I wish I only had to put two pees in the pod; unfortunately, it has to be 24 hours' worth.
I also wanted to clear up a comment that my sister left about my childhood pet frog. The particular frog she was talking about did not escape. I released him into the wild at Big Lake in Council Bluffs (yes, past citizens of Council Bluffs were creative enough to come up with a name like "Big Lake") because the crickets he ate cost 75 cents a week. It was coming out of my allowance, and, whoa, that was pretty steep. I like to imagine that he is still alive, 20 years later, fat on free crickets, and enjoying life.
I did have another frog, though, who lived out on the front porch, and he did escape. One morning, I noticed his cage was empty. Later that day, I was riding my scooter down the street and noticed a frog-shaped stain in the Grahams' driveway. Oh, it was incredibly traumatic. Then again, riding that scooter almost always ended in trauma. It was homemade: two pieces of wood nailed together with old roller skates nailed onto the bottom. It was held together by a couple of Wall Drug bumper stickers and the Will of God. I fell off that thing onto the cement on a daily basis. I think I had non-stop skinned knees for about three years.
At least I lived to tell about my cement encounters, which is more than Smashed Frog can say.