When my daughter was three, we somehow managed to beat the other people away and get her a Furby for Christmas. (Remember how popular those were? And how hard they were to find?)
She opens it Christmas morning, and is absolutely delighted. After presents are finished, I'm in the kitchen, cleaning up the breakfast dishes. She's taking Furby around and showing him the house. I hear "This is the living room." Step, step, step. "This is the kitchen." Step, step, step. "This is the bathroom." Pause. "Go potty." SPLASH!
She dropped poor Furby in the toilet. I suppose dropped is the wrong word. Shoved would be more appropriate.
After a painstaking drying, he did manage to work again, but for the rest of his life, he would randomly blurt out odd sounds every once in a while.