Thursday, May 5, 2016
Pocket and the Public Restroom
We have all had it happen. We are with our parents in a store: There are so many sights and smells, we become immersed in the scents, and we begin relaxing our muscles. And then it happens. We leak, or worse; we leave a butt deposit. Chaos quickly ensues.
Our parents frantically begin looking for a clean up station. The stations are always hidden around an inconvenient corner. If our parents are together one of them must stay with us. They are embarrassed and repeating the same lie all parents say in this situation. “He/She has never done this before.” Oh, if we could talk: “Sure I have, yesterday at Home Depot, right by the gnomes.” If our parents are alone, they yank us across the floor in search of the clean up material praying no one steps in our gift to the shoppers.
When they reach the clean up station, if they are not empty, they find small, skimpy bags that barely hold my five-pound body’s poop, and thin, non-absorbent paper towels. It takes 64 or these towels to clean up my pee. If you are a normal sized dog, it takes a roll and a half. When the parent is done, they bring over an orange cone, large enough to warn people of a sinkhole the size of Nicaragua, to warn people that I had a secretion, doing no good for the people wandering around with my precious bodily fluids on their shoes.
Thankfully there has been a breakthrough in dog poop and pee abatement. Forward thinking businesses, like JFK airport in New York, have created doggy restrooms. They come with a stretch of fake grass and a fire hydrant. There are poop bags and a hose to clean the area when the dog is done.
I had to try one. I had mommy drive me to the airport. We got out and went right to the doggy restroom. I looked around: It was beautiful. Then I assumed the position.
“Excuse me!” a large man with a badge stopped me mid squat. “What is your name?” I told him my name was Pocket. “I am sorry Pocket, but this is the ladies’ dog restroom. The men’s dog restroom is down the hall.
“But I am a girl!” I insisted.
“Do you have an original copy of your dog license?” the man in the suit asked. “Pocket sounds like a boy’s name, and we can’t let boys and girls go to the same restroom. It wouldn’t be right.”
“But we pee on the same rock in the park!” I said.
“What you do in the park is your business sicko but here at the airport we have rules.”
I told him I did not have a dog license. “Then you are going to have to roll on your back and show me,” he said.
Who was the sicko here? I refused to be humiliated because I had to pee. I told him I would not use his precious bathroom and walked off in a huff. Before I left, I peed on the people mover. It was the closest I could come to peeing all over the airport.
Listen to me my friends: If they want to make you show your privates, or your license, just to pee: Go on the floor.