Brown Code

So much has been happening lately that my paws can barely keep up with documenting it all. But this one is fresh. Still steaming. Tonight was the worst night in months, and as Hydra declared at three in the morning, hair tangled like a bird’s nest and pillow lines stamped across her face, “This is your fault!”

I would like to immediately reject this sleep-deprived theory, which the Girl produced only because I woke her up about fifteen times during the night, and the sixteenth time she was dangerously close to a full mental collapse, especially after checking her phone and seeing it was only 3:15. She is equally responsible, maybe even more, because as she likes to say, she has to have brains for both of us. Clearly, that theory has now been disproven.

Yesterday evening I received a giant collagen chew filet. The system in our household is simple. I chew the first half alone, and from the halfway point the Girl supervises it so that it does not mysteriously jump into my throat. Well yesterday, while Hydra was holding one half of the filet in one hand, she took a sip of tea with the other and choked. She dropped the filet to cough politely into her hand, and in that one glorious second the filet launched itself into my stomach like a perfect dive into a swimming pool.

When she lowered her hand and realized it was gone, panic exploded. Traitor even emerged from his chambers to listen to the dramatic retelling of how in my previous life I must have been a sword swallower, how I inhaled eighteen centimeters of chew in one second, how I am stupid, and how I will definitely clog up and perish. It was a lecture. Then we marched around the house to “make me throw it up,” but I was fine and the filet was clearly fine too. So around midnight we went to bed hoping everything would turn into poop by morning and be solved.

It started sooner. First I felt strange, so I kept repositioning myself, hoping I could settle the filet into a non-problematic position. It refused to cooperate and kept waking me up. I tried different angles, different flops, and in the process I was clearly disturbing our sleeping Hydra.

A few hours later the bloating joined the party. And not the cute kind. The massive kind. You know that smell when a sewage tank overflows? We know now. To avoid waking the sleeping dragon, I moved to the Boy’s side. I always lie with him when I feel sick because it has been proven that Traitor is a better mother than Hydra, who, once asleep, would not wake up even if I placed my butt directly on her face.

Even the Boy did not dare wake her for the seventeenth time, so he took me on a late-night gas-release walk. It helped. We even slept for half an hour after. Then the second wave hit, and although it seemed impossible, it had such power that the smell alone woke Hydra. Half asleep, she started shaking the Boy and screaming, “He pooped in the bed, oh my God, it’s completely ruined!”

The Boy tried to get up, but the Girl stopped him and kept shouting, “Don’t move too fast, God knows where it is, don’t let it soak into the mattress or spray the wall, it smells like hell in here, we will have to move out, we will never get it out of the bed!” She was gagging.

I had no idea what was happening. I just sat there in the dark waiting. The Boy carefully slid out from under the blanket and turned on the lights while leaning back in case he was somehow covered in poop and did not want to drip it on the floor. Suddenly six bulbs exploded into daylight and, to the bipeds’ shock, the bed was perfectly clean.

The Boy quickly explained my wind situation. “He’s just farting a little, we already went outside once.” Hydra, face buried in a pillow, mumbled, “A little? A little? Are you serious? Or do you have covid? That is not human. You cannot ventilate that.” She was already at the window fanning the air with a pillow.

She ordered another walk immediately, convinced I would definitely poop. We went. Nothing happened. We came home. Hydra was asleep again. The bedroom was as cold as outside, water practically forming on the floor, but the smell remained.

We fell asleep, and an hour later the clear signal arrived. Brown code. I ran to the Boy and urgently resurrected him from the dead because it was seconds away from a medieval disaster in the bed. He understood. I delivered the apocalypse outside just in time.

We returned like gladiators after battle, exhausted, sweaty, but victorious. Hydra slept peacefully in her scented kingdom and woke only when the door slammed from a draft. The Boy proudly announced we had a brown code and everything was outside.

Well. Not entirely true. So that Hydra would not miss out on anything, while she was cleaning my paws my stomach flipped and I vomited all over both her hands and the tops of her feet. Now it’s complete, I thought, shifting awkwardly on the freshly decorated floor while the Girl gagged and the Boy wiped carrot chunks from her skin.

I’m curious when I will receive the second collagen filet, because clearly the problem was that treacherous orange carrot from dinner.