1053. Microchipped

There’s one advantage being a vet. Let me tell you. I suspect my wife’s been playing up a bit when I work long hours. So I implanted one of those little radio transmitter things into her neck when she was asleep. The ones they use for dogs. She complained a bit about her neck being sore, so I looked and said it must be an insect bite. It’s easy to put in with a syringe.

They use these microchips on dogs, so if they stray or get stolen they can be tracked by satellite. So I did the implant and then I had to register her as a dog with the officials. I told them that the dog’s name was Chubby, it was a pure bred Rottweiler, I was the vet, and she was a bitch. They thought, my being a vet, that I was being technical when I said she was a bitch. But I wasn’t.

For a fee, the registry provides 24-hour, toll-free telephone service for the life of a pet. So I paid up, and I’ve tracked her a few times. So far this week she’s been to the supermarket three times and got Indian Takeaways once. She went to the Bargain Bin, to get some sugar, or so the Bargain Bin man told me when I called to ask.

I haven’t caught her doing anything wayward yet. You’d think she’d know by now that marriage is built on trust, so when I find out what she’s up to I’ll be telling her straight. Full blast.