Iron(ic) Will

Mister Smitty is oppressing The Misters!

Like all great tyrants (pyramids, train schedules, time), The Smee imposes his iron(ic) will on those (of us) who serve him.

“I was trapped…personally denied my freedom … detained … all because of The Smitty!”

(--personal testimony of one of The Misters)

“I was sitting innocently (picture it?) in my chair, when he jumped up and sat in my lap. I couldn’t move. I was oppressed!”

And so many similar tales of oppression are daily leaking out of that remote and closed society o’er which The Smee holds tyrannical sway!

Pavlov’s Smee (21)

Mister Smee is a Pavlovian Smee!

“He trained, yo.”

“When he hears that <> of the porch heater, he comes a-runnin’!”

“And when he smell that coffee in the morning, he know he gone get some fresh grains of food.”

“And when he hear that <<Kerwaaap!>> of the wet food can opening, he well-nigh be salivating

himself with anti-(disestablishmentari)-cipation.”

“And when The Misters start talking like idiots like this…” [the “ed.” steps in and cuts ‘em off! – ed.]

(In)tuition Remission Part 1: Mystery Revealed (but not solved)

“They know when you’re a-leavin.”

 

(-- cherished wisdom about how cats can tell if you’re going away 4 minutes, 4 hours, or 4 ever)

Mister Smitty can see the future!

When The Misters head out for breakfast “downstairs,” The Smee barely bats an eye.

But when they head out for a day “downcountry,” The Smee leads them up the path to the car and watches them pull out. His eyes follow them all the way out.

(of course it might be because The Misters are waving stupidly and yelling their goodbyes)

“Mister, how can The Smee tell when we’re going away for a long time vs. not?”

“Mister, that is a question that shall have to be solved by – meta-narratively speaking – different Misters in a future blog post.”

“Oh, I see,” said That Mister (as the veils dropped all around him).

No Desire or Sexual Horror

Mister Smitty has reached satori!

Dispassionate, released from worldly attachments -- and attaché cases --

(except for getting combed, hunting fresh game, and being fed punctually at 3:30 PM)

The Smee is fancy-free!

Last night when a cat in heat drew a crowd of toms (dicks and hairys), The Smee jumped off’n That 

Mister’s lap and scampered out to see what the ruckus was.

Tailing the Smee, That Mister found him not amongst the tussle but above the fray, at the bottom of the stairs, putting himself between the house and the caterwauling.

“Mister, he’s fixed. He ain’t gonna be party to none of that.”

“Mister, he’s disgusted by all that sessiality ‘mongst his peeps. So em-bare-ass-ing!

Path-etiquette

Mr. Smitty is pathological!

He frequents the beaten path between the house and the car.

Wanna meet The Smee?

Upon your arrival by car, please stick to the (beaten) path; The Smee will come to you. Do not attempt to chase, coax, trail, or trap him.

Wanna find The Smee pre-sunset or post-sunrise?

Follow the (beaten) path to Smitty familiarity and frequent repose. You’ll be glad you did.

(Paid for by the Have A Nice Day Memorial Fund for Smittiness)

Peeps is in the Hood

(m)YIAAAO!

                

Rustling of bushes, cries of other cat(s?).

“Mister, did Mister see The Smee?”

“Mister, I saw a white blur.”

The Smitty s chasing that orange cat. He’s keeping his peeps in line.

“Gotta discipline my peeps! Uppity orange-haired peep!

“You tell ‘em. Mr. Smee!”

Olympics #3: Lapping up the Gold

Since many Olympic athletes do laps, we though it only fair to enter The Smee in any and all lap contests.

The Smitty’s strategy is a little offbeat: after running with the best of them (and faster) The Smitty jumps into their laps thus preventing their path to the gold.

Tricky Smitty!

What a Babe!

Mister Smitty is a big baby!

                

You can lift The Smee and cradle him in your arms like a wee bub…

Whoops! The Smee just jumped into my lap.

“Mister, he checkin’ up on you – makin’ sure you’re not talkin’ stink about The Smee.”

But once you let him out of your arms (he don’t stay there very long before he starts whining – don’t like to have none of his feets touching the ground --

[all those years acting in 30’s films under the Henderson act, I guess – ed.]

-- and as soon as he’s back on the ground, he’s down there lickin’ hisself.

“Mister, that’s called damage control.”

Mr. Smitty and the Mystery of the Fridge

The Smitty likes to stare up at the fridge!

                

“It’s white – like a big version of The Smee.”

“and – like The Smee – full of goodness!”

He is contemplating the mysteries of the cold world that opens like a portal occasionally into his normal temper-cheer world.

Chinese philosopher Gno Kan Du says that cats are curious enough to contemplate consciousness itself, if they are confronted by a quirk (like, “How come my Misters are so stupid?).

HighTailing

Mister Smitty has RTS (Restless Tail Syndrome)!

                 

When The Smitty comes a-callin’ to meet and greet a wayward Mister or one of their visitoirs, The Smitty’s tail is completely elevated. At its quivering tip, a little bend: a question mark.

“Do you have a question, Mr. Smitty?”

“Yeah. Where you been? Get ovah t’hea and get some of my scent on ya so you won’t get lost again.”

“Any further questions?”

“Yes. What you waitin’ foh? Hightail it back into your box and get me my foods!”

Olympics #2: Come pet it if…

We’re back with continuing (tedious) coverage of the Beiging Olympics (it is, after all, an Olympian task to beige the world, but the march toward the blending down of everything to a uniform beige is the way the phenomenal world’s cookie crumbles. And hey, you can’t unstir the cream from the coffee, so –

“ANY-way!”

The Smee is a top contender in “The Flop,” headed for the medal, but what other events is he competing in, Mister?

Mister, he’s in the “Car-Smelling” Competition, the “Gleeful 100-foot Scamper,” but I’d say to watch for him in the “Flowerbox Medley.”

What’s that, Mister?

It involves sleeping in flowerboxes with all sorts of plants growing in them.

Mister, is that dangerous?

Only for the plants.

Hep Cat

Mister Smitty is a hep cat!

                

He likes to hang out in the lounge  … chair!

“Mister, he’s working on his tan.”

“Mister, best work harder: he’s lookin’ pretty white.” Maybe he better doff his cap – I mean, beret.

Maybe his bongos are in the way?

“Mister, should I pull his daisy?” -- or push those pages of automatic poetry off his body and …”Let the sun shine…”

Groovy, baby. Groovy!

Olympics #1: The Flop

Mister Smitty can compete in the Beiging Olympics!

                

[You see how long it takes our legal team to vet these blog posts? This news is stale and crumbly! – ed.]

                

[That’s why there’s only one letter difference between “blog” and “bog” – other ed.]

                

The Smee’s event is called “The Flop.” It occurs several seconds into “heavy petting” when, heavily petted, 

The Smee flops over on the ground for more serious manipulation.

                

The resulting thud and gentle rippling of his plenteous flanks wins him big points for form and grace.