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!

Smee TV

Mister Smitty watches the TV!

When the Misters are sitting on their couch watching a movie, the Smitty is wont to join them by perching on the armrest. Like the Misters, he aims his head in the general direction of the idiot box.

But the Smitty doesn’t watch because the TV has no smell.

(So why stare at it so much – no’m sayin’?)

The Smitty needs Smell TV – a cable niche-network: 634 channels of different smells (the hottest are on paw-per-view. Titles like: “Alley Cat’s Bum” and “Kitty Heat”). Of course every smitty loves reruns of “Cat Woman” and “Rat Patrol.”
Cat Business shows are popular, too: LBI: Litter Box Investigators and the all-time favorite,

“Claw and Odor.”

Missing Misters

The Smitty, of late (I mean, at night) has been projecting his face in the night sky by means of a huge search light.

Actually, he doesn’t do the wielding, he has his peeps for that.

Instead, The Smitty gets reports and barks his “Mao!s” from deep inside the nerve center he’s set up in the Find the Lost Misters Headquarters.

Perhaps you’ve seen those “Reward! Missing Cat” signs posted to poles?

The Smiity has made some to help him find those pesky Misters who disappear for WAY longer than the Smitty’s 10-second attention span and, so, become irretrievably lost (in his mind).

Except his signs don’t have a photo of the Misters; they work through odorama: The Smitty rubs that part of his flaxen flanks (which contain the smell of a Mister’s leg or hand) onto the poster so that any cat might sense the scent and report back in.

Necking

Mister Smitty likes to stretch his neck!

Like a mannerist Smitty (cf. The Smitty of the Long Neck, by Giamthirsti Forasotti), the Smitty enjoys laying and LOLling and stretching his neck out to rest his Adam’s Apple on any convenable surface (a Mister’s leg, the arm of a chair, whatevahs), fold his front leg forward at the wrist, and create one long flat plane of hisself from nose to perineum (where, yes, his nose it often sniffs).

Mannerist Watch: [interrupting this blog to quell restlessly squirming art-history majors] “Despite the above-mentioned attenuations, the Smitty has not (as of yet) engaged in other Mannerist © elongations and disturbations of proper perspective.”

[O Madonna! – ed.]

Mister Smitty, C.S.O.

Mister Smitty has been promoted!

Due to the overwhelming number of response(s) to this blogsite – and the crowds clamoring outside the doors of our executive offices -- The Smitty has been kicked upstairs.
(This -- according to executive spokesperson, Peter Principle -- also means The Smitty has jumped a pay grade (or two). But Principle took pains to clarify that no actual, physical “jumping” had occurred).

The new Executive in Charge of Smittyness -- who shall add vice, condescend, and sit on the board (‘s laps) – shall assume the title (said Principle) of C. S. O.
(Chief Smitty Officer)

Project Runaway

Mister Smitty is a model!

After a hard day posing, all the Smitty wants is a “j’accuse!”-y and a G&T (Groin & Toe-licking).

Whole minutes were spent on the business end of the cellphone camera, enduring The Misters’ “catcalls:”

“Mister Smitty, Mister Smitty, Mister Smitty, Mister –“ CLICK!

Meanwhile The Smitty thinks:

“Yo, where’s my cat comb?” CLICK! “Can I get some water over here?” CLICK! “Where’s that girl with my cucumber-and-mouse-viscera sandwiches?” CLICK!

Human Discourse is Coarse of Course

“I don’t need to hear that!”

--thinks the Smitty to hisself.

Human Conversation – I mean, please! Talking about whether mosquitoes are attracted to light the way moths are:

“Because maybe that yellow anti-insect bulb isn’t for moths but for other insects.”

“Mister, maybe.”

“But they still seek you out in the dark in bed.”

“Mister, I guess it’s…”

[At this point, the Smitty is so frustrated by human discourse (and intercourse) that, when asked, The Smitty thinks:

“Those humans! So Slow! It’s like watching them figure out for the first time that 2+2=mouse.”]

Video Smee, Our Radiant Star

Mister Smitty has a video!

Let’s read the box, shall we?

“Watch the Smitty sleep: a calming experience for you and yours, playing as a background. You’ve seen videos of a fire in the fireplace? By which, openly, chestnuts roast? Enjoy hours of sleeping Smee-dom on your TV. Purrr-fect!

“Extra features include a complete 4-hour commentary by The Misters about the framing and composition of every shot, working with the talent, jokes about the Smitty at the craft service tables, rumors and gossip shared in the Smitty’s make-up trailer, interviews with Cameramen, Script Girls, and Keys Grip.

Check out the Blooper Reel where the Smitty does crazy things like wake up, lick hisself, or run out of frame!”

Book Cat-alog

Mister Smitty books we’d like to see:

Mister Smitty’s Advice to Humans
Excerpt: “Guests may be confused by your home’s lay-out. To orient them, gently rub yourself against their legs.”

Mister Smitty’s Holiday Hosting Guide
Excerpt: “Nothing breaks the ice like plopping yourself down in the middle of the room, lifting your back leg straight to heaven, and commencing to lick your crotch.”

Punchin’ the Clock

Mister Smitty has regular hours!

Visions of the Smee, hardhatted, shuffling along behind behatted others, lunchbox in paw, to slip his time card in to be punched…
Like clockwork, the Smitty is here at _____ and gone at ____ and back precisely at _____ to leave again at _____.

[We would very much like to disclose the actual hours – but our legal team advises against so particular a disclosure, in accordance with the TMI act (Too Much Information)]

Thus, this post is, though well-meaning, less than informative.

Mr. Anti-GraviSmitty

Mr. Smitty is an anti-gravity Smitty!

(an anti-gravismitty!)

He can jump from the desk (indoors) to the top of shoeland (outdoors) and never touch the ground. Thus, the Smitty has two ways to get hisself through that vexifying screen door
(cf. previous (tedious) blogs concerning the philosophical conundrum (from the Smitty’s point of view) of the screen door’s being, paradoxically, closed and yet smells open).
Of course he does the usual cat-trick of climbing the screen to get on top -- but that’s an old trick that he can only trot out rarely now for fear of causing general yawning amongst The Misters.

Uppity Couch!

If The Misters’ couch ever takes a notion to up’n vamoose itself out the door, down the hill, aiming to thumb itself a ride, well… it sure as shoot won’t be on Mr. Smitty’s watch!

“Whoa, couch must be settin’ to move.”

“Get the couch, Mr. Smitty! Get it!”

“Mister Smitty’s a-got his’n claws on the corner of the couch. He ain’t lettin’ go!”

“He a-gonna get that couch!”

“Mister Smitty’s got that couch by the short hairs and won’t let go.”

“Tell ‘em who’s boss, Mr. Smee.”

“That couch ain’t goin’ nowhere, yo!”

Shower Scene

Mr. Smitty likes the shower!

Lickable fresh water all over the place -- like a waterbowl that just goes on and on! Cool, lickable walls, too, that echo and reinforce smell and sound. HABAS – not into all that. “I don’t do that. I’m clean.”

“What’s that noise?”

“Sounds like the towel rack jiggling.”

“Mr. Smitty, are you done in the shower? Are you using my towel? You can.”

Plato’s (refrigerated) Cave

Mister Smitty is a philosophical smitty!
He stares at the fridge at mealtime.
Does he know that his wet food comes from the fridge?

Sitting and staring at it, he feels the door open and the cold air blast out at him, then close. He understands that radically abrupt change in temperature.

But now, staring at it, I wonder if he’s wondering about the fridge the way we wonder about God.
Mr. Smitty is a philosophisti-cat!