Turning around, she bent down and reached behind the bin, moving back to reveal what appeared, in the darkness, to be a bedraggled gremlin. The gremlin tilted his head, cocked one ear, and gave a soft whuffle, followed by another desolate whimper.

My heart dissolved right then and there.

‘Okay, so why are you and Nesbit knocking over my bin in the middle of the night?’

‘He’s hungry. And Mum would flip out if she knew I’d let him in the house. He’s trying his best but he weed on my bed and she thought it was me and went mad and if she knew Nesbit had done it she’d never say I could keep him so I’m just keeping him a secret until he learns to go in the garden and I save up enough money to buy his food and then she might let him stay.’

‘Joan, stop.’ I spoke softly. ‘Take a breath. No, even better, let’s go inside.’

‘Can…?’

I sighed. ‘Yes, that thing can come in, too. We’ll stay in the kitchen, though. I don’t want a wee on my sofa.’

In the glow of my fancy kitchen lights, it became clearer that Nesbit was, in fact, some sort of dog. I filled a plastic tub with water, but he wasn’t interested. When I opened a tin of tuna he immediately started whining again, unable to restrain himself once I’d tipped the contents onto a plate and placed it on the floor.

‘You’d better fill me in. And quickly, so you can get back to bed before your mum finds it empty and panics. Where did you get a dog?’

‘I found him in the woods, earlier on.’ Joan’s eyes filled with tears. ‘There was a plastic bag and I saw it squiggling about and when I opened it up, he was there.’ She swiped at the tear trickling down her face. ‘Someone tried to kill him, and not even in a kind way. He was shaking and crying and it’s not his fault if he’s only small and that nasty owner never taught him how to wee and poo outside.’

By now, Nesbit had wolfed down every last speck of the fish. He trotted back to Joan and waited for her to scoop him up again.

‘You know he may well have fleas – or worse.’

Joan buried her head in his fur. ‘That’s not his fault, either!’

‘No, but I think Nesbit needs a level of care and attention that you can’t give him right now. He needs to see a vet, for starters. He might be microchipped, so we can find out his proper owner.’

‘No!’ Joan looked up in horror. ‘He can’t go back to them! They tried to kill him!’

‘Somebody tried to kill him. But what if he was stolen, and his owner is heartbroken, wondering where he is?’