I consider that and then nod. “Yes, we’ll need that. Get on your phone and see if there’s a vet around here.”

“Aye-aye, captain.”

“And start making a list,” I say, ignoring his sarcasm. “It’s like taking a baby home,” I say as Endof licks my ear. “That is disgusting,” I inform him, but he just gives me a doggy grin.

“Never wanted children, then?” he asks, tapping away on his phone.

“I’d rather have syphilis.” He snorts with laughter, and I elaborate. “I’d be a terrible father, and the idea of being responsible for a small person is horrific.”

“You’re going to be responsible for Endof,” he points out and then shakes his head. “I’m pretty sure the poor dog will end up looking after you anyway.”

I give that statement the attention it deserves, which is nothing. “How about you?” I ask. “No desire for little Lauries?”

He wrinkles his nose in a way that should not be as charming as it is. “Nope. I like my life the way it is. No ties. No expectations. No one will perish because I decide to spend two days working on a picture without stopping for food. I’ll settle for spoiling my nephews and nieces.”

“We agree, then,” I murmur. “You do need to eat properly, though,” I inform him. “One cannot work properly if you don’t have sufficient fuel.”

“I’m not a Vauxhall Corsa.”

“Definitely not. They’re far less trouble.”

He chuckles and then becomes occupied in directing me to the vet’s, his voice a warm drawl in my ear.

An hour later finds us in a waiting room. Endof is sitting demurely at my feet. His appearance is severely misleading as he’s just spent the last hour howling at all the animals within his radius and has probably severely traumatised a gerbil. Consequently, everyone in the room is giving us a wide berth.

Laurie sits back in his seat, his leg crossed over his knee and his foot jiggling. I’ve come to know that he cannot sit still and must constantly be jiggling some body part or moving around. My mother was much the same. I wonder if he’s still when he paints. He’s reading a magazine about dogs and enjoying himself by throwing facts at me.

“Did you know that dogs can sniff at the same time as they breathe?”

“I did not,” I say, petting Endof when he forces his head into my hand. “I also didn’t know that a greyhound could beat a cheetah in a race, and dogs have a preferred paw, and all the other useless information you’ve provided me with.”

“You should read more,” he says in a serious voice, flicking over another page.

“I do,” I say patiently. “Because of yet another dictate from you. I’m reading the third book you made me buy.”