‘Yes, lots of other artists paint pets,’ I agreed, annoyed that my efforts on her behalf were being met with such ingratitude, ‘and because they do, they can afford to buy food and pay rent.’ I nodded in the direction of the painting on her easel.

‘When was the last time you sold something like that?’

Sophie didn’t answer. ‘Why’s he called Ebee?’ she asked.

‘EB,’ I corrected. ‘It’s short for his name.’

‘Which is what?’

‘It’s a secret. You have to guess.’ I have strict instructions from EB’s mum to play this game whenever anyone asks.

EB, sensing he was the subject of our conversation, sat up very straight, his fluffy forelegs thrust out in front of him, his bushy eyebrows twitching anxiously.

‘Edward Bear?’ Sophie suggested vaguely.

‘Wrong. Look, he’s gorgeous, how can you not want to paint him?’

‘Edward Bone?’

‘It isn’t Edward anything. Stop changing the subject.’

‘What’s this one called?’ she asked, pointing.

Champion Boxer, Bollywood Boogaloo Boogie Nights of Bognor – known to all who love her as Boog – was excited at being pointed at, as this usually meant she was about to receive a rosette. She snuffled, and licked herself on the nose.

‘She’s sweet!’ Sophie exclaimed, clicking her fingers. Boog bounded to her feet. With no tail to wag, her whole rear end went into a ridiculous calypso of welcome. Nookie, who up until this point had been sitting aloof, staring into the distance as if gazing at snowy arctic wastes, also stood. Leads began to tangle, and the cafe table, to whose leg most of them were hitched, was dragged two feet across the floor before I got control of it. I could see the cafe owner looking at me askance. It was time for the Tribe and me to depart.

‘Look Sophie, if you make a good job of EB then other dog owners will want their portraits painted too. Boog’s a champion. Her mum is a breeder, she knows loads of others and they’re all besotted with their animals. You can’t afford to turn it down.’

‘Well, I suppose …’ Sophie began reluctantly. I thrust a piece of paper at her, with EB’s phone number written on it. ‘At least give it some thought.’

‘I will,’ she promised, as if she were doing me a favour. ‘Oh … and … thanks,’ she ended weakly.

By then I’d gathered up the various leads and my escalating temper and was hauling my charges off in the direction of the door.