“It’s like a civil war goin’ on with black people and there are two sides: black people and niggaz. And the niggaz have got to go! … I love black people but I hate niggaz.”
– Chris Rock, Bring the Pain
Most of y’all pro’bly don’t know that the weekend before Mama T moved, someone broke into her car. Y’all know how she is: leave the past in the past; move on and move upward. So, I don’t know all what happened but I do know she was too peeved when it did happen. Ooh wee, I can just hear her cussing. “How those triflin mofos gonna bring they azzes up in my yard and take my -ish?” Umph, umph, umph . . .
Apparently the day after she dropped me off at the kennel, she removed the iron fence from the backyard entrance to take to the new house. That night, someone came into the backyard, unscrewed the light bulbs from the motion-light on the deck, broke the passenger-side window, and ransacked her car! Now, what I wanna know is how come they had sense enuf to turn the lights off on the deck but not think to check the door before breaking the window? Mama T never locks her door cos she always said that if somebody wanted to break in, she didn’t want to clean up the glass so she was making it easier on herself.
They took her GPS, MP3 player, the adapter to the MP3/GPS/cell that let her use them all at the same time in the car, and all the money in the ashtray (‘bout $75 — $35 in bills for parking downtown and the rest in change). And her Jimmy Choo purse. Boohoo . . . She usually keep her keys in the car too but since the gate was gone she took them in the house. Good thing cos our butts woulda had to walk to Hampton.
Nobody saw or heard nuthin. Uh huh . . . like Chris Rock say, neighbors didn’t see sh*t cos they was doin sh*t. She says it was probably one of those bamas that’s always tryna holla at her when we walking. I don’t know; coulda been a wanna be b*tch too. They never speak to us. What’s wrong wid females? I can’t say just human females cos I don’t get along wid females either. But y’all should see Mama T when she walks me. It’s not like she’s even trying to catch so there’s no reason for sistas to be so stank. Since the surgery and lymphedema, Mama T put away the booty coolers for leggings so she always has on a pair and a wife-beater and sometimes a head wrap. I wouldn’t look at her twice if I was human.
Mama T: They’re tank tops, Donna. Men wear wife-beaters.
Oh. Well they tight as wife-beaters so let’s call them husband beaters.
Mama T: Let’s not.
It’s my blog soooo what I say . . .
Anyway, all the men in the old neighborhood would speak to her and stop and talk. Black. White. Hispanic. Gangsta. Redneck. Ya wall street brotha, blue collar brotha, down for whatever chillin on the corner brotha. You know that Mama T luvs em. Yes, she does!
Old women, young girls, and white women would speak and chat too. But the sistas . . . Da-Yam! That’s some hate. One woman would wait every morning until we got 20 feet from her drive-way and she would burn rubber trying to hit us wid gravel. I spit up some bones in her driveway one day when she was gone, hopin that they were sharp enuf to put a hole in her tire! But we stopped goin down that street so I don’t know if it worked.
And it’s the same way wid me and b*tches. They hate me. One day we were walking and I got my salad tossed by Tasmanian Devil. Mama T took this pic but she didn’t put my face in it so I could have deny. . denia . . . so I could say it was somebody else.
Mama T: Donna, sweetie, you can’t have deniability if you tell people it’s you.
Say what na? Why you didn tell me that befo I said sumthin? They all family so it’s all good.
Mama T: You hope.
When I finished getting my groove on, I walked down the street and started sniffing around this mailbox. Then this black lab that had just had a litter of 9 bolted from her porch and was on me like white on rice. Mama T says I am such a wuss cos I just laid down, rolled over and covered my face like, “Whatever you do, please don’t scratch my face. I’m too pretty for more scars.”
A week or so befo I had gotten my azz whooped by P-Funk (Mama T makes up these names based on what she thinks the dog should be called and I just roll wid it). On July 4th, Mama T and I got up at 5:30am as usual for our AM walk and as we were about to step out of the yard into the street, I stopped cos I was sensing something. Out of nowhere a pregnant pit bull flies around the corner and stops right in front of us. I started sniffing the dog to get to know her and the dog starts sniffing Mama T. For some reason, P-Funk seemed to like Mama T (most dogs do) and she started trying to get Mama T to pet her by moving her head under Mama T’s hand. The dog was funky and dirty and was covered in poop, so Mama T wasn’t trying to touch her. I got jealous cos I’m possessive and to let the dog know that Mama T was my human, I sat on Mama T’s foot. Well, that just pissed the funky pit bull (P-Funk, get it?) off and she had the nerve to attack me. Lawd, I hope I never get another azz whooping like that.
Mama T was able to break us up and I jumped into her arms, cuddled up tight and starting licking her arms and chest and said, “Oh, thank ya, Mama T! That damn dog was gonna kill my azz!” Mama T threw me over the fence and then yelled at the dog and marched her right out of our yard. P-Funk started whining and trying to come to Mama T like, “I’m sorry. Please don’t send me away.” But Mama T was like, “Uhn uhn, you hurt my boo now get yo funky self off my property before I hurt you.” P-Funk walked away wid her tail tucked and her head down and kept looking back like Mama T was gonna change her mind. And I didn’t say a word the entire time. I ain’t stupid. I was watching to see if I needed to find an escape in case she turned on Mama T and I had to get out of there. The next door neighbor saw the whole thing and didn’t even try to help. Mama T asked him why and he called her Ms. Dog Whisperer and said she was handlin her bidnezz. Mama T called him a punk azz mofo and he laughed. See y’all, Chris Rock was right. Didn’t see stuff cos he was doing . . . umm hmm.
I played wid all the male dogs in the old ‘hood, but those hussies hated me. There was Woodfin, the German shepherd that looks like the dog in the Woodfin commercials and lives across the street from my boo, Charlie. When we would walk by her house, I would act like the dog didn’t even exist, and that seemed to piss her off. You should have seen her banging on her fence. One of these days, she’s gonna jump it. Then there’s Curly Fry —a beautiful dog, according to Mama T – whose breed I don’t know (Mama T thinks she’s Akita) but her tail looks like a curly fry to Mama T so that’s what we call her. When she sees me she foams at the mouth and shows her teeth like I’m mince meat to her. I just look at her like, “Is all that really necessary?” but I’m not stupid and I stay right on Mama T’s heel. Finally, there’s Cujoetta, a maniacal Chihuahua. Y’all, that damn dog is crazy and she runs up and down the street like she is Cujo on speed. She tried to bite me one day but Mama T picked her little azz up and pinched her hard before throwing her in her yard and now she just runs along the sidewalk yakking at us cos she won’t try to mess wid me wid Mama T around.
I don’t get it. These dogs are acting like jealous skanks. It’s a trip and I’m sick of it.
But are we dogs just imitating our humans? Or are humans imitating us? Black vs. Black; Black vs. white vs. Asian vs. Hispanic; Female vs. Female; Male vs. Female. Does anybody get along wid anybody?
Can we all join paws/hands and sing, “Ebony and ivory live together in perfect harmony. Side by side on my piano keyboard oh Lord why don’t we?”
If y’all have any suggestions for what me and Mama T can do to get females to be friendlier to us when we come upon them, post a comment and help us out. Otherwise, say a prayer that all these dogs I keep hearing barking around the new house are male cos if not, this may be the last blog I write.
Peace out,
Donna
aintthatabtch 