The greyhound, light fawn with a small white patch on his chest, stood there trembling at the end of his chain, looking about him nervously. “Here Becky!” Craig waved her over. “Don’t just stand there gawping. Get over here. Put him in with Alfie. I want Alfie to teach him everything he knows about racing. And you’d better give him something to eat while you’re about it. Which reminds me. What’s for lunch? I’m starving.”

Becky hesitated very deliberately. She objected to being bossed about, and wanted him to know it. So she took her time, leaning the dung fork against the wall, and then wandering very slowly across the yard towards him, staring him out as she came. She disliked everything about him, his loudness and his brashness, how he always had to be the centre of attention. She hated looking at him even, so she tried not to. He wasn’t ugly or gross, it wasn’t that. It was just that he always looked so full of himself.

“Well, take your time, why don’t you?” He said, handing her the chain. “And no spoiling him, you hear me? None of your namby pamby nonsense.” Becky knew exactly what was coming next. “He’s a racing dog, an athlete, not a poodle, not a pet.”

“What’s he called?” Becky asked him.

“Call him whatever you like. Just look after him.”

Moments later Becky found herself alone in the yard with the new dog. As she walked him towards the kennels all the other dogs, all fourteen of them, had their noses through the bars, scrutinising the newcomer, some of them up on their hind legs and yelping in excitement. Becky laughed. “Don’t you know it’s rude to stare?” she told them.

She crouched down by Alfie’s kennel so that she could introduce them properly through the kennel gate, so they could get to know one another slowly. Alfie was a giant of a greyhound, black and white with a slightly greying muzzle.

“Meet Alfie,” she said, reaching through the bars to stroke his ears. “He’s the fastest dog we’ve got, aren’t you, Alfie? Won sixty-two out of eighty races, haven’t you? A real champion. But I’m not supposed to stroke you, am I? I do though, don’t I? I pet them all because I like it, and because they like it. Alfie and me, we’re very special friends, aren’t we, Alfie? We go up on the moor together with Red, don’t we? Long walks, long talks.”

She felt the new dog shivering and shaking against her leg. He was terrified or cold, or both. “Don’t you worry. Alfie won’t hurt you.” She took his face in her hands then and looked deep into his eyes. “So what am I going to call you? You’ve got to have a name. Can’t not have a name, can you? You’ve got one already, I bet. Every dog’s got a name. I wonder what yours is. Wish you could tell me.” She thought for some moments, and then it came to her. “Brighteyes. That’ll do. You’ll be Brighteyes. How d’you like that? Craig’ll give you some stupid racing name… ‘Bucks Fizz’ or ‘Speedy Gonzalez’. And down at the track they’ll give you a number – they always do. But here you’ll be Brighteyes.” She kissed him on his head and whispered: “Be fast, Brighteyes, be very fast, and they won’t take you away from me. Never forget that.”