In a way, we all live in a movie-like world. If your home is in Mongkok or Yau Ma Tei, it is like being on a triad film set. If you work in my office, then it is like being in Mission: Impossible. For me, the whole of last week was one long sci-fi horror movie. I shall call it The Virus. Voice-over: 'When the virus hits your home, nothing escapes, not even your pet. Especially not your pet.' Opening scene: I am studying instructions on how to install new computer software. (30 minutes later) I am still studying the instructions on how to install the new software that costs $1,500. (Another 15 minutes passes) I am shoving the program into the machine without the instructions. Next scene: The computer refuses to work. A scream cuts in. Mother runs into the room, crying: 'Chin-chin has not pooh-poohed for three days!' Chin-chin (which translates into 'money money' in Cantonese) is my pooch. Suddenly, I realise the Lasha Apso and my laptop computer have much in common. One minute they are up and running, the next both go down with a bug in the system. In Chin-chin's case, it is his digestive system. But more on the canine storyline later. The computer appears to have contracted a mysterious virus from the $1,500 software. Time to call my friends for help. That's what they are for, aren't they, friends? Always there to give you advice and reassurance at times of crisis. Wrong. 'You spent $1,500 on this rubbish?' one said. 'I bought mine for $700.' Another said the software was so outdated it had to be faulty. Great. But no use crying over spilt congee. The logical thing to do is to return the software to the shop. But as we all know, new purchases that do not work at home usually perform wonderfully at the shop. Next scene: I am showing the salesman how my computer fails to respond. (A few seconds later) Computer springs to life. Salesman mutters something under his breath and I leave the shop feeling totally humiliated. But not as humiliated as I felt when I left the veterinarian the following day. Chin-chin had been refusing to eat (as well as pooh-pooh) for days and it was time to take him to the vet for a medical check-up. But you see, no one takes Chin-chin for check-ups. The dog is psychotic. By the time we arrive at the clinic, no one can really tell which one of us needs the medical attention. But animal-lovers like myself will do anything for their pets. In any case, I was distressed when I learned about abandoned pets in public housing estates. The no-dog policy forcing dog owners to give their pets away had deteriorated to the point where the Royal Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals was staging a demonstration outside the Housing Department offices. According to RSPCA figures, 2,761 pet dogs had been abandoned in the past three months and 2,500 were put down. These are not just numbers, these are lives. It is amazing how people still buy animals as a passing fancy and then dispose of them like a sweet wrapper once they have lost interest. Chances of the Housing Department relaxing its no-dog policy rule are as slim as Chin-chin giving up biting the vet. Anyway, back to the clinic and the final scenes of The Virus. I have finally calmed Chin-chin but the momentary peace is rudely disrupted by new arrivals - four sniggering teenagers and two dogs. One is on a leash (the Maltese, not the teenager), while the Yorkshire terrier is inside a bag - a designer bag, of course. What really catches my attention, though, is not the fact that the Maltese is named Naughty but the teenagers' fluency in English . . . especially the four-letter variety. Is that all they learn in school these days? When one of them discovers the vet is a gweilo, they begin to exercise their vocabulary: 'How are you, baby? Come here baby, wanna have a **beep**?' Well, I am sure that wouldn't go down very well with the vet. Then it is Chin-chin's turn to be examined. What follows is like a bad dream in slow motion: I try to calm Chin-chin down, he tries to bite the vet, the vet tries to give the dog an injection but finds himself aiming at my arm. After a 30-minute struggle, we finally have Chin-chin drugged and filled with the laxative. My pooch problem is over, I think. On the drive home, we are trapped in a traffic jam. Nothing out of the ordinary, you may think - except that is when Chin-chin loses control of his bowel movement. I leave the final scene of my movie to your imagination.