“It was lost in the haze of questioning,” I say sourly. “I haven’t been interrogated that thoroughly since my law finals.”

He laughs. “You can pick a dog, but you won’t be able to take him home yet until they’ve checked your flat to make sure it’s suitable.”

“I’d have had less problem picking up Brad Pitt.”

He nudges me. “Look mature. They’re watching.”

“I am mature,” I say indignantly to his back as he walks along the rows of cages.

He shakes his head as I come up next to him. “So many dogs not wanted. It’s a fucking crying shame. I’d love to take all of them.”

Some of the cages look a little old, but there are signs of love and care everywhere. I pull out my phone and take a snap of the board asking for donations.

Laurie bites his lip, amusement shining in his eyes. “Why are you doing that, Mags?”

“No reason,” I say repressively.

“Oh, right. It wouldn’t be because you’re going to donate to them?”

“Maybe,” I say and stride on ahead, biting my lip to stop smiling at him. I pass rows of puppies. They are bright-eyed and eager, but still, I walk by.

“Don’t you want a puppy?” Laurie says curiously. “I thought you’d go for one.”

I keep moving. “I haven’t seen the one I want yet.”

“You’re very discerning. My first impressions about you were obviously so wrong.”

I ignore him and keep walking. Some dogs gambol up to us. Others stay at the back, silent and wary. I make a mental note to raise the amount of money I intend to donate.

Near the end of the row, I come to a stop. This dog isn’t making any attempt to acknowledge our presence. Instead, he’s intent on making his mark on his cage.

Laurie comes up next to me. “Jesus,” he says, eyeing the devastation of the cage. “What the hell is happening here?”

“Ask him,” I say, pointing to the young red setter who is currently occupied with tearing his bedding into pieces. I look closer at the label over the cage. “Sammy,” I read and laugh. “Should be Don.”

“Don?”

“Armageddon,” I say and laugh harder at my own joke.

The dog pauses in his destructive occupation and side-eyes us for a few seconds. Then he gives a wild head toss and starts shaking his bedding to death.

I beckon the kennel woman over. “This one,” I say. “I want him.”

The woman and Laurie turn slowly to face me with identical expressions of incredulity written over their faces.

“This one?” she asks cautiously, as if I’ve somehow taken leave of my senses. “You want this one?”

“Yes,” I say patiently. “I like this creature.”