Hey Fam,

I’m happy to report that I made it through my first hurricane. #:-s  Phew! Mama T was right: ain’t no need in worryin what that night is gonna bring. It’ll be all over in the mo’nin.

Mama T: Anita Baker and BeBe Winans said that, not me.

=;   Crickets . . . Crickets . . .  Crickets . . .

Raise yo hands if you care? Anybody? Somebody? Nobody? No? See, Mama T, don’t nobody care so stop correcting me.

Anyway, I felt so much better after my nap yesterday. Mama T took me out to relieve myself and I sniffed out an animal that had been buried by its mama to protect it from sumthin. That mama must nota thought that I’d be roamin round cos she didn even bury it deep and bad boy was good. Smack, smack, smack. =P~ Wait a minute, I think I still got some in my teeth. Suck, suck, suck. I think I got it.

OK . . . smack . . . so . . . suck . . . Mama T didn have on her glasses or contacts and the wind was blowin rain in her face and she couldn’t see nuthin so she didn know what I was doin til she heard the animal squeal. She hates that sound. When she first brought me home, she would complain bout dog toys all making that sound. But when she heard my first kill dyin, she realized that the reason dogs like that noise is cos it sounds like an animal dyin and that’s when she stopped buyin me squeaky toys. She said if Ima be killin animals and she has to hear the real deal, she don’t have time fo all that noise in da house.

She makes me sick sometimes. 8-|

When we went back into the hotel, Mama T turned off the TV cos the reporters made it sound all gloom and doom and Mama T was tryna keep me calm. We played tug and fetch and we wrestled and Mama T walked me round the hotel. It wasn’t too bad but I don’t wanna do it again. The curfew ended at 6am and at 6:15 we was headin home. And what a drive it was.

There was tree limbs all over the place and the traffic lights were out. Y’all shoulda seen Mama T tryin not to cuss while she was drivin. She tried to give up cussin for Lent but that didn’t work out too good so she’s gradually givin up *certain* words. (That don’t seem to be workin either but she tryin. Bless her heart.)

This mo’nin I thought she was gonna explode. She hates Virginia drivers when the weather is good but when e’ry body tryna dodge trees and there are no traffic lights, it’s a sight to see. Mama T was almost on top of the steering wheel she was clinchin it so tight.

And black people, y’all got some versatile skin, I tell ya. Mama T got a tan and her arms and face are darker now than they will be this winter (her legs are normal cos they don’t see no light wid them leggings on all the time). Plus she got all those bruises on her arm. And this mo’nin her knuckles was white. OK, not white but definitely not mocha brown. And she was bitin her lip and it went pale. Yep, versatile.

Then she started singing, “Ain’t gonna let nobody turn me ‘round. Turn me round. Turn me round.” I said, “Mama T, what you sangin’? Don’t you got yo songs mixed up?” She rolled her eyes at me then started sangin’ “Lord, hold my hand while I run this race. I don’t wanna run this race in vain.” I just left her ‘lone cos I figure she must be upset she didn get to go to Washington so she was sangin Civil Rights songs. Plus lis’nin to her sang is much better than lis’nin to her cuss, tho nowhere near as funny.

We made it home safely, and it looks normal, ‘cept some branches in the yard  and on the deck and some wet boxes in the garage. And the roof leaked a bit in the kitchen and messed up a cabinet doe. All in all, we done good. I was so happy to be home, I ran around the yard and joined all the other dogs in the neighborhood that were barking. Mama T kept tellin me to shut up but why I gotta be the only dog not barkin? Plus, the party don’t really get started til I get there. E’rybody know that. I was giddy and even said hi to that old curma . . . munchkin . . . Mama T, what’s the word for old meany?

Mama T:Curmudgeon.

Yeah, that. Spoke to that mean dog, Taco. That dog barks at e’ry body ‘cept Mama T. His humans say they thought he was a Chihuahua when they got him. Duh . . . What kinda Chihuahua big as me? Y’all betta stay away from dem chimmy-changas. All dem got sumthin wrong wid them. If they ain’t crazy, they mean and don’t know they ‘spose to be little dogs. They got bad jeans or sumthin. Whatever it is, Ima leave dem alone.

Mama T: Genes

Crickets . . . crickets . . . crickets. . .

Well, I done ran round so much I done woe myself out and I’s tied.

Whew, but glad I survived. Ima go to sleep and dream about Charlie . . . Oh, Charlie! Boo-Boo, I miss you. I’ll tell y’all bout Charlie next time.

Til then, toodles!

Donna