‘Hungry, Chief?’ he said.

The Chief got off the settee and walked into the kitchen. Dick went after him. It was almost dark outside now but enough light remained to show Dick Monty’s coat, the old check one, still hanging on the clothesline. Better take it in in case it rained in the night. Dick went out into the yard, hoping against hope old Tom, his next-door neighbour, wouldn’t see the kitchen light and come out. Such hope was always vain. He’d got the first of the pegs out when he heard the door open and the cracked whining voice.

‘Going to be a cold night.’

‘Mmm,’ said Dick.

‘Shouldn’t be surprised if there was to be a frost.’

Who cared? Dick saw the great angular shadow of the Chief appear in the rectangle of light. Good, that would fix him. Standing erect, as he now was against the fence, the Chief was a good head taller than old Tom, who backed away, grinning nervously.

‘Come on, Chief,’ said Dick. ‘Suppertime.’

‘Just like children, aren’t they?’ old Tom whined. ‘Almost human. It’s uncanny. Look at him. He understands every word you say.’

Dick didn’t answer. He followed the Chief into the kitchen and slammed the door. Nothing angered him more than the way people thought they were paying compliments to animals by comparing them with people. As if the Chief and Monty weren’t in every way, mentally, physically, morally, a hundred times better than any human being he’d ever known. Just like children – what a load of crap. Children wanting their supper would be crying, making a nuisance of themselves, getting under his feet. His dogs, patient, stoical, single-minded, sat still and silent, watching while he filled the earthenware bowls with steak and meal and vitamin supplement. And when the bowls were placed side by side on the floor, they moved towards them with placid dignity.

Dick watched them feed. Monty’s appetite, at fourteen, was as good as ever, though he took longer about it than the Chief. His teeth weren’t what they had been. When the old dog had cleared his plate he did what he’d always done ever since he was a pup, came over to Dick and laid his grey muzzle in the palm of the outstretched hand. Dick fondled his ears.

‘Good old dog,’ Dick said. He scorned the popular way of calling dogs boy. They weren’t boys. Boys were dirty and smelly and noisy and uncontrolled. ‘You’re a cracker, you are. You’re a fine old dog.’

The Chief behaved in a grander manner. Such signs of affection and gratitude would have been inconsistent with his pedigree and his dignified presence. Dick and Monty knew their place and they both stepped aside to allow the Chief to pass majestically through the doorway and resume his position on the settee. Dick pushed Monty’s chair nearer to the radiator. Half-past six. He finished his gin.

‘I have to go out now,’ he said, ‘but I’ll be back by ten at the latest, so you get a bit of shut-eye and when I come back we’ll all have a good walk. OK?’