Security Breach Part III: Bunch of Frags

Sirs,

A partial restoration (read: conjectured reconstruction) of what we, in our expert opinion, believe to be the contents of the deteriorating blog entry MS#65(+X):

“I am the Smitty and he is mine.”

“He tempteth me to walk on [garbled]”

“I went down to the Piraeus with Smitty, son of …”

“I lean and loaf at my ease, contemplating Mr. Smee…”

“He was Mr. Smitty on the dotted line, but he was Mr. Smee in my arms…”

Sirs, these, to the best of our restorative faculties, seem to be the meanings of the scratches found in MS#65(+X) of the handwritten proto-blog manuscript entrusted to us.


Sincerely,
Yo

Ghostmisters

Mr. Smitty is accosted by ghosts!

In touch with larger forces, the Smee has to negotiate his sleek way betwixt and between the legions of the dead, who meander, ghost-like, across the paths, thickets, and copses of our yard.

So confus-i-ficating for a smee!

But being an elegant animal, the Smee can slip between these karmic temptations:

“My son farmed this land…”, “My daughter was married right behind…”, “We buried my husband…”

The Smitty, present in all of these various dimensions, merely winks and takes it in, knowing his peeps are right behind getting down all these extended dance versions of history.

This is why he is sometimes slow to respond to calls; he got bidness, yo!

Mr. Smitty and the Underground Passage

Mr. Smitty is in Hell!

As in most epic narratives, this smitty, too, must have an underground episode(s) where he encounters sainted dads, erstwhile foes and the like

[Get on the blower: I need ghoulish daddies in toga drag, 8:00 AM Tuesday!]

Of course much of the Smitty’s spiritual journey is inaccessible to his human fans. We only have glimpses: eye-twinkles to decode and upon’s flanks stripes of dirt, rampant.

And the occasional, cryptic, “miaoux”

[What is this, the French Underground? English subtitles: “mee-ows” – ed.]

[Merci, ed. – autre ed.]

Security Breach Part II: The Rest Oration

Sirs,

Full restoration of the compromised entry (MS #65 (+X (previously published entries before a Kerchel-like numbering system was in place (, yo))) –

-- was deemed impossible by expert staff (c.f., et al., ibid., ille, illa, illud).

However, the following fragmentary remains of the intended blog entry (with notations, conjectures, palimsests, etc.) are herein forwarded.

[at this climactic moment – defined as that moment just before which boredom takes over – we must declare: To Be Continued!]

Security Breach Part I: too much i’the sun

Mister Smitty’s blog has been compromised!

Future entries – detailing The Smitty, his peeps, heirs, and assigns – are disappearing!

The culprit?

Mr. Smitty’s favorite morning friend: The Sun.

Handwritten entries -- exposed to the sun, waiting to be keyed-in -- are blanching, dematerializing, in a word, fading, yo!

Immediately, a restoration team was dispensed from the Smitt(y)sonian to stem the textual deconstitutionalizationation

[OK: enough with the multi-syllabic Latinate vocabulary fest! – ed.]

Copy Cat

Mister Smitty is a copycat!

That Mister was having cereal. This Mister was reheating pasta.

So Mister Smitty got in on the act. He pounced and circled his food dish (to dizzy it) then commencitated to chow.

“Mister, What do cats ‘copy’?”

“Mister, I don’t know. Sleeps?”

“Like xeroxing ‘Z’s and xeroxing ‘Z’s and xeroxing ‘Z’s and xeroxing…

“Yeah. I copy, Good Buddy.”

“Tranquility Base. The Smitty has landed, yo.”

Writer Left

“ANY-way!”

He quit.

In the volumeless silence that ensued – a silence so arid one could hear a cursor flicker -- a sea of heads (bespectacled, ear-budded, some even “nappy”) popped up over their dividers across the acres of cube farm we call the Writing Floor here on the 6^th floor of the entertainment division of Mister Smitty Enterprises, LLC.

Those heads blinked, swiveled, sniffled and, in a wave, picked up phones and called, eyes roaming to more heads appearing until all are focused in concentric circles. Then, like planets orbiting the erstwhile sun (now black hole) of the Quitter, the Leaver, his leaving forms a vacuum into which more and more attention gets sucked until still others are drawn from their desks, up from their chairs, some even out of their cubicles(!), to peer over at the evacuated place

The image is almost too horrible: something akin in despicability to seeing Mistah Kurtz engage finally in unspeakable acts as shameless as the words “To Be Continued.”

