March 9. 11.52pm. “Button, I know it’s late. Are you asleep?”

“Not yet. I am waiting up for you.”

“Walk with us to the end of the street tomorrow when we go and feed Shabby.”

“Who’s Shabby?”

“I’ve told you about this lovely dog some consulate threw out onto the streets because they were returning to their country.”

“I recollect.”

“We call him Shabby. I felt Survivor was a better name but the rest of the family suggested we call him Shabby and the name has stuck. He has made the streets his home and is surviving.”

“You are upset. You should go to sleep. I’ll come with you tomorrow and meet Shabby.”

“Goodnight.”