O, Differ Us!

Mister Smitty smells good!

Ever since the crazy change in location suffered by The Smee a cause de the de-camping of The Misters to their current location (which shall remain nameless), The Smee has smelled real good.

“It’s the delousing sheet.”

“It’s the Indian Paintbrush.”

“Say wha...?”

[In The Misters’ previous-previous location (precipitously coastal and pre-Smee), the gentle ocean breezes were wont to waft across the lantanas and lift their “Indian Paintbrush”-y aromas…]

“How could a cat that’s never been in place it’s never been, smell like a plant that’s not here but there in that un-cat never-been-there-land?”

“I’ll get back to you once I’ve crossed out the double negatives on both sides of that equation and reduced it to something I can understand.”

Stay tuned.

The Cloud of Unknowing

Mister Smitty had a smell adventure!

When the Marsha-lady was down here on a visit, The Smee gallivanted across her truck’s plenteous folds -- in around over under beside and through -- as though The Smee were the proverbial preposition and Marsha’s truck the cloud.

“Miao!”

-- said The Smee, wondering if the Marsha Lady’s several cats were also somewhere therein contained, prowling the purlieus, unseen and unbeknownst.

“Miao?”

Sneaky Smitty and the Case of the Disappearing Stuffs!

Mister Smitty is on the case!

Like Cindy Lou Who (who was a handful at two) The Smitty stops the Grinch-like Misters as they abscond with evermore stuffs and lug them to their burgeoning truck.

“Hol’ up! Where you think you’re going? That’s got my smell on it.”

The Smitty quickly resmells the new arrangement (now missing this or that chair, pillow, shelf of books) in order to restake his coordinates. With every loss, he has to keep redrawing his olfactory maps.

The packing of each truckload is carefully supervised by The Smee, who climbs and clambers over the inventory before giving the OK to depart.

Ars Longa, Smitty Brevis

Mister Smitty appreciates art!

Ever since the latest triptych from Smudge’s mom arrived, The Smee has planted hisself in front of its central panel and stared it down.

“Mister, The Smitty is contemplating the triptych’s mysterious three-in-oneness.”

“Tru dat.”

“Until he hears a sound and then the fascination is broken.”

“Which means he favors Performance or Kinetic art over the more traditional forms.”

“Word.”

Mr. Smitty’s Old Money

Mister Smee is old money!

The Smitty’s behavior, demeanor, non-mean mien, wealth (in cuteness), and silent, condescending tolerance of those crassly joyful Misters clearly intimates that The Smee hails from Old Money.

Besides, despite our legal team’s exhaustive efforts to contain, squelch, bury, and generally put the kaibosh on The Smitty’s provenance and genealogy, tantalizing snippets have leaked to the public through whispering lips, to wit, that The Smee is (sorta) the scion of one of the oldest colonial families on the island (despite his tenure in an SPCA flophouse. cf. his tatoo in “Da Smitty Code”).

Vetting The Smee

Mister Smitty is a “sassy” Smee!

That, according to the vet, as she gently proctologized his lily-white ass.

Her assistant tried to hold the heretofore congenial Smee still for the duration, but The Smee emitted low, vulgar sounds of a type heretofore unheard of by The Misters.

“He’s a sassy one,” she opined, just before The Smee pumped up the volume on his strange whining.

“That’s it. let him go. We’re done,” she concluded, abandoning all hope of evermore entering The Smee here.

A Cagey Smitty

The Smitty really knew something was up when The Misters broke out the intergalactic transport device (cat carrier) and stuffed The Smitty inside!

This trip was not yet the big move but it was The Smitty’s first trip to the Vet (to be vetted).

Docile and silent on the long, 4-minute trip, once freed, The Smitty explored the examining room while The Misters were quizzed on their knowledge of The Smee’s provenance.

[Our legal team advises us not to include any sensitive personal information about The Smitty’s origins lest those humble beginnings be inundated with tourists, paparazzi, devotees, adepts, hangers-on, hot dog venders and the like.]

The Smitty’s birth shall remain an enigma inside a conundrum, wrapped in a blanket.

Mister-ioso

The Smitty is suspectifying something is up i’ the hood!

As the environs deplete themselves of The Misters’ personal effects, the mysterious evaporation of smells continues at a dizzying pace for The Smee.

Imagine a roller coaster ride that begins with all your favorite smells and then you drop away smell by smell until you suspect you may lose your own smell.

And thus become a mystery to yourself!

Mister Smitty FAQS

In an effort to make this blogsite more interactive (a directive from “Product Improvement” has made the writers sit up and look busy), we posit and answer what we theorize are our dear reader(s?) most pressing FAQS:

Q: Why is The Smee so cute?

A: Science tells us that good breeding and a fine coat are factors, but that much of The Smee’s putative cuteness is derived from the human perception of beauty in things like symmetry, color, cleanliness and the excellent treatment of The Smee by his Misters.

Q: Why is The Smee such a good Smee?

A: See above.

Mister Smitty and the Case of the Disappearing Smells

The Smitty was flummoxed:

“Where’d those smells go? We got ourselves a sensory-deprivation sich-a-manation up’n here!”

Alerting his peeps-posse to nose out the quickly disappearing rugs, objets d’art, tchotchke and useless effluvia, The Smitty focused his attention on the curious behaviors of his Misters, who were seen to be stuffing everything into boxes and hauling it off in that truck they are frequently wont to disappear in.

“Something fishy going on,” surmises The Smee.

Now and Forever

Mister Smitty should have a musical written about himself!

It could be called:

Sweet Smitarity

The Smitty and the Beast

The Smitty of the Opera

The Sound of Smitty

Smitty-Smitty Bang-Bang

Less Mis(t)erables

West Side Smitty

A Smitty Line

Smittalot   

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.]