Writer, Exhausted by The Smitty’s Endlessly Fascinating Hijinks, Quits Staff!

THE MISTERS’-UPON-GULCH, Dismember 10 – One of the Most prominent, prolific, and prolix writers on the Mister Smitty © corporate staff, ____________ (fact-checkers: he shall henceforth remain nameless, anonymous, ghosting…)
closed his laptop in disgust, wheeled from his desk (bumping the back of his cubicle -- and thus sloshing hot herbal tea on some woman from advertising (fact-checkers: find that name!)),
and uttered those fateful words:
“J’accuse!”
(no, not those fateful words).
“I am not a crook.”
(not those either. (fact checkers: Fin--))
[Yo, he was the fact-checker – ed.]
Yo, you’re the “ed.” – you take over!
[to be continued – ed.]
It’s probably all your “ed.”-erruptions that made him quit!

Sneaky Smitty and the Pursuit of the Dish

Like a theoretical mathematician chasing unreal numbers, The Smitty follows a wiley fractal-like path to stalk and snare his cat food dish!

Well-versed in Chaos Theory, The Smee approaches his dish every which way but directly:

He must jump up to the desk (under which lies the sneaky dish), walk across it, jump down, then jump up to the coffee table across from the dish.

“Mister, He’s surrounding it.”

Then he jumps down to the dish and circles behind it.

“Mister, he’s sneakin’ up on it from the side!”

Just when the poor dish is in a whirl, a tizzy, completely discombobulated, The Smitty curls around to the front and feasts!

“Mister, The Smitty always gets his dish!”

Global Warming

Mr. Smitty is a victim of global warming!

Crispy bumps appearing on his ears signal that he is “too much i’the sun” (Like many on this sunny tropical isle, surrounded by hundreds of miles of reflector-pan ocean, The Smee is a vicious sun-worshipper as well as flagrant nude sunbather).

But now that there’s less between us and the sun (veils are falling before our eyes), The Smee, like a twice-baked potato, is developing crispy skin on his ears.

Need we say (do) more?

The Royal Smee

Mr. Smitty has a throne!

The fallen tree (wattle, uprooted itself in a storm, a seed fallen on sand…) provides a high perch from which The Smee can survey all he surveys and be outstanding in his field.

“The Misters’ve got all those chairs theyselves; why can’t I have one?”

[the aforesaid is not said so much as posited, projected, potential Smee-speech]

From this fallen tree of magnificent girth, The Smee can lord it over his peeps, check the surrounding fields, hillocks, copses and gentle declivities for various vermin, chickens, pheasants, cardinals, chucks, and those little fluorescent-green-bellied birds that have been barely a snack for the Smee in days of yore.

All hail the enthroned Smee!

War Paint

Mister Smitty is a warrior!

Mr. Smitty came back with war paint on his noses and general facial area.

The Misters, like any nation at war, answered the call to close ranks and pledged to support their troop(s). But questions remained:

“Is there a war, Mr. Smee? One-two-three, What are you fighting for?”

“Are you a terrorist or a freedom fighter?

The Smitty stands mute. Stalwart. Dedimicated.

The Smitty stands firm (until he commences to lick his war paint off).

“Is your mission accomplished, Mr. Smee?”

Happy-headed: A story of compassion narrowly averted!

Mr. Smitty has reverse-disc-rhymin’-ation “nappy-headed” guilt!

The Smitty (he of the white fur) heard noises up in the avocado tree and stood at attention on the rock wall.

Out from the tree’s skirts popped a black (furred) smitty.

(One is not sure, being at a distance, whether it was “nappy-headed” or no)

The two smees stared. And stared.

In the mind of Mr. Smitty we posit that he might’ve been thinking:

“I am guilty (white). I am therefore paralyzed with guilt. What to do? Even think?

The standoff continued until the wee black smitty (who is apparently not yet one of Mr. Smitty’s peeps), fleed, fled, vamoosed the camp.

