Over his dead body.

      But realistically, did he have a choice? He rang the letting agent, told him the dog had come back and asked if he had a forwarding address for the previous tenants, but of course he didn’t. They owed two months’ rent. Why would they give anyone their address?

      Which left him with the need to rehome her somehow. He found a rescue centre on the internet, and the moment he got home he rang them.

      They were full, but they said they’d take her as soon as they had a space.

      ‘Don’t hold your breath, though,’ the receptionist said. ‘It could be a while. Are you able to keep her in the meantime?’

      He said he could, trying to work out why the feeling in his chest felt remarkably like relief, then gave her his details and went into the kitchen and found a note from Beth, propped up against the kettle.

       Dry food’s in the pantry. She’s twenty-five kilos but add twenty per cent more food because she’s pregnant. Couldn’t find scales, but she’s had lunch and didn’t seem to mind! Chart on the side of the food bag. Divide by three—obvs. And keep the door shut!

      He sighed, went into the pantry with Tatty at his side, and examined the chart with a bit of enthusiastic assistance. Beth hadn’t been able to find the scales because there weren’t any, but he made an educated guess.

      That would do, for now. He’d give her a bit more later and buy scales tomorrow. Assuming he’d still have her. Sounded like it.

      He put her dry food into the bowl Beth had left him, ate a tin of baked beans cold out of the can with a fork, and looked at the clock on the cooker.

      Quarter to eight. Still time for a quick walk before dusk, if they didn’t hang about. He put Tatty—no, the dog—on the borrowed lead and took her down to the river and along the river wall. She didn’t seem keen on the lead, but she seemed happy enough by his side and soon got used to it, and they walked until the light was fading and got home just before nine.

      He was still hungry, but of course she’d eaten the bread that morning so he couldn’t even make a sandwich, so he had a bowl of cereal and gave the dog another handful of kibble, then made a coffee and headed for the sitting room, the dog in tow.

      All he wanted was to sit down quietly on the sofa with his phone, check his emails and do a little research into dog pregnancy and rehoming—although if he was rehoming her, the pregnancy research was irrelevant.

      Assuming he got a chance to do it anyway, because Tatty had gone in the garden and come back victorious with a muddy ball in her mouth, and dropped it at his feet.

      Of course. Somewhere in her ancestry was a retriever. And all they wanted to do, like all the gun dog breeds, was just exactly that. So he rolled the ball, and she fetched it, and he rolled it, she fetched it, over and over again until finally he hid it behind his back.

      ‘No. It’s gone. Lie down.’

      She whined, gave a resigned sigh and hopped onto the sofa, curled up and went to sleep. Well, almost. One eye was still slightly open, just in case…

      He grunted and turned his attention back to his dog-rehoming research.