Yesterday, I was chasing my dog Roxy around my yard with a pie plate, trying to stuff it under her when she squatted to pee. (This is not some sort of new hobby - I was ordered to do this by the veterinarian)
On the first attempt, just as I got it under her, it made that crinkling, popping sound pie plates make when they bend, and she nearly broke my arm lunging at the leash to get away. Now, of course, she was terrified of the scary scary pie plate, and not only would she not pee, she wouldn't look at me because I held it in my hand and was evidently planning to use it to ... my God, I am speculating on what a dog might think. Shoot me now.
So we went back inside the house, and I gave her a cookie, which wipes her memory clean, and we tried again. This time I took a flat lid from a tupperware dish (no crinkly, no scary) and we went outside. Due to the memory-deleting qualities of the dog biscuits, Roxy seemed to think it was our first time out that day, so she was very happy.
She wandered around, looking for that one blade of grass on our lawn which she had not yet blessed with the holy water of her bladder, found it, and squatted. Smoothly, gracefully, as if I had done this hundreds of times before, I slid the tupperware lid under her just in time to have my dog pee on my hand.
Fortunately, enough got into the lid for me to pour a sample into a little cup, seal the cup, give it to Allison for delivery to the vet, then go in and
dip my hands in bleach wash my hands for about ten minutes under scalding water.
So, yesterday, I let my dog pee on me. On purpose.
Today, I am going for a meeting with the Queen's Representative to the Province of Prince Edward Island, our Lieutenant-Governor. I expect I will be greeted by a military aide-de-camp, or perhaps a butler, and will be offered tea and possibly finger sandwiches.
... and I will try to remember not to eat with that left hand.