“Other ‘uns were black and tan, and him being white, he’s what they call a throwback — that’s why he’s going cheaplike.”

“Thought dogs normally went woof, not cheep,” said Mick, winking at Nat, who shot him a withering look.

A sudden realization hit Nat: Mr. Tate is lying. There was something about the farmer’s manner that made him feel uneasy; his story didn’t ring true. Something told Nat there hadn’t been a litter of pups, either. But why? Why would he lie?

Mick looked at the farmer closely. “Are you absolutely sure there’s no other reason you want to get rid of it, Alec?”

Mr. Tate sighed as if in deep regret. “As I said to you down at the Slaughtered Sheep, we’re moving away. Goin’ to Wookey Hole to live with our Linda. She won’t take him an’ our Gypsy.”

“Truth now, Alec,” pressed Mick. “How old is he really?”

“Eighteen month?” tried Mr. Tate.

“How old?” asked Mick again, this time leaning closer to the farmer.

“Three year,” sighed Alec Tate. “And that’s the truth.”

“Has anyone else been interested in adopting him?” asked Jude.

“Nope,” said Mr. Tate gloomily. “Only you.”

“What will happen to him if you can’t get anyone to take him?” asked Mick.

Narrowing his eyes, Mr. Tate solemnly raised a finger to his throat and slowly drew it across in a slicing motion.

“You mean …?” said Jude, aghast.

“Yup,” said Mr. Tate, nodding slowly.

All three looked down in horror at the dog, which appeared to be listening intently. Nat wanted to clamp his hands over the animal’s ears, to spare it the dreadful knowledge.

“So, what you’re saying is, if we don’t take him, you’ll have him put to sleep?” asked Mick.

“Summat like that,” said Mr. Tate, turning purple.

Mick’s expression hardened, and for a horrible moment Nat thought his grandfather was going to hit Mr. Tate.

“I’ll not be held to ransom like this, Alec,” he warned.

Tate shrugged. “Suit yourself, mate. Makes no odds to me either way. It’ll be a long walk off a short pier for this ol’ boy.”

Nat risked a glance at the unfortunate subject of their conversation. The mutt had stopped its frantic blinking and stared directly at Nat. It was almost midday and the concrete yard offered no shade. Nat felt slightly faint, as though he were going to pass out. He shook his head to clear it, and noticed something peculiar about the dog’s gaze. Its strange, amber-colored eyes had changed. Now they watched Nat, gleaming with warmth and intelligence. A golden glow shone from within, almost as though someone had lit a candle inside its head. Nat forgot the yard, the horrible farmer, his mum and granddad. He saw himself reflected, two tiny Nat Carvers, one in each eye, and inexplicably, he felt like smiling.