This morning at 2:03 AM, my sixteen-year-old dog crouched on the pillow right next to my head – on the cotton-white colored pillowcase I just changed yesterday – and pooped out what very well might have been her small intestine.

I was already up, courtesy of the unstoppable motion she created as she walked in circles around the bed for the few minutes prior to the big event.  I had been hoping that they were I-can’t-get-comfortable circles or perhaps I-need-a-little-cardio circles, but no.  They were I’m-sorry-you-spent-a-great-deal-of-money-on-bedding-but-I-am-going-to-the-bathroom-right-here-and-now circles.