Dear Millie Noe it all,
My husband says that toilet paper should roll over the top.
I believe it should come from under.
Which is correct?
Dear Holy Roller,
Take that roll and stick it.....
Excuse me a moment. I need to talk to my sister.
"Louisa! I said no more toilet paper questions!"
Okay, let's see what else is in this pile.
Dear Millie Noe it all,
It is me, your beloved Hunter Bunter, King of the Jungle. Your old hound with the world's mightiest bark. The number one guy you have been missing since April.
We are not supposed to contact our past families. We are supposed to do our lessons and work on getting into heaven in order to make room for the incoming.
But nobody ever reads your advice column. So, I figure this is pretty safe.
Anyway, remember how you used to tell me that I was special?
That I had a talent that was being wasted there in the black hole just outside Harmony Grove?
Well, get this. Last week I was practicing being quiet so that I might graduate with the next class and just then a raccoon came sniffing around the garbage can.
You know how I am about those no-good mask wearing bastards with their freaky little hands.
I let out a bellow just like back in the day when you and Dad would try to talk to each other.
But in Furgatory racoons are not afraid of me.
It is so irritating.
It reminds me of all that barking I used to do at that old slipper of a cat you had. The one you called Grandma. Is she still kicking? I have not seen her pass through these rusty gates, and there is no way she is going to heaven in a straight line. You know what they say about the rich and arrogant with all their fancy gowns and pearls.
You could have told me she was deaf, by the way.
Anyway, I got twenty demerits for the minor racoon outburst, which I found out was a plant.
It was entrapment.
But there just so happened to be a talent scout in the area at the time.
Martin said he followed the bellowing for a few miles and there I was, head back and still letting loose when he pulled up.
That was it.
My lucky break.
A star was born.
I signed a contract this morning as the lead role in the Furgatory Spring Musical, Old Yeller.
You always said that would have been a good name for me and that I was born for the opera.
So, how are things there?
How is Dad?
Is Tuna still climbing trees and sleeping on top of the fridge?
Time for me to go.
We have rehearsal in a half an hour, and I still need to gargle and do my warmups.
Say hi to everybody for me.
Dear Hunter Bunter.
I am so proud of you. As proud as a mother can be.
However, I hope this does not slow your progress in getting into heaven. That is the goal, right?
Things around here are a little wild since you left.
That beaver you were carrying on about has moved in with his bride and has caused quite a commotion in your pond. He cuts through trees with his front fangs faster than any chainsaw your dad ever had.
Deer come right into the front yard now.
Oh, and we have a deranged squirrel that has been eating the siding on the house, way up high, near the peak.
Your dad wants to shoot him, but you know how I feel about our sweet Sven and bullets flying around after that one night.
The other day Dad was upstairs reading a book in the loft when that squirrel slid down the window full speed ahead all the way to the bottom.
"I hope he sprained an ankle," is what your dad said.
"Well, I hope he broke his neck," is what I said.
But he was nowhere to be seen and was back chewing on the house the next morning.
It has been snowing here.
You would love it. I hope you get lots of snow there.
We started curling again.
Grandma is doing just fine, and she is still as sweet as can be and as deaf as ever.
Tuna remains the tree climbing thug you remember.
He misses you.
We all do.
And sing loud Puppy Dog!