Showing Them Who is Boss

The portable seat that my slaves utilize to transport their offspring in is quite comfortable. So comfortable, in fact, that I have spent many a day lounging within its soft recesses, my eyes closed, a dull and faintly malicious purring echoing in my throat.

I felt that my presence within the seat would be enough to get this message across:

This seat is mine. Get the child another one. I will tolerate no others before me.

They did not listen. Foolish, ignorant slaves. If I could take them down to Slave Mart and trade them in for two new ones, I would. Instantly. It must be the result of some cosmic joke that such an option is not available to me. And me, a great old one, to boot.

I satisfy myself by contemplating the child's inevitable sacrifice upon my altar of unutterably viscous ichor.

Yet I digress.

The only option left to me in this case is to show them that the car seat is mine. To do this successfully, I must mark the seat in such a way that they cannot possibly mistake it as their offspring's.

So I peed in the seat, even as they watched me, disbelief making their faces slacken dumbly, their eyes bulging with incredulity.

Mine, I reiterated. Don't forget it.

The pitiable slaves immediatly washed the seat, instead. Will they never learn? Nothing short of a nuclear blast can cleanse the filth spawned by a great old one of my stature.