(thus releasing The Smitty from his paralytic guilt to cavort again in modern mindlessness!)

Heavy Petting

Mr. Smitty is into heavy petting!

When we first started dating, Mr. Smitty was a shy and retiring smitty

(long hours hidden under the bed, frantic dartings-out to the litter box, the food dish, etc.)

But once he had the run of the place, came in and out as he pleased, gathered his entourage (see numerous (read: onerous) entries about “Mr. Smitty’s Peeps”), founded his crack house, inspected laps galore,

Why, then he got into some heavy petting!

Now we’re going steady!

Dirty Smitty

Mister Smitty is a dirty smitty!

This is partly because he likes to take dirt naps in The Misters’ window boxes. But you know that (See various entries, Volumes VII - XXVIII, or don’t).

Not to be racist, but it’s hard to be white cat!

The Whiteness of The Smee doesn’t truck with dirt, yo.

Though the aforesaid soil only rests lightly on the surface of his fur like a dusting of paprika or powdered chocolate.

A dirty Smitty looks like a cinnamon–dusted cappuccino!

Caterwauling wit’ da Peeps

Many’s the time when The Misters will hear the sounds of scratchy cat-fight caterwauling and wailing in their district—

“Mister, I hope that’s not The Smitty getting’ down and dirty with his peeps!”

-- and look to make sure The Smitty is safely not among that number, above that ruffian fray

-- only to find The Smitty calmly observing, unmoved by the terrific squealings of his peeps.

“That’s a good and peaceful (read: neutered) Smitty!”

Lapsed Cat-oholic

I dropped in on a meeting of Recovering Cat-oholics.
Tonight’s topic: L.A.D.D. (Lap Attention-Deficit Disorder)
As I sit there, taking in the harrowing stories of tortured guilt, I wonder if I, too, suffer from an inability to concentrate when The Smitty is in my lap.
When it’s my turn to speak, though no one interrupts my maudlin tale of woe, at the end. one kind gentleman points out that the topic is incorrectly spelled on the sign.
“Actually, It’s L.D.A.D.: Lap-Deficit Attention Disorder. In humans, it means an inability to concentrate when there isn’t a cat in your lap.”
“And in cats?” I queried.
“An impatience when laps get up and disappear.”

Incoming!

Mr. Smitty is a stealth bomber!

This Mister was sitting in his porch chair, minding his own martini, scanning “The Listings” about an exhibit of erotic tattoos on torsos,

-- when The Smitty dive-bombed onto his shoulder, dangerously close to the martini in question!

“Really!” snapped The Mister. “A little warning ‘miau’ would be nice.”

The Smee bounded into his (my) lap.

“Did you hear that, Mr. Smee?”

Purr. (Cat talk for “sure.”)

Zen Come-on

Mr. Smitty is a walking, talking (sometimes) zen koan of hisself!

What does it mean if a white cat crosses your path?

Happiness!

(Gongggg…)

In Vino Verre y Tasse

Mister Smitty is a wino!

When This Mister came back one night, the scene of the crime was:

Overturned wine glass fallen across magazine. Wine on table, on floor, but none -- curiously – on the couch… where sat a silent Smee.

It LOOKS like The Smitty knocked the glass over.

But looks can be deceiving.

Maybe The Smitty wanted to drink the wine.

(Dissolve. Swirling close-up of The Smee. Flashback to:)

“…can’t get my snout down into these fancy-ass glasses…whoops! Well, at least now I can get my tongue around some of this here…”.

Nit-Picking

This Mister micro-manages Mr. Smitty’s face!

The aforesaid Mister can be found combing The Smitty nearly every other morning (while The Smee suns his stomachs on the porch).

This Mister is literally a nit-picker!

(Parents may want to preview the following sentence: Once the flea has been caught on the comb, This Mister uses his thumbnail to scrunch and squashify the wee nastie against the comb’s plastic handle (up in there where tine meets shank).

But to really micro-manage, the Mister is always on the spot to remove the blackened eye candy produced by the Smitty in the smithy of his eye!

Gracious Host Tales #4 Mister’s Sister

When Mister’s sister (not This Mister’s sister, but That Mister’s sister) brought Mister back home one night, she wanted to see The Smee (of course: who wouldn’t?)

