Karma's a dog named Skye.

Last night while we were watching some tv after dinner, we were deciding what show to watch or whatever and I said to Bill, "Whatever makes you happy, makes me happy."

He kinda rolled his eyes. And I said, "Okay, maybe not everything. Your dog doesn't make me happy."

Which was totally rude of me because she was in the room with us at the time. So I laughed and said, "Sorry, Skye!"

And I thought she was over it.

Then it was time for bed. And guess who couldn't lie still? That's right. Skye. She was panting, pacing, licking, whining, whimpering non-stop. We tried giving her more water, more food, Bill took her outside. We couldn't figure it out. She was acting the same way she does when there's a thunderstorm outside, but there was no storm, no rain, nothing. I was starting to worry that she had a sixth sense and was sensing something awful about to happen.

We tried to sleep, thinking that if we settled down, she would settle down too. Nope. And sometime around 12:30, she let out a big yelp.

I jumped up. Couldn't hear anything. Woke up Bill. He turned on the lights. We couldn't see anything. And so, after I was sure that we weren't in any grave danger, Bill decided to take her out again.

And that's where he discovered the answer to the mystery; diarrhea. Which was comforting on one hand, because I could stop envisioning psycho killers prowling around our doors and windows, and on the other hand it totally sucked. We spent the rest of the night at the mercy of Skye's bowels. And they were not very merciful. She let out another diarrhea warning yelp every two hours or so. And Bill would have to take her outside.

I feel kinda bad for her. And I feel kinda bad for Bill. And I know it's not really anyone's fault. But seriously, a backyard would have come in sooo handy last night.