It’s just, we’ve got an agreement with one of our neighbours that we’ll walk his dog for him, twice a week. Sundays and Wednesdays. Let’s just say that most of our neighbours think that Rube and me are kind of hoodlums. So to get in the good graces of Keith, the neighbour on our left (who we disturb the most), it was decided that we would walk his dog for him, since he doesn’t get much time to do it himself. It was our mother’s idea, of course, and we complied. We’re many things, Rube and me, but I don’t think we’re difficult or lazy.

So as the ritual goes, Rube and I grab our jackets and walk out.

The catch is, the dog’s a fluffy midget thing called Miffy. Bloody Miffy, for God’s sake. What a name. He’s a Pomeranian and he’s a dead-set embarrassment to walk. So we wait till it gets dark. Then we go next door and Rube hits the highest note in his voice and calls, ‘Oh Miffy! Miffy!’ He grins. ‘Come to Uncle Rube,’ and the fluffy embarrassment machine comes prancing towards us like a damned ballerina. I promise you — when we’re walking that dog and see someone we know, we pull our hoods over our heads and look the other way. I mean, there’s only so much guys like us can get away with. Walking a Pomeranian that goes by the name of Miffy is not one of them. Think about it. There’s street. Rubbish. Traffic. People yelling at each other over the top of their TVs. Heavy metallers and gang-looking guys slouching past … and then there are these two juvenile idiots walking a ball of fluff down the road.

It’s out of hand.

That’s what it is.

Disgraceful.

‘A dis-grace,’ says Rube.

Even tonight, when Miffy’s in a good mood.

Miffy.

Miffy.

The more I say it to myself the more it makes me laugh. The Pomeranian from hell. Watch out, or Miffy’ll get you. Well he’s got us all right.

We go out.

We walk him.

We discuss it.

‘Slaves are what we are, mate,’ is Rube’s conclusion. We stop. Look at the dog. Carry on. ‘Look at us. You, me, an’ Miffy here, and …’ His voice trails off.

‘What?’

‘Nothin’.’

‘What?’

He gives in easily, because he wanted to all along.

At our gate upon our return, Rube looks me in the eye and says, ‘I was talkin’ to my mate Jeff today and he reckons people’re talkin’ about Sarah.’

‘Sayin’ what?’

‘Sayin’ she’s been gettin’ round. Gettin’ drunk and gettin’ around a bit.’

Did he just say what I thought he said?

Getting around?

He did.

He did, and soon, it will alter the life of my brother Rube. It will put him in a boxing ring.