I took my dog, Brody, to the vet today. He had a urinary tract infection, which is rare for a male dog to acquire. But he found a way to get one, as he usually finds a way to do the unthinkable.

After the duties of the vet had been rendered to my canine, I went to the counter to pay and retrieve my dog. They told me the total was $51 and asked me to swipe my card.

Then the worker named Ashley said “does your card have a chip?” I replied yes and inserted my card into the contraption. When I go to Target the machine squawks incessantly at me. So I was worried that the Banfield Veterinary Clinic apparatus would do the same.

The machine’s protest wasn’t audible, but the error message across the screen told me that I hadn’t performed the task according to its standards. I asked if I should pull it out and put it back in. She replied that I needed to put it in slower and see what happened.

Per Ashley’s instruction, I put it in repeatedly until Ashley and the machine were satisfied. This transaction seemed more like a lascivious dalliance than a financial transaction regarding my dog’s health.  I am uncertain of the reasoning for this gold chip and the elimination of the swiping of the card, but I am certain of the headache the machine and said chip bring.

While my dog’s penis was being looked at by the vet and her team, I walked across the parking lot to Jimmy John’s to get a Turkey Tom, a bag of BBQ chips, and a Diet Coke. I like aspartame, so what?

The girl at the counter and her apparatus also requested me to insert my card as opposed to the traditional slide. But she cautioned me with “don’t put it in until I give you the green light,” which was followed up by “flip it over and put it in fast.” The receipt printed and I ate my sandwich.

A trip to Target is a little different. I always use the self-checkouts because they provide a quicker path into and out of the store. In the hurried world of self-scan, there is no one to help you and your card pay for your newly acquired goods. It’s only you and the machine. The machine doesn’t speak English. It’s binary and only knows success and failure. Receipt and refusal. Right and wrong.

When you are right, everything runs pleasant and the contraption is very agreeable. When you are wrong, the world knows of your mental incapacity and this device makes a spectacle of you in front of those waiting to buy their items by releasing a caw that sounds like a high-pitched animal mating call.

The people stare at you and your items, while they balance their items in their hands like some sort of circus act. Judging you not only for your inability to perform the transaction yourself, but reaching some sort of conclusion about the items you have placed carefully in your bag. They have the time for it now because the line is backed up to women’s clothing. You can only read about the Kardashians and Brad and Angelina’s divorce so many times before you start to nit pick the world around you. This rings especially true for trips to Wal-Mart. People watching is the best there. Pajamas and house slippers are the code of dress. Screaming babies and the smell of cigarette smoke and tapioca with an immense feeling of “I should’ve went to Target” is typical and familiar.

So cheers to advanced technology, a public review of your life choices, and the stickiness of mercantile credit card intercourse. I’ll pay with cash.