Joan shook her head, squeezing Nesbit tighter.

‘How about this: in the morning, I’ll take him to the vet and see what he says. In a village this size, he should recognise the dog if he belongs to someone local. We can sort out his fur and whatever else he needs, and then decide what to do next. I think there’s a very strong possibility that you’re right, and Nesbit needs a new owner, but we need to check. Otherwise it’s stealing. And if you are going to keep him, you need to think about all the things he’s going to need, like a collar and lead, and a bed.’

‘He can sleep on my bed.’ Joan sniffed.

‘Maybe. But I don’t think he can live off bin scraps. It’s not safe for you or him.’

She pressed her head back into his fur, shoulders juddering.

I took a deep breath, as item nine on the Dream List elbowed its way into my head.

‘How about he stays here? For tonight, until we see what the vet says. And while we make a proper effort to try to find his owners, just in case he was stolen or lost. Then we can talk to your mum.’

Joan sat up, her tear-streaked face glowing. ‘Are you sure? Do you promise?’

I nodded, rolling my eyes while secretly delighted.

‘Now, get yourself back home to bed while I clear up the mess outside and find something for this one to sleep on.’

I made a cosy bed for Nesbit on the kitchen floor out of an old pillow and a blanket. He came to just below my knee, but it was impossible to tell what breed he was beneath the tangled mat of chocolate fur.

‘Right, time to get some sleep, boy,’ I said. ‘It might be a busy day tomorrow.’

Nesbit didn’t agree. After half an hour of plaintive cries and scratches at the kitchen door, I gave up and moved his bed into the living room. Plopping him back onto the blanket, I turned to get under my duvet and found him already stretched out across my pillow.

‘No!’ I scolded, plonking him back on his bed. ‘Bed!’

In the end, we agreed to compromise. I eventually drifted off to soft, snuffly snores emanating from the furry ball curled up on my feet.

8

Getting woken up just before six by a stinky, mangy dog licking your face is as disgusting as it sounds. Once I’d recovered my senses enough to push him away and sit up, he gave me another wet nose-nudge for good measure, then hopped off the sofa.

‘Okay, okay. Are you hungry again?’ I yawned, looking for my phone to check the time. I flipped back the covers and swung my legs onto the wooden floor. Straight into a warm, yellow puddle.

Nesbit grinned up at me, pink tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.