What's your definition of urinary
incontinence?
A major flood? A gush or two when you cough, sneeze, or
bark? Certainly not just a few dribbles when you get overly excited or anxious,
right? Just try telling that to Tanya and Todd though. Lately they've become
ridiculously annoyed by my occasional urinary leakage. I mean
really, what’s the big deal - we have hard wood floors. A paper
towel, a quick swipe or two and voila – good as new. But now they’ve even taken
to putting trash bags on top of the couch cushions. You think they’ve ever
tried to find a comfortable sleeping position while laying on a cold, noisy,
plastic bag? Hell no. (Unless of course one of them was still bedwetting at age
10, in which case you’d think they’d be more sympathetic to my plight). And recently
they’ve started spraying this hideously odiferous dog urine “no-smell,
pee-deterrent, I-don’t-know-what” crud all over the sectional in the TV room. I
can’t even enjoy an episode of My Cat
from Hell on Animal Planet without getting a nose full of nasty,
overwhelming cinnamon scent. How am I supposed to sniff out all my good pee
spots with that stuff burning my delicate nostrils? (Oh… I suppose I should
assume that to be the point).
Anyway, along with the Prozac that I now take for my PTSD
(see my post of September 21, 2014) I am now taking 3 (count ‘em, 3!) pills a
day to tighten up my pee sphincter and help me “control” myself. At least I’ve
made Todd coat them in peanut butter before I’ll even consider being
accommodating.
But all of this abuse pales in comparison to the threat
of the ultimate humiliation –last week I caught Tanya Googling “dog diapers”!! Great
job Tanya – the thought of spending the rest of my days wearing doggie Depends
only served to really scare the pee
outta me.
