‘I don’t know about you, but I need a coffee.’

By the time the vet opened at eight, we’d shared a companionable breakfast of scrambled eggs, cleaned another puddle and he’d thankfully managed a poop on the lawn. Joan found us in the garden at seven thirty, and enthusiastically helped give Nesbit a bath.

Six sopping wet towels, a bathroom sprayed ceiling to skirting board in muddy water and a change of clothes later, Nesbit found time to wee one more time on the floor before Joan took him outside to try to teach him some manners.

I found her there a few minutes later. ‘The vet said to walk him down in about twenty minutes.’ Bigley Vets’ Surgery was located in the middle of the tiny shopping precinct, in between the bakery and the chemist, so a lead would be essential. I cobbled something together out of a fabric belt, tucked a couple of plastic bags in my pocket, and off we went, Joan letting Nesbit drag her down the road as far as the turning towards the primary school.

‘Promise you won’t let him go back to that murderer!’ she begged, before finally handing me the lead. ‘Or back to a nice owner who lost him, without me saying goodbye first!’

Promises assured, Nesbit and I went to find out what would happen next.

By the time Joan came bursting into the back garden at three forty-five demanding answers, I was able to provide nearly all of them. To her overdramatic relief, Nesbit wasn’t microchipped and there’d been no reports of missing cocker spaniel puppies. He was probably around five months old, and it said a lot about his background that he wasn’t yet housetrained and he was tiny for a male spaniel. The vet had treated him for fleas, ticks and worms, sorted vaccinations and prescribed some stinky lotion for a skin condition that I didn’t want to know the details of, along with precautionary antibiotics.

I’d printed off a poster to go on the vet’s notice-board, and shared it on the local pet lost and found social media pages, but the vet was fairly confident that no one would be coming forward to claim him.

‘He seems healthy apart from the flaky skin,’ I said, placing two cold drinks and a plate of flapjacks on my newly purchased garden table, safely out of reach of bad-mannered puppies.

‘You got him a collar!’ She squealed in delight, lifting him onto her lap. ‘With your address on! Does that mean we’re keeping him?’

I couldn’t help sharing in her glee. ‘For now. It’s illegal not to have a dog tag, and I thought my phone number was best. He’s chipped now, with my details on the system. If your mum agrees to let him move in with you, we can swap it to hers.’

Joan nodded, enthusiastically rubbing Nesbit’s tummy.