You know it's going to be bad when...

...the stench wakes you up. The painkillers (for which we paid $77) caused Ferris to develop something I had never before had the misfortune to witness: projectile diarrhea. I first awoke to the smell at two o'clock in the morning. I made it to the living room in time to see Ferris vomiting a few feet away from the biggest mess he had ever made. He had actually grossed himself out. Once he was finished puking, he greeted me ecstatically. I spent the next fifteen minutes using up a roll of paper towel and at least a dozen Lysol wipes. Fun.

I returned to bed but awoke a few hours later to the very same stink. Once again, Ferris greeted me with his full-body wag. It was as if he was awaiting praise for his latest display, which resembled a giant Spin-Art creation gone very, very wrong.

Scott brought Ferris outside, where he repeated his spinning poop routine. I was still scrubbing the floor when they came back in. And silly me, I thought it would be safe to go back to bed for a little while. Before long, I awoke for a third time to olfactory overload. A new roll of paper towel, a new container of Lysol wipes, and another trip to the back yard where Ferris could yet again recreate his artwork. The vet instructed me to stop giving Ferris the painkillers and she offered to dispense a medication to stop the diarrhea. I said thanks but no thanks. With my luck, the anti-diarrheal would cause Ferris to, I don't know, bleed from the ears, for which another medication would be required. If I weren't broke from the vet bills, I would be buying stocks in veterinary pharmaceutical companies.