“Where’s Mr. Smitty? Oh! I see him! Hi, Mr. Smitty!”

“Mao!” says The Smitty, bounding Lassie-like up to the cars.

Various inane dialogue ensued amongst the human element, to wit: “That’s a good smitty!” etc.

The Smitty continued to talk a blue streak (which means, for him, several words in a row) much to the elation of Mister and his sister – who supplies The Smitty with his high-end imported foreign-made foods!

Mr. Smee the Hunter Part III: A Quick (E)xotic End

Meanwhile, the Smee -- flummoxed, discombobulated and non-non-plussed -- tried to pick up the trail/trial (of the suddenly vanished and well-hidden gecko) by running into the shower stall (favorite haunt of domesticated reptiles in The Smee’s humble opinion).
But the trail had run cold (particularly in the corner where the water collects).

“And there we must leave the benighted/beknighted Smee: errant, forlorn…”

“In other words, shut down, yo!”

“Denied!”

“Word!”

The Misters exit the bathroom, laughing and slapping each other’s back as the credits roll in front of them

-- and which they bang into head first and fall.

Mr. Smee the Hunter Part II: Vile Sentencing

Having squoze through the interstices between the letters of “To Be Continued,” The Misters bounded into the bathroom and waited until The Smitty ope’d his pond’rous and marble [-colored] jaws to drop the gecko on the floor (in order to commencify the pre-mortem cat-n-mousification process).

“Mister, that’s quite a sentence.”

“Mister, it’s nothing compared to the sentence Mr. Smitty has given that poor gecko!”

“We must come to his aid! aid! aid!”

Acting as a wall, This Mister kept The Smitty’s weaving ‘n dodging head from having its way with the unfortunate guest.

Having slipped behind the wastepaper basket, the gecko slipped into that vital obscurity dreaded by Achaean heroes (warm days tilling the soil and rocking their infant sons asleep by the fire).

“ANY-way!”

Right: time to take a break, polish our shields, slay, dress, and roast mutton.

To Be …(you know what I’m saying).

Mr. Smee the Hunter Part I: An Arty Mess

Mister Smitty is a good hunting smitty!

The Smitty clumb up into our TV and video-industrial complex and got hisself on top of the DVD player (some six feet into the air). Peering down where cords collide and divide in a vertiginous tangle ending in dust bunnies (and worse), The Smee capturated a gecko in his mouths and bounded down to earth to have his way with the aforesaid reptile.

“No, Mr. Smee: Not the gecko!”

But the Smity was adamant: into the bathroom he betook hisself and his prey – whose back half dangled from his lips like a child of Saturn.

“Mister, should we intervene?”

The Misters vamoosed themselves toward the bathroom but ran smack into a wall of words saying:

“To Be Continued!”

Editor’s Not(e)

As for the previous (read: tedious) letter, there was no product placed in our blog. We don’t know what she’s talking about.

[ed: ed, how do you know it’s a she? Just assuming? Cat blogs are for girls, huh? Better check your misogynistical assumptions at the door, yo.]

Listen “Ed.’s Ed.,” yo, back off, yo. You think I LIKE having to step in, interrupt the Mister Smitty love fest, be the bad guy, and reply to these addle-pated, bird-brained, cock-a-mamie, dumb-dumb, etc.-etc.s?

[ed: ed, yes, I do. You like it so much that you MAKE UP the letters so you can answer them! Ha!]

The same way I made up YOU?
[ ]

Speechless, huh? Ha!

Product Placement Alert!

Dear Sirs,

Scabrous!

To see the pristine pages of your blog besmirched by the lowest form of product placement. How Tawdry!

Please cancel my subscription/RSS feed/Bookmark/Whatever. Though I suppose I could do that myself, I shan’t! No more effort! I will cut you off at the knees: I will simply NOT READ your blog! I will kill you with malign neglect!

Have a nice day,
Name Withheld

Statues of Imitations

Own your own Mr. Smitty Statue!

Option #1: “The Sphinx” or “Mister Sphinxy”

Front legs completely stretched out in front of him, head up, eyes closed, back feet hunched as in Egyptian original (please consult off-site sources, i.e., your own memory).

