Potty training

Don't get me wrong, I love New York. I mean, Zabar's has the gulf stream beat, hands down, when it comes to fresh tuna and all kinds of yummy finny stuff.

But there is a problem. My daddies are already really wary of taking me out, because of some unfortunate disagreements I've had with people on the subway about nibbling, but that's neither here nor there. No, the big problem is the potty.

You see, when I'm just frolicking in the surf near the beach (and you), I can take care of waste disposal right then and there, and nobody bothers me about it. Not so in the city. Here, it's all about getting to the potty on time, and I've had to learn that, if only to soothe my daddies.

So there I was, sitting on the potty. I understand people have read, or written, entire novels in places like these. So why was I only allotted a worn, dog-eared copy of Martha Stewart Living? Don't these people appreciate my true genius?