‘Would you like to see him?’ asks the young man with glasses and an air of super-bright keenness that’s sweet but almost unbearable at the same time. There’s no trace of the woman who’d called me earlier. The waiting room smells of bleach and a strip light in the ceiling is humming to itself. He leads me to the back of the building and we pass through currents of animal scent into a room with at least thirty cages. About two thirds of them are full, dogs of all shapes and sizes. Many of them seem to be trying to out-bark all the others. Kush is at the far end, lying with his snout pushed up against the metal bars. Round his neck is a large plastic cone, which I’m told is to stop him chewing at the bandage covering his leg. His eyes are closed but he opens them as we approach. In a flash he’s up, his whole body wriggling, his bandaged leg held awkwardly. The man opens the crate and manages to stop Kush from exiting like a bullet before clipping a leash to his collar. He hands it to me and points to a door. Kush is jumping up at me. I can feel his claws scratching through my top. I try to calm him down. He seems frantic.

‘You can take him into the yard if you want. Don’t let him off the leash, though, as he’s not supposed to run on that leg for a little while.’

The yard itself is covered with fake grass and is being hosed down by a worker in rubber boots. It smells of dog shit. Once they’re done hosing they give the okay and I walk Kush round the fake grass. He seems happy, though he does try and get the cone off a couple of times. His limp gets more pronounced, though, and he seems tired so we head back. I give him an ear scratch and entice him back into his crate. He starts barking as he sees me leave. I turn back to him and he stops, and somehow makes his eyes go all droopy and hunches his shoulders. This is the worst sort of emotional blackmail. And it’s working. I feel terrible.

‘Tomorrow, okay?’

Which does nothing to calm him down. He starts barking again as soon as I walk away and I can still hear him over the other dogs back at reception. In the waiting area an old man sits with a carrier perched on his lap. Something hisses as I walk past and I catch a pair of suspicious eyes glaring out at me.

‘He’ll be fine,’ the young man says. ‘Says here he should be ready to leave tomorrow. Would you like to settle up now?’