Option #2: “Sleeping Sphinxy”

Same as the above except Mister Sphinx lays his head on his outstretched arms. This model is also known around the factory as the “flying caped crusader smitty.”

[end catalogue; please return to living]

Turn of the Sentry

Mister Smitty has guard duty!

Perched atop his wee marble table (replicas available by clicking “Link$”), The Smitty watches the southwestern approach to his crack house!

[for a compleat (read: tedious) explanation of why a garden outcropping of rocks has been dubbed “Mr. Smitty’s Crack House,” please descend to the second (basement) floor of the archives, turn left, and wish yourself “good luck.”]

The Smitty is a good sentry, always on the alert. If you call his name, he snaps to attention.

“Mister, that’s good.”

“Mister, that is. He provides homeland security for his crack house.”

“Which must be defended at all costs from enemies of the (e)state.”

Re: Laps Part II: “a lap is lazily…”

In Lap Theory #2, the distinguished geologist Lapis “The Rock” Lapidus

-- emeritus of Lappland University in Northern Worehverr and the world’s leading expert on the white-out effect of snow on reindeer --

posits that the Smitty’s lap fixation is a misguided form of having mistaken his own fur for snow. Thus, the Smitty is desperately seeking the life-giving heat emanating from a Mister’s lap.

Re: laps Part I: Laps in Judgment

Mister Smitty is a lap monster!

“The Smitty just love them laps! Soon’s he sees a lap appear, he’s down wi’ dat!”

Lap Theory #1

In the 1st Lap Theory (often called the Proto- or Pre-lapsarian Theory), The Smitty’s motive in “doing laps” is to hold down unruly Misters who tend to wander like amateur actors across a stage. This is also called the “Herding Cats” theory (as it is applied, counter-intuitively, to cats herding humans -- as opposed to the vice-versa).

Time Band-aids

The Smitty lives in slow motion!
The Smitty’s slowness means that he sees the Misters as very fast-moving
“And fast-speaking,” chimes in That Mister.
“Our words and songs are like a buzzing to him,” adds This Mister.
“Or the Chipmunks Christmas album, yo,” That Mister re-chimed hisself.
The Smitty is a slow cat who likes to settle in for a good long time on a lap.
“And he can’t be having that lap up and get up every hour!”

Dig it!

Mr. Smitty has found his old litterbox!

Underneath the house lies Ye Olde Litterbox of Aloyishius P. Smittee,

distinguished ancestor…

(Actually, Youse-Truly never remembered to throw it out.)

The Smitty was not actually seen steppin’ foot in there (despite doctored tabloid photos to the contrary now in wide circulation); he was just spied prowling the purlieus of same.

“See? He’s a nostaligical smitty!”

“Getting’ in touch with his roots, yo.”

“An archema-logistical smitty.”

“He’s an hysterical-preservationist!”

A Trendy Smitty

Mister Smitty is ahead of the curve!

The Smitty is the most fashionable, the trend-setting smitty par excellence.

“Why that Smitty not sleepin’ up in his bed no moh?”

“He sleepin’ on the robe, yo.”

Next week:

“Why that Smitty not sleepin’ up on my robe no moh?”

“He sleepin’ on the back of de couch, yo.”

Next week:

See what I mean? The Smitty is so avant-garde that the garde ain’t even built yet that can handle his train coming, yo.

Detective Smee’s Diary Part IV: Goin’ Noir Fast

“’Cup of coffee!’

(for them)

“’Cocktails at…’

(for them)

“Meanwhile, I’m still on the beat, taking the notes, getting it down, scrawling my notes in the well, it’s not a pad and pencil but with my claws on the ground or lightly tracing notes in the air – but it’s all being taken down in the Akhasic records, no’m sayin’?

“Like Atlantic records, ya dig? Only worldwide – and for all time.

[Ed.’s note: the Akhasic records, not an R&B joint out of Motown, contains every thought uttered or thunk by every living thing through all time. To give you some perspective on its size and the sheer volume of uselessness it contains, think of all the entries to this blogsite -- and then subtract a few hundred thousand pages.]

Detective Smee’s Diary Part III: Ca(n’)t Get Good He(l)p These Days

“Got to get me a bettah view. Climb up on the monolith – Damn! If only I could climb its sheer face!

