Peeing outside

This morning an email from the printer dinged, my precious proof prints were ready! So I immediately stomped my paws and woke up the Boy, who was still deep in his dream about having a calm day. I had to explain to him that today was definitely not going to be calm, and that while he was still snoring, we could already have been two minutes on our way.

The Girl was in the kitchen brewing tea for the thermos and packing a “healthy alternative breakfast,” which in her world means a pack of Lotus biscuits. I, of course, had my yogurt with blueberries, as any proper author should. Standards are standards, and I do not lower mine.

By the time the Boy finally crawled out of the blankets, I had already eaten. But more importantly, I really had to pee. Urgently. Desperately. Hydra was still typing nonsense for work and ignoring all my very clear warning signals that a flood was coming. And since I wasn’t about to risk my bladder exploding, I found the spot with the biggest pile of blankets and… well, I released a small, joyful sprinkle. Which, to be fair, is completely understandable, I’m getting my own book! Who wouldn’t be a little excited about that?!

I was pretty proud of myself, not just because of the book, but also for how perfectly I camouflaged my little accident. I was sure no one would ever find out. The blankets would dry, and I’d just act casual like nothing ever happened.

But of course, the Boy had to ruin everything. That morning, of all mornings, he suddenly wanted his special travel mug, the one he brought from vacation for exactly these winter trips. So Hydra went to look for it on the shelf, right in front of the pile of “blessed” blankets. And naturally, she stepped right in it. With a full squish!

Now, peeing inside the house is apparently reserved only for bipeds, and only in the room with the big ceramic bowl. So she was not prepared for this scenario at all. At first, she naively thought it was just one of my extremely drooly toys lying in a suspiciously wet zone, which to be fair happens around here all the time. So she even touched it. With her hand. And only when the yellow streams started dripping from the toy and the air filled with that unmistakable underground tunnel scent, she screamed like a maniac.

The Boy came running, because Hydra’s siren usually means danger, and of course, he stepped in it too. So now both bipeds were hopping around the hallway on one leg each, shouting philosophical questions like “is the dog actually a pig?” and “when did he even do this?” between their colorful vocabulary of “pee monster,” “dribbler,” “old man bladder,” and “urine overlord.”

Once we stuffed the entire pee-soaked blanket collection and all the toys into the washing machine, we finally set off for the print shop.

What I didn’t know yet was that outside, overnight, the world had been cursed with that cold white horror, snow. And they made me walk on it until I peed out every last drop, because apparently if I dared to do it in the car, they’d rename my book to “The Life of Peepee McWeewee.” And that, my friends, was a risk I simply could not take.