“Who’s going to clean up the feathers?”

“I prefer not to,” quoth Mr. Smartlesmee, the Smallbirdkiller.

Mister Smitty is a real outdoorsman!

The Smitty likes to hunt … and fish!

Staring into the puddle caused by the flooding carport (see previous [read: tedious] post), The Smee stretches out his paw to fish bare-handed (local style, yah?). Like any big-game hunter, the Smee is fearless and persistent (until bored).

A gent of a more literary bent might see in the Smee’s pond-gazing an allusion to Narcissus.

Fortunately (dear huntin’-’n-fishin’ enthusiast-reader), you won’t have to pry that mythical reference from my cold dead fingers!

Mister Smitty and the Case of the Creepy Water

Slowly, the water creeps along the Misters’ concrete carport floor, fixin’ to flood (agin).

Mr. Smitty runs over to watch the crawling, expanding puddle inch, lurch toward him.

“Mr. Smitty, you’re on the case!”

The Smee issues his challenges to the creeping water: “Think you can crawl up so slowly I won’t notice-ify? … Don’t be trying to get around my eagle eye by creeping under that mat, yo.”

“Mister, the Smee is busting that rainwater.”

“Mister, he is sacrificing himself by throwing his body in front of the oncoming flood in order to save his Misters!”

(in unison) “Thank you, Mr. Smee!”

Yawn of the Dead

The Misters are a crashing bore!

“I can barely stay awake,” divulges the Smee.

(Much yawning and sleeping of the Smee abounds <>)

What’s an inquisitive public to think (especially with a cat that sleeps 18 of 24 hours)?

“Mister, are we boring?”

“Mister, IDK. Let’s sit and think about it for, like, two weeks.”

“Sounds fun!”

The Smee :“See what I mean?”

Bloody Matins

Mister Smitty enjoys concerts!

-- Bird concerts, of a morning, that is. The delicate “twittery-tweet-tweet,” the raucous “ki-ki-ri-ki”, the existentially poignant “po-tuit,” the plaintively wahhabi-sobby “ugu-et-su”...

“Yeah,” opines the Smee, “ I like to listen to their delicate songs … then kill ‘em and eat ‘em!”

Nerve, Anna! (part 2)

Free from fleas, the Smee can now eschew costly diggings-at and lickings-of hisself 24/7, to, instead, reach NIrvana.

Relaxified, the Smee can contemplate and meditate on things-not-of-this-world-that-try-to-eat-his-skin.

[Ed.: What? I thought he was trying to reach Nirvana?]

{Other Ed.: Can’t. They disbanded.]

Nerve on a ... (part 1)

Mister Smitty likes his Smee juice!

The addition of the monthly high-end flea-off compound (delivered by high-end veterinary establishments and purveyors of high-end goods) ends on a high: the Smee is flea-free!

It’s almost a musical moment!

“Oh, what a ceiling!

“C’mon baby (un)light my fire.”

The Smee can now experience a full release from samsarry-ass flea-bitten existence!

Paws Butt-in

Mister Smitty likes to take his waters in the bathroom. The tiles are cooling on his wee paw-pads. Old cat saying: “pause where the paws are coolest.”

Much opprobrium and brouhaha has gone down to discover the paws that refreshes

(this pun is under construction).

[Can we cut the funding so the “construction” never finishes? -- ed.]

(this, but a pause in the greater story).

[I hope. Any story would be “greater” than this one! -- ed.]

Catnip Intervention

“Mister, I never understand what to do with catnip.”

“What? You give it to the Smee, he OD’s, stays out in the rain all blissed out, and we have to do an intervention.”

“Oh, right. I remember.”

Meanwhile, the Smee is thinking:

“This is a lot of talk about catnip without that I get to see any of the goods.”

“Mister it looks like Mary Jane Juana.”

“That’s cos it’s a dime bag of catnip.”

Met ‘em Psychosis

The Smee is like a cocktail onion!

Cute, round, and white, the Smee/cocktail onion charms one due to his/its unearthly pseudo-albino-inity (to indulge in some Greek roots).

[Ed.: Reader, beware: the writer of this entry fancies himself a cunning linguist and cocktail onion enthusiast]

“What? You think I’m going to break into song, quoting Sappho and the Greek Fragments?”

(Note to self: Why not? The blogosphere’s memory is, like, 2 weeks. “And still not forgot? Why then a great man’s memory might outlive him half a year.”)

Yes, but i’ the 21st Century, who can wait that long to find out?