“I have found a dog, Mma Ramotswe.”

Fanwell said this as he came through the door, wiping the grease off his hands with a piece of the absorbent blue paper that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had introduced for such purposes.

Mma Makutsi had just turned on the kettle and was laying out the teacups in descending order—Mma Ramotswe’s, her own, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s, Fanwell’s, and finally Charlie’s. Mma Ramotswe had two cups—her everyday one, white china and nondescript, and her more formal one, with a portrait of Queen Elizabeth II under a crown motif, now faded; Mma Makutsi herself made do with only one, a green cup with matching saucer. She looked up sharply as Fanwell spoke.

“A dog?” she asked. “A stray dog?”

Fanwell tossed the used blue paper into the bin, missed, and bent down to pick it up.

“Yes, it’s a stray dog.” He frowned. “Or, maybe not. How can you tell?”

“Stray dogs look very thin,” said Mma Makutsi. “They often have no collar. They are very ill-looking dogs, usually.”

“I don’t think this dog is a stray dog, then,” said Fanwell. “He is not so thin that you can see his ribs. He looks as if he has had enough to eat.”

The water in the electric kettle started to boil. Mma Makutsi spooned tea into the pot.

“Where did you find this dog?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

“I saw him on the road. In fact…” Fanwell hesitated. “In fact, I ran over him. Charlie and I were coming back from fetching spares and he ran across the road. It wasn’t my fault…”

“These dogs are always doing that sort of thing,” said Mma Makutsi. “Phuti ran over one the other day. It came running out of a driveway and started trying to bite the wheels on his car. He couldn’t help but run over it. Stupid dog.”

“Some dogs can’t resist chasing cars,” said Fanwell. “Those dogs never last very long.”

Mma Ramotswe was interested to find out what had happened.

“I felt a bit of a bump,” said Fanwell. “So I put on the brakes and got out of the truck to see what had happened. I thought I might have burst a tyre, or something like that. But it was this dog. I’d hit him.”

“And?”

“And he was under the car—not squashed or flattened or anything like that. He was just sitting there under the car, looking a bit dazed. So I got him out from under the truck—I had to drag him, but he didn’t seem to mind. I think one of his legs hurt a bit, as he yelped when I touched him there, but otherwise he was all right.”

Mma Makutsi began to pour the tea. “He must have lived somewhere round there. I suppose he just walked home. We could find out where he lives—we could ask about.”