Heavy Drinking

Mister Smitty is a heavy drinker!

He laps loudly--

Fan(s): --no more about laps!

No, dear reader, I speak not of nouns but of verbs: He laps up his milk -- I mean water --

Fan(s): --no more about water!

No, dear reader, I speak not of what he drinks but how he drinks--

Fan(s): --no more about drinking!

No dear reader, I speak not of the act but of its quality.

Fan(s): -- no more quality!

Dear reader, I speak not.

Doors of Perception

Mister Smitty doesn’t like doors!

“Doors be crampin’ my style. You ever seen a cat invent a door?”

The Smitty’s well-nigh philosophical despair vis-a-vis doors has been, well, noted in these pages (c.f. viz. passim, etc.)

But what -- qua door -- is the fr@#kin’ problem? asks a philosophically angered Smee.

Doors be flyin’ every which way. Can’t keep track!

Support groups have been formed. (Mister Smitty talking to his peeps, sharing stories of consternation, etc.)

But none of these have yet produced the missing key!

Water Sports, Part 3: Ex(c)it(e) Strategy

And now to complete this tale of Whoa, The Smee’s exit from his (heavy) water-drinking sesh, too, has begun to take a more celeritous turn.

That same last 6 or 7 feet now, too, must be recrossed at a jaunty clip.

“Mister, what does it mean?”

(“When I’m done, I’m done, Yo.”)

“Mister, It’s a mystery.”

“Verily.”

“Maybe the running is because he don’t want no hold up at the door.”

“The door has, on occasion, been closed. Causing The Smee to wait -- both to drink and to escape.”

“Maybe the running is his way of storming the castle and surprising the door before it can shut itself!”

Water Sports, Part 2: Dash, Lick, Dart

Now it seems that recently, in addition to the long stints of water drinking --

(“When I drink, I drink; when I don’t, I don’t”)

-- The Smee has also taken to positively dashing those last few feet to his water bowl.

While he may enter the house slowly, stand, lick, take a step, sit, feast at his crotch a bit, sit up, look around, vigorously lick upside his neck,

when he gets to within 4 or 5 feet of the bathroom door, he commences a serious jog that propels him, in a darting fashion, to his water bowl.

Water Sports, Part 1: from Quaint to Wee

Mister Smitty runs for his water!

Ever since The Smitty began to eschew his outdoor water supply, quaintly painted metal watering can 

(canonized in blogs #@!% through &%!$ … see Archives, sub-basement 3, turn right at the stacks marked “Ancient, Boring”)

and began to scour the shower floor for scraps of fresh water, The Misters have installed a wee bowl of water on the shower’s ledge, to which The Smitty has taken like a cat to water (I mean drinking water).

Fan (Base)

Sirs,

Though I count myself one of your most loyal reader(s?), I must protest the wayward philosophical bent of recent posts.

Where’s the action?

We, your loyal fan(s?) want, plainly, pussy.

While we are occasionally bemused by imputed “thoughts” The Smee might be having in his cave of shadows (which might not be a bad nickname for The Misters’ “box”), we protest the lack of full-frontal coverage of The Smee’s every move.

Please deliver the goods we, your whiningly passive, over-empowered and indulged audience, feel we richly deserve!

Entitled (but not titled),

     

The Silent (but fiercely vocal) Majority.

Mr. Smitty and the Case of the Missing Misters, Part II: The Misters Have Vamoosed?

All day, a vast eternity stretches across the low and level sands on all sides of The Misters’ “box” (The Smee’s name for their house).

Tumbleweeds. Silence.

A leaf falls (loneliness).

The Smitty silently meditates on his solitude <>

“Ou suis-je? Qui suis-je?”

And, like a French existentialist marooned on a tropical island waiting for Go(y I)d(i)ot(s)...

[Pull the plug! -- ed.]

The Missing Misters, Part 1: The Misters Have Escaped!

The following is as accurate a translation as possible (while being complete conjecture) of the cries issuing from betwixt The Smee’s lips on the occasion of the mysterious 4-day disappearance of The Misters:

“Yo! Where you at?”

“Where my food at?”

“Get me some fresh water up in here!”

“Mi@*! [expletive deleted] pro’lly lost again! -- and I rubbed up against ‘em. Idiots!”

“I shoulda known when I saw them put on their serious shoes.”*

* see the (not-so) hilarious previous (read: tedious) post about (ha-ha) “serious” HA! shoes. Ha…

[Pull the plug. -- ed.]

White Out

Is Mister Smitty albino?

We asked The Misters.

“He white. Definitely.”

“Got them pink ears, too.”

(and a wee pink nose upside his face)

What color, gentlemen, are his eyes?

(“Who he talkin’ to?” “Us, yo.” “Oh!”)

“Yellow.”

“He’s got that cat’s eye thing, too: where the pupil is all weird, like a cat.”

“Yes. thank you, gentlemen.”

“Who you callin’ ‘gentle?’”

(“Shut up, yo.”)

(In)tuition Remission Part 2: Soft in the head/shoe

We now return to The Misters’ pondering of the mysteries of The Smitty’s intuition-a-tion.

More precisely, how The Smee can sniff the diff between a short jaunt and a long parting.

“Mister, it’s all the prep time. He spies us moving aboot.”

“Mister, that’s it: it’s the fussing factor.”

Satisfied, The Misters lapsed into silence.

“Shoes.”

“Huh, Wha-?“

“That’s how he knows when it’s serious: when we put on serious shoes.”

“Do we have serious shoes?”

“No, but I mean in the opinion of (pointing, whispering) Smee-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed.”

Training, Brah

Mister Smitty is a well-trained smitty!

After having thoroughly trained his Misters to, on sight, greet, feed, comb, sing, pet, scratch, and coo like idiots, The Smee has – on rare occasion – deigned to be trained himself.

Let’s look at some of the tricks he’s been trained to do (roll film):

whenever he finds a Mister supine: to lay on him;

whenever The Misters get to fixin’ supper (their own): to sit in the most in-the-way-possible place between sink and stove;

to daily attack (and subdue) the couch;

to signal his arrival from afar by gently squeaking upon gaining the porch or crossing the threshold;

-- all that takes training!

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).