Turning around, she bent down and reached behind the bin, moving back to reveal what appeared, in the darkness, to be a bedraggled gremlin. The gremlin tilted his head, cocked one ear, and gave a soft whuffle, followed by another desolate whimper.
My heart dissolved right then and there.
‘Okay, so why are you and Nesbit knocking over my bin in the middle of the night?’
‘He’s hungry. And Mum would flip out if she knew I’d let him in the house. He’s trying his best but he weed on my bed and she thought it was me and went mad and if she knew Nesbit had done it she’d never say I could keep him so I’m just keeping him a secret until he learns to go in the garden and I save up enough money to buy his food and then she might let him stay.’
‘Joan, stop.’ I spoke softly. ‘Take a breath. No, even better, let’s go inside.’
‘Can…？’
I sighed. ‘Yes, that thing can come in, too. We’ll stay in the kitchen, though. I don’t want a wee on my sofa.’
In the glow of my fancy kitchen lights, it became clearer that Nesbit was, in fact, some sort of dog. I filled a plastic tub with water, but he wasn’t interested. When I opened a tin of tuna he immediately started whining again, unable to restrain himself once I’d tipped the contents onto a plate and placed it on the floor.
‘You’d better fill me in. And quickly, so you can get back to bed before your mum finds it empty and panics. Where did you get a dog?’
‘I found him in the woods, earlier on.’ Joan’s eyes filled with tears. ‘There was a plastic bag and I saw it squiggling about and when I opened it up, he was there.’ She swiped at the tear trickling down her face. ‘Someone tried to kill him, and not even in a kind way. He was shaking and crying and it’s not his fault if he’s only small and that nasty owner never taught him how to wee and poo outside.’
By now, Nesbit had wolfed down every last speck of the fish. He trotted back to Joan and waited for her to scoop him up again.
‘You know he may well have fleas – or worse.’
Joan buried her head in his fur. ‘That’s not his fault, either!’
‘No, but I think Nesbit needs a level of care and attention that you can’t give him right now. He needs to see a vet, for starters. He might be microchipped, so we can find out his proper owner.’
‘No!’ Joan looked up in horror. ‘He can’t go back to them! They tried to kill him!’
‘Somebody tried to kill him. But what if he was stolen, and his owner is heartbroken, wondering where he is?’
Joan shook her head, squeezing Nesbit tighter.
‘How about this: in the morning, I’ll take him to the vet and see what he says. In a village this size, he should recognise the dog if he belongs to someone local. We can sort out his fur and whatever else he needs, and then decide what to do next. I think there’s a very strong possibility that you’re right, and Nesbit needs a new owner, but we need to check. Otherwise it’s stealing. And if you are going to keep him, you need to think about all the things he’s going to need, like a collar and lead, and a bed.’
‘He can sleep on my bed.’ Joan sniffed.
‘Maybe. But I don’t think he can live off bin scraps. It’s not safe for you or him.’
She pressed her head back into his fur, shoulders juddering.
I took a deep breath, as item nine on the Dream List elbowed its way into my head.
‘How about he stays here? For tonight, until we see what the vet says. And while we make a proper effort to try to find his owners, just in case he was stolen or lost. Then we can talk to your mum.’
Joan sat up, her tear-streaked face glowing. ‘Are you sure? Do you promise?’
I nodded, rolling my eyes while secretly delighted.
‘Now, get yourself back home to bed while I clear up the mess outside and find something for this one to sleep on.’
I made a cosy bed for Nesbit on the kitchen floor out of an old pillow and a blanket. He came to just below my knee, but it was impossible to tell what breed he was beneath the tangled mat of chocolate fur.
‘Right, time to get some sleep, boy,’ I said. ‘It might be a busy day tomorrow.’
Nesbit didn’t agree. After half an hour of plaintive cries and scratches at the kitchen door, I gave up and moved his bed into the living room. Plopping him back onto the blanket, I turned to get under my duvet and found him already stretched out across my pillow.
‘No!’ I scolded, plonking him back on his bed. ‘Bed!’