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Ankle monitors aren’t always for criminals |

Ankle monitors aren’t always for criminals

At first glance, you’d swear my wife has been placed under house arrest. She wears an ankle monitor that records her every move.


But, to paraphrase a certain former president, Mary Ann is not a crook.

She didn’t rob a bank, cheat on her taxes, sell drugs, drive under the influence or whack me across the head with a skillet — although she might be tempted to start pumping cast iron now that I’ve gone public with news of her incarceration.

What she did was have surgery on her left ankle back in January. The hateful thing is still giving her fits. Doc Sawbones says one part of the joint is not mending as it should.

Thus, the ankle doohickey has entered her life. She is required to wear it three hours daily.

A couple of our shadier friends, all too familiar with fingerprints, police reports and steel doors, recently inspected Mary Ann’s device. They agreed, nervously, it looks quite like the Real McCoy.

This gizmo stays attached to the top of her foot with a Velcro strap. Inside is an itty-bitty computer that keeps a record of when she has it on and when she has it off. This ensures no hedging on the three-hour business. 

Mary Ann says it doesn’t hurt. Makes no noise, not even a hum. It’s just a pain in the butt — I mean ankle — for her to clunk around the house with this thing bound to the base of her leg.

Don’t ask how it works. Doc Sawbones and the technician who brought it to our house say it stimulates the bone to manufacture new cells. According to them, it may take awhile for success to become apparent.

Sounds like voodoo, if you ask me — although it’s significantly more expensive than ordering a bottle of magic potion from Marie LaVeiux. I get a sharp pain in the billfold every time I hear the “rrriiiipp!” of Velcro.

On the positive side, though, this do-dad has provided abundant entertainment for yours truly, our children, grandchildren, in-laws and others in the Venable clan. We make it a point to loudly discuss her “latest arrest” among ourselves whenever we’re at a restaurant or other public venue.

When she enters a room, someone is sure to exclaim, “How much bail did you have to post this time?”

Or, “Looks like she’s getting ready to bust out of the big house.”

Or “You’re not wearing your ankle monitor! If your parole officer finds out, you’ll be in more trouble!”

Verily, our cup of compassion overfloweth. Wouldn’t be surprised if the Florence Nightingale Society takes notice.

The dear lady has been a good sport. She has taken everything in stride, so to speak.

From this moment on, however, I shall make certain there are no skillets within arm’s reach.

Sam Venable’s column appears Sunday and Tuesday. Contact him at sam.venable@outlook.com.
 

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