"Hey, where do you keep your genome resequencers?"

The teenage cashier doesn't even glance up. "Aisle three, next to the insecticides. Hey, you can't bring your dog in here."

"Don't worry, he won't be here long."

I browse the aisles, finding a litre tub of resequencer and a dog bowl, and pour out a generous portion. Baxter is thirsty enough to try to drink it at once, but I drag him away by his leash before he turns into cellular soup, and mix a few strands of my ex-wife's hair into the liquid before letting him lap it up.

My ex-wife, Gabriella, claimed almost everything in the divorce. But at least I got her beloved dog.

Baxter is licking the bowl clean when the changes start to kick in. He whines and yelps as his fur falls out in clumps, exposing smooth pink skin, running to me for assurance as his body humanises and feminises. I pat his head comfortingly while recording the transformation on my phone.

He takes his new collar well, though fitting him into her clothes is more challenging. "Now, sit," I command. "Pose for Gabriella. There's a good boy."

I send the video to her, captioned - 'let's hope he's better behaved than the last bitch'.