End Game

Yappy Popeyes was a large bug-eyed, bandy-legged beetle, unless he was a Chihuahua, a breed of so-called dog from Mexico. One of those famous hats would have snuffed him out. You could hold him in both hands, though I wouldn’t have advised it. He crapped and snapped at the same time. He’d just thrown up.

‘Poor darling.’ Pat clutched him to her bosom. ‘It’s the heat.’

It wasn’t the only thing. Corinne’s old cat ambled down the garden path looking for a spot of shade. Yappy Popeyes now began to tremble and to emit a half strangled wail. Pat clutched him even closer to her bosom. ‘Can you get rid of that cat!’

Never mind the cat. There was a crash from inside the house. Caliban had broken loose again. God knows what sort of a dog he was, but he thundered through Corinne’s garden door, all shaggy hair and dribble, heading straight for Pat.

Well, not actually for her.