I arrived at the park at exactly five to five. It’s only a two-minute walk from Grandad’s place to the park, but there were problems when I arrived to pick up Jim’s dog. He’d forgotten I was coming, for one thing, and had to be tracked down in the far reaches of the grounds, where the staff found him talking to a random duck. Then we had to find the dog. This was not as easy as might be expected, but eventually we discovered it in another resident’s room – Agnes, actually – who told us she’d taken over the upkeep of the pup when it became obvious that Jim was not up to the job.

The dog was called Trixie and it was a fluffy bundle of rubbish. These are not my words, I hasten to add, but Agnes’s.

‘I hate FBRs,’ she said. ‘Little, nasty, yapping things, like pipe-cleaners on steroids.’ I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know what a pipe-cleaner looked like. I was a bit vague on the subject of steroids as well. It didn’t matter, because Agnes was on a roll. ‘Think they’re tough and yet an average cat could eat one. An overestimated sense of their own importance. A bit like my first husband. And my second …’ She waved a hand as if to dismiss husbands in general. ‘Yet, she is a dog. Only just, true, but a dog nonetheless. And therefore better than ninety-nine per cent of humanity.’ She poked me in the chest with a bony finger, which was a little harsh since I hadn’t even tried to argue with her. ‘A dog loves you and it has no agenda,’ she said. ‘Treat it badly, ignore it, even abuse it, God help us, and a dog will still think you are the greatest thing ever. People are disgusting. Dogs are beautiful.’

I glanced at Grandad.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it’ll be Jim next.’

‘What?’ said Agnes.

‘Nothing,’ said Pop and I together.

‘Well, come on,’ she said. ‘Are you simple, or what? Trixie might be a fluffy bundle of rubbish but she loves her walks.’ She handed me a small lead and a couple of poo bags. ‘Craps like a good one, too,’ she added.

Trixie wasn’t the easiest dog in the world to control. Agnes was right. This pooch was tiny, but it seemed to have no idea that, in potential conflict situations, it was at a severe disadvantage. It barked at cars. It yapped at motorcycles. If it had been anatomically capable, it would probably have given a tattooed bikie the finger and said, ‘C’mon, pal. Think you can take me? Bring it on.’

I tried to steer it around the pathways of the park, but other dog owners were doing the same thing and Trixie appeared to take the presence of another dog as a personal insult. It was Trixie’s park. It was her patch. Like a drug dealer, she resented competition and was happy to show it. I spent most of my time apologising.

Then I saw Destry Camberwick. She turned a corner and an orchestra played, my peripheral vision disappeared and I saw her as if through a tunnel, radiant, splendid and impossibly perfect. Then I saw her dog and the orchestra gave up.

Holy moly. This thing was enormous. I’m not an expert on dog breeds, but this was probably Houndus blanketymaximus. I’ve seen smaller wrestlers on the TV. It loped along, blotting out the sun and causing distinct tremors each time a paw hit the bitumen. Its muscles had muscles. I glanced down at Trixie.

She had a gleam in her eye, as if, finally, a challenge worthy of her had been presented. I had a bad feeling about this.

Destry and I were on a collision course, which suited me fine. It didn’t suit Trixie. She twisted on her lead and went into a frenzy of yelping. Imagine a tiny, tiny person possessed by the devil and you will get some idea of her anger. She strained at the lead. Let me at him, her body language shouted. Think you’re tough, mate? I’ll kick your butt.

Destry’s dog sat down and cocked its head. I was becoming an expert dog translator. What’s this funny fluffy bundle of rubbish? How amusing. Is it dinner or merely starters?

I smiled at Destry, who smiled back. Maybe this could work to my advantage. I opened my mouth to speak and suddenly went all clammy and light-headed. This was absurd. I can talk, after all. It’s just a matter of exerting control.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said finally, and I don’t think my voice trembled at all. ‘She doesn’t know her own strength.’

It was obvious that Destry had no idea who I was. Even walking into a basketball post at school and bleeding all over the court hadn’t attracted her attention. I almost gave up then. But I didn’t. Her smile faded and she went to walk past me. I knew I had to find something to keep her there.

If I’m honest, I’m not at my best under pressure.

‘My dog could kill your dog,’ I stammered at her back (which, incidentally, was perfect).

That stopped her.

‘I’m sorry?’ she said, turning to face me. The first words I’d ever heard her speak. It was music to my ears. Much better than music. It was angels singing. I closed my eyes.

‘I think my dog can kill your dog,’ I repeated.

She looked at me. Her dog looked at me. Trixie finally stopped yelping and looked at me. Something was required but I had no idea what it might be. So I tried a wider smile.

‘An explanation would be good,’ said Destry.

‘Absolutely,’ I said, nodding like a maniac. She was spot on and I only wished someone could supply it.

‘Well?’ she said.

‘Fine, thanks. And you?’

‘No. The explanation.’

‘Pardon me?’ Even I found my pathetic attempt to buy time embarrassing.

‘How could your dog kill my dog?’ she said.

‘Ah, that.’ I looked at her dog and I looked at mine. A few seconds passed.

‘Suffocation,’ I said. ‘If Trixie got stuck in its throat.’

I was dragging myself (and Trixie) back to Grandad’s place. My eyes were fixed firmly on the pavement, my gaze as low as my spirits, when a shadow fell across the path and stayed there. I looked up.

‘Wanna fight me, Fitzgerald? Huh? Wanna fight? Come on, be a man. Tellya what, I’ll give you first dig. Whaddya say? Cat got yer tongue?’

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

‘Fancy seeing you guys here,’ came a familiar voice. ‘Is everything fine? Are we hunky-dory?’

‘Yes, Miss Pritchett,’ said Daniel Smith.

‘Yes, Miss Pritchett,’ I said, even though I had only a vague understanding of the meaning of hunky-dory. I’d be prepared to bet Daniel thought it was a type of fish.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Run along then.’

We ran along. In opposite directions, which suited me fine.