Who's Stolen The Dustbin?

My wife has many obsessions; the worst is her dustbin fetish. Yesterday evening, she went outside to retrieve the eyesore.

I was in the sitting room watching horse racing on TV.
Crash! Bang! Wallop! I nearly fell off the sofa when she came storming in.

"Right! Who’s nicked the bloody bin...this time?" She stood in front of me, hands on hips as if I was supposed to know.

"How the bloody hell do I know?"

"You’d better get off your fat arse and find it, and don’t come back until you have!" She always had a way with words.

I reluctantly raised myself from the sofa and went to the front door, then to the back yard gate. I walked the length of the alley, peering over fences like some kind of pervert.

Sure nobody would notice, I decided to steal someone else’s.
Ah, this one will do. I gently opened the gate of number 27. Woof! Shit, ouch, ouch.

I ran home, holding the seat of my pants. I didn't know they’d got another dog, a bloody great big Doberman!

"Where’s my bloody bin?"

I had to think—fast.

"It’s in number 27. Go and get it, my darling."