Page 36 of One Summer

I feel bad for my uncharitable thoughts.

‘What kind of food does he eat?’

‘Dog food.’

‘I gathered as much,’ I say, icily. ‘Any particular brand?’

‘He eats fox poo, so he’s not fussy. Can you also get some milk for tea?’

‘From where?’ I say, looking around the room, as if a pop-up newsagent might reveal itself at any moment.

‘The shop.’

‘What shop?’

‘The island shop. It was closed this morning.’

He sneezes so fiercely that he blows a blood vessel in his eye.

‘Um, I’m afraid I don’t know where the shop is.’

‘Follow the trail of litter and you’ll get there.’

He lies back, groans piteously and begins to doze again.

When I look down at Ted, he’s staring up at me, wide-eyed and serious. It’s the perfect name for him: facially Ewok, but with a certain gravity of demeanour that puts me in mind of a gentleman with a silver cane and a top hat.

He’s looking directly into my eyes. Is it normal for dogs to give this much eye contact? I thought they were supposed to dislike a direct stare, some evolutionary throwback to wolves, but this dog is extremely comfortable with prolonged eye contact. It’s almost as if he’s trying to look into the deepest recesses of my soul and get the measure of me.

He whines and it occurs to me that he probably badly needs a walk, as well as some food, if he’s been stuck in this house all day with a sick owner. Poor thing must be crossing his legs.

What is the etiquette of walking somebody else’s dog? Should I wake up the snotty man again to tell him I’m taking his dog with me to the shop?

Perhaps I could just give the dog a ten-minute stroll down on the beach, so he can stretch his legs and do his business?

‘Do you want to go walkies, Ted?’

Ted runs in a tiny circle on the spot and shows me the bottom row of his teeth. It is the perfect underbite. The sort of underbite that could have its own Instagram account with a million fans.

‘I’ll take that as a yes, then, shall I?’

I could swear that Ted nods.

‘Where’s your lead, boy? Show me your lead!’

Ted walks to the kitchen table and snuffles around. He comes out dragging a bright-red leash, attached to a tiny harness bearing the words POLICE DOG MERCH – which seems somewhat incongruous with a dog who probably weighs less than my left knee.

‘What about poo bags?’ I say, and Ted nuzzles a plastic container attached to the leash.

Is Ted fluent in English? I narrow my eyes at him.

‘How about a ball?’

He runs behind the sofa and returns carrying a half-size tennis ball, which I presume is designed for small-jawed dogs with very little in the way of snout.

I think about leaving a note for the man, just in case he wakes up and thinks I’ve dognapped Ted, but I can’t find any paper or writing implements, so I’ll just have to assume he has the general intelligence to figure out the situation.

I hear a hiss and see Nemo glaring at me from the bookcase as if I’m the world’s worst traitor, instead of the person who saved him from a rehoming centre. I consider giving him a conciliatory head-rub, but he’s got a definite gleam in his eye, and I don’t want to risk a swipe from the murder mittens.

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