He came back to me and I picked him up, one hand around his chest and the other under his bottom, the way you should hold a dog, and I held him to me, feeling the frantic drumbeat of his heart.

Because now he had learned fear.

‘That’s not a dog,’ the weightlifter said, ‘that’s a rat.’

‘Man, you freaked it out because you wouldn’t give it a kiss!’ said one of his mates.

‘It’s a dog!’ the other said. ‘But it’s a gay dog!’

They all laughed.

I put Stan down and he prostrated himself on the ground, his tail tucked up, his ears flattened, big eyes bulging. I placed a reassuring hand on his flank, feeling the fragile ribs under the silky chestnut fur, the small heart still pounding wildly. I held the lead loosely in my hand.

The three men were still laughing on the bench. Tough guys, I thought. Tough guys who are only having a laugh.

I tried to walk away as they chuckled and chatted among themselves but Stan stopped for a sniff of a bin. Then he squatted on his hind legs, looking shyly at me as he emptied his bowels. I scooped the three little droppings up in a bag, tied a knot, and placed the bag in the bin. They turned their attention back to my dog, pointing and leering. They had decided that Stan was here for their amusement.

And that was their big mistake.

‘Walk on,’ I said.

Stan’s melancholy eyes rolled up to look at me. He made no attempt to move.

The men roared.

‘Walk on!’ the weightlifter said. ‘Do you hear him? Walk on, he says! Hey, mate, does he bite? Or does he just suck your cock?’

I was looking down at Stan. He had never taken his eyes off me, and he seemed to flatten himself even lower now, his tail stiff and quivering between his legs, the paws either side of his head, the giant ears hanging down like shoulder-length hair, his chin pressed against the concrete.

It had to happen one day.

He had to learn fear sooner or later.

We all have to learn fear.

But it seemed a crying shame that it was today when I felt so grateful to him, genuinely grateful, for joining me and Scout in our family portrait on her classroom wall.

‘Walk on,’ I said.

Still Stan did not move.

‘Not very obedient, is he, man?’ the weightlifter said.

There was a confusion of cities in his accent. London and Los Angeles and Islamabad. And the very worst of all of those places.

I wrapped the old leather dog lead around an empty bench in a loose knot and turned to the men.

‘I wasn’t talking to the dog,’ I said, walking towards them.

The weightlifter stood up, his smile fading, and he opened his mouth to say something just as I punched him in the heart.