The Privy Is Not Always Private

I seem to be alone. I go to the bathroom, close the door, and sit down on the toilet. The cat pushes the door open, sensing instinctively that it has a captive audience. Phartacus, Slappy, and their neighborhood pal suddenly come stampeding up from the basement in urgent need of 100-calorie packs of baked Cheetos. I am trapped, peeing, mid-stream. No escape now. Capris around the ankles, I issue my decree from the throne: One pack apiece, throw the wrappers in the trash, and would you kindly close the door. Phartacus pulls the latch on the neighbor kid's riveted gaze.