My dear friend Debbie visited awhile back. One of the highlights of her trip was attending the San Gennaro Festival that Jimmy Kimmel puts on in Hollywood. We feasted on the fried calamari, white pizza and zeppole while listening to the New Jersey-style crooners performing on stage. Afterward, we strolled Hollywood gazing at the celebrity stars on the ground and gawking at the freaks all around.
The other highlight happened while Debbie and I were chatting in my living room. I was holding Princess Piggy Poo on my lap, when suddenly I popped up as if a spring from the couch had launched me. “What happened?” asked my friend. “My guinea pig peed on me!”
It was my first Princess Piggy Poo golden shower—not that it would be the last—but she had exercised such amazing bladder control that I forgot she wasn’t potty trained.
Supposedly a guinea pig will somehow let one know when it has to pee so one can return the cavy to its cage to relieve itself. I’ve found that Princess Piggy Poo’s tell is that she gets squirmy. With the exception of that first time—as witnessed by my friend—when Princess Piggy Poo sat still as a stuffed animal accepting my methodic strokes on her soft fur while unleashing a wicked whiz to rival any of the homeless dudes Debbie and I saw on Hollywood Boulevard hours earlier.