We’re always thinking about taking a road trip in the van with the 6 Wieners, but the discussion usually breaks down just casting our eyes around the house, and taking in the six of them and their unfortunate habits. Like pissing on our stuff, running away, finding other dogs offensive, barking at ants, etc. The usual. But beyond that, I’m at that age where just the THOUGHT of being 20 miles in any direction away from a suitable toilet (that would be one unsullied by male construction workers) makes me need to pee right now, and since the van comes equipped with dog friendly flooring, ie., solid, cold, naked metal, and plenty of bench seats for everyone to slide around on, it doesn’t have a toilet.
So there I was discussing this lack of amenities with my sister, who, being one of the original hippies that fled civilization for the natural life 40 years ago, (the natural life of course meaning no toiletguarantees wherever you live or however you travel), suggested rather matter -of -factly that we should just travel with a jar.
Well, I cannot pee in a jar while a car is moving. No one can. It is impossible. You have to balance using the same muscles that govern your bladder and if you relax your bladder muscles you fall ignominiously to the floor the first time your laughing husband/driver brakes. Trust me, I have tried. A Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket works, minimally, because you can’t rest your butt on it, it tends to cave, but it’s big enough to squat over, requiring minimal expertise in aiming, which, as we all know, is not a skill females are encouraged to develop, unlike male relatives, for whom pissing in a bottle is just a game they mastered in Kindergarten. No, I require a large recepticle on the order of an empty
5 gallon bucket of hydraulic oil; they are sturdy, amply supporting large butts and, if outfitted with a padded plastic K Mart toilet seat, feel very much like home.
This discussion led my sister to reminisce fondly about always carrying a shovel wherever she goes in the woods around her little Hippie abode, happily fertilizing the earth. Which is OK if you live on several acres in the middle of Bum Fuck Egypt. But the idea of scraping a little hole out of the asphalt and silt along the Interstate while a million cars and sharp-eyed truckers whiz by is just plain awful, I don’t care how close to Mother Gaia you are.
That being said, I do recall my special relationship with my little folding camp shovel I used when we first homesteaded our 40 acres. Nothing makes you feel more like a King than knowing you can take a piss -and- a -poo anytime and anywhere you want to……….
………….JUST LIKE OUR DOGS.