|Caught in the act. Sort of.|
Since my son, Henry, has a bunch of stuff out in the tent that he doesn't want to put away, I find that when I have the least bit of an inkling to pack it up, I realize it's more of an effort than I feel like doing at the time. Plus, I keep thinking, "Hey! We should sleep in the tent!" In other words, we are trapped in the ninth ring of backyard camping hell.
The other evening I was sitting in the backyard trying to unknot a skein of yarn while my son was chasing the chickens around the yard, when he mentioned that there was pee on the tent's rain fly. I figured Paco, our urban farm Chihuahua, had decided to season the back end of the tent as a result of his frustration at not being able to get into the tent and snuggle in Henry's sleeping bag due to his lack of opposable thumbs and all those confounded zippers.
I also considered that perhaps it was one of the evil neighborhood cats who also like to deposit delectable kitty gifts for Paco to enjoy. And, by enjoy, I mean smear its creamy goodness all over his neck and back, rendering my dog stink tolerance to shut down like a fainting goat on the 4th of July.
There's no way a 10 pound dog could have peed up that high, nor a cat. Unless, of course, the cat jumped 8 feet in the air, threw out a roundhouse side kick, suspended itself in the air, and peed on the side of the tent. A little too much Matrix choreography required, methinks.
The only real possible conclusion, of course, was that our local, Cascadian big foot, aka Sasquatch, had visited our yard in the middle of the night and peed on the side of the tent. It certainly couldn't have been a pee loaded NSA drone sent to fertilize my plants and misfired.
I guess I'll never know the truth, and the mystery that is Big Foot lives on.
Image courtesy of here.