(one of those Misters could lift me up to the top. I mean, they feed me, but please! So needy!)

“So in need of the… petting! The loving! The ‘hands-on’ stuff.

“It’s smothering!

“I told my analyst about it but she says they’re just like that.”

“Meanwhile, them Sun-nappers have gotten away again! I’ll have to pick up the trail again tomorrow after my Sun bath.”

Detective Smee’s Diary Part II: How’d ya like to Bet, Noir?

“7 PM: Sunset has loosened its siren song hold on me and I am free to nose.

“The Quiet Number at the end of the bar beckons, but I’m on a case: the case deals with a mysterious disappearance – the disappearance of the Sun!

“I jump to the flower box closest to where the sun was last seen. It’s full of green plants The Misters consider somewhat important – but not much, since I rest there often [ed.’s note: The Smitty refers to arugula that The Misters still have hope to recover for harvest].

“Who’d take the sun – and why? And why is it dumped back on the docks every morning to warm my plenteous folds?”

Detective Smee’s Diary Part I: Crepuscule a Smitty

Mr. Smitty is a good detective smitty!

Part One: Quayside, 5 PM

“Late Afternoon: I’ve scarfed down a “Mister’s Special” (the Usual) at the Glass Dish & Marbles (my regular dish) and have run off to preen, digest, snarf down a couple of blades of grass (for the teeth), and maybe – if I’m feeling frisky – cavort!

“There’s a past 4 o’clock kind of air to the day and that may mean some serious nesting in week-old tall grass for a boddhi-licious sunset and metabolical slow-to-a-crawl meditation of which we crepuscular types are wont to dig, ya dig?”

Aunty Gravi-Smee

Mr. Smitty is an anti-gravismitty! (cf. previous (tedious)…viz., etc.)

He can tumble and jump and cavort! His claws are anti-gravitimational devices that allow him to hang precariously, climb avocado trees, and attempt – as he is recently
wont to do – to climb on the backs of moths in flight --

-- before consuming them (as a horse d’oover)!

Smitty Heat

“It’s the Heat. The Heat, the Heat, the Heat!”

Perhaps you know that group the Blackeyed Smees (surgically mended in Brazil double-digits)?

Well, that’s what the Smitty is singing these days as he moves from ‘neath one garden table to t’other. Nestled in the long un-weed-whacked grasses that form a curtain of protectionation from the sun, The Smee snoozes… until Noon with her brassy fingers pokes The Smee into having to up’n decamp.

“O, the felinity!” decries The Smee.

Saint Smeet

Like other figures to whom worshippers flock for aid, comfort, and miraculous healing,
Saint Smeet, Patron Saint of Licking Youself Clean, Our Lady (Man [“it” actually – ed.]) of Perpetual Cuteness, Protector of the Restless of Leg, Healer of the Contusions Caused by Seatbelt Shoulder Straps,
receives pilgrims at his holy precincts (sort of to the left of the Crack House) most middays.

Doctor Smitty

Mr. Smitty is a good doctoring Smitty!

But, like most doctors, he’s booked weeks ahead, requires a referral if you have any hope of having his visit covered by your insurance H(o)MO, and is careful not to do anything that might bring on a malpractice against he-self.

The Smitty’s treatment, as you know from previous (tedious) entries, consists of his lying on top of one’s self at precisely the place he deems worthy of his warming (and purring) properties.

While some may question the location of the Smitty’s ministrations (causing a Mister to wonder if he is dis-eased up in dere but didn’t know it), such miraculous, intuitive results have occurred in the past that The Smitty’s treatments have won much adulation amongst The Misters.

The Yo Smee Ching

Check it:

The Smitty that is known is not the true Smitty

(no’m say’n’?)

The Smitty that I can tell ya’ll boot is not the most up-to-datest, Smitty, G.

The Smitty that you can talk to is not the Smitty what axed you to come here, yo.

The Smitty is the motha of all smitties, his peeps, subsidiaries, and assigns, et al.

Verily I say unto yo: You desire to see the Smitty’s essence, but your desire makes you only able to get a peep into his crib.

These (aforesaid cribs) are in the same place but different addresses, a’ight?

And where that all go down, is a mystery, ya dig?

Nuff said!

