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).

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?).