‘He ain’t no pansy.’ Rube points a finger at him. ‘He’s a cream puff.’ Then he gets serious. ‘Actually, he might be a bit skinny, but he can stand up all right, I tell you,’ which shocks me. Ruben L. Wolfe, my brother, is sticking up for me.

‘Is that right?’

‘It is … You can check us out if you want. We’ll just have us a game of One Punch in the backyard.’ He looks to me. ‘We’ll just climb over and get Miffy so he doesn’t start barking. He likes watching when he’s in our yard, doesn’t he?’

‘He loves it.’ I can only agree. It’s being on the other side of the fence that offends old Miffy. He’s gotta be closer to the action, where he can see what’s going on. That’s when everything’s apples. He either watches contentedly or gets bored and goes to sleep.

‘Who the hell’s Miffy?’ Perry asks, confused.

‘You’ll see.’

Rube, Perry and I stand up and proceed to the backyard. We put the gloves on, Rube climbs the fence and hands Miffy to me over the top, and One Punch is about to happen. By the look on Perry’s face, I can tell he’ll appreciate it.

We each wear our solitary boxing glove, but Miffy the Pomeranian is demanding attention and pats. We both crouch down and pat the midget dog. Perry watches. He looks like the kind of guy who would dropkick a dog like this from here to eternity. As it turns out, he isn’t.

‘The dog’s an embarrassment,’ Rube explains to him, ‘but we have to look out for ’im.’

‘Come ‘ere, fella.’ Perry holds out his fingers for the dog to sniff and Miffy likes him immediately. He sits next to him as Rube and I start our game of One Punch.

Perry loves it.

He laughs.

He smiles.

He watches with curiosity when I hit the ground the first time.

He pats Miffy happily when I hit it the second time.

He claps when I get Rube a good one on the jaw. Just a good solid clip.

After fifteen minutes we stop.

Rube says, ‘I told you, didn’t I?’ and Perry nods.

‘Show us a bit more,’ he states calmly, ‘but swap gloves.’ He looks like he’s thinking hard. Then he watches as Rube and I go at it again.

It’s tougher with the other glove. We both miss more, but slowly, we get into a rhythm. We circle the yard. Rube throws out his hand. I duck it. Swerve. Make my way in. I jab. Hit his chin. Shoot one at his ribs. He counter punches. His breath is stern as he stabs his fist through my cheekbone, then gets me in the throat.

‘Sorry.’

‘Okay.’

We resume.