Mr. Xmi Te

Mr. Xmi Te, ancient Chinese philosophical smitty, spends much of the afternoon contemplating our sunset hours.

Face turned to that dizzily hurrying orb (now finally slowed to an orangy glide), Mr. Xmi Te reviews the prefecture’s receipts, brushes his doorstep, and recalls, drunkily, old drunken friends.

What is that distant clamor of swords clashing?

Will the soldiers come home before I am too blind to see, too deaf to hear them?

Have they come already? And am I gone?

Sunset.

Bathroom Rumor

Mister Smitty likes the bathroom!

(In the First Days, S.E. (Smitty Era) he had a litterbox in there.)

Now, this vestigal litterbox fascination drives him into the bathroom, where he is wont to visit the shower.

We believed at first that it had to do with a thirst for water (since we caught the Smitty checking out that recent bestseller, Your Body’s Craving for Water).

But we’re now convinced that it’s deeper: it’s pee-sych-o-malogical!

Mr. Smitty vs. The Monolith Part II: Wombs within rooms

The Smitty runs behind the monolith and sneak-attacks it.

(This, the Smitty believes, will cause fear and trembling and general unrest in the monolith’s stonily-singular soul.)

He has jumped into the recycled newspaper box and has scratched the side of the box as though he is re-enacting childhood memories of a litter box.

“No, Yo: He’s re-enactifying childhood memories of that little box you make for the mamma cat when she’s going to have her kittens and the kittens stay in the box for a few days until they are strong enough to climb out of it.”

“Perhaps, Yo. Yet I believe this may hearken back to the proto-scratching first fisted in the womb.”

“You is quite possibly right, Yo.”

“What’s the Smitty digging for?”

“Memories, my dearest yo; memories of that first room.”

Mr. Smitty vs. The Monolith Part I: Also Spinach Zat-a-threw-at-ya

Mr. Smitty is going to get the monolith!

[ed.’s note: the “monolith” is Mister-slang for the multi-compartmented, human-heighted, orange-painted, twitter-pated shelving unit that dominates The Misters’ porch (and, upon which, the Smitty has sniffed out the members of the Rodentus Big’ngrossus family).]

And now back to our story…

“Mister, The Smitty is watching the monolith very carefully these days.”

“Mister, he is.”

He jumps into the flower box, crushes the arugula, and sits for minutes totally still, staring up toward the top shelf of the monolith.

“He’s sussing out the monolithic sitch-a-tion, G.”

Fleeced ‘N Flummoxed

Mister Smitty is a master of illusion!

He has successfully created the illusion of being a cat.

The Misters – miserable patsies -- fleeced, swindled, completely taken in, lament their gull-ability

“He gone ‘n fooled us, foo!”

“Who you callin’ ‘foo’?”

“Us.”

“Why?… How?…When?… and, uh…

“ ‘Where?’”

“You got it!”

“Well, to answer your questions in order: Here. Now. Because we’re stupid and because he can.”

“Oh. In that case, I guess…”

“You guess what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Exactly.”

Mr. Smitty, What’s your Haiku?

Full moon –

Crazy Smitty;

Not just frisky –

But farting!

Goodbye Whitey

Sad news...but a peep of Mr. Smitty passed away this week: Miss Whitey.

Whitey was a wonderful smitty!!! Found on the side of the road in January of '95, Whitey lived to be 15.

Now she gets to be reunited with her sisters Red Girl and Cocaty. We love you and we'll miss you!!!

Here's how it transpired:

"Whitey passed away early this morning. I had brought her into the house yesterday. We layed on the couch together and watched tv last night. She slept on the couch last night and the kids and I found her this morning.

It was sad, but this last 2 weeks has been really rough. I've been telling Whitey for the last week that if she's tired, it's ok for her to go and be with Red Girl and Cocaty. That' she's been a good girl and that Luckitty will be ok.

I have especially been preparing myself for this after I called and made the vet appt. I'm actually so relieved and happy for her to finally be rid of her tired, old body and to be young and healthy again and playing with her sisters.

We buried her this morning, after the kids left, under the mango tree on the other side of the back fence. Right next to Red Girl! :) It was a beautiful, sunny morning today... just the kind of day that she liked to lay out on the porch and soak in the sunshine."

Goodbye Whitey!