In one hand Thom carried the cage and the bag of strawberries, and in the other, a taut leash. Both cage and leash were filthy, but the real problem was they were awkward to the point of being impossible to hold on to. The cage had to be held far enough away from his body that the rusty metal didn’t snag his clothes or his skin, and at the end of the leash was a small, excited powerhouse that seemed intent on yanking Thom’s arm out of the socket.
For what had to be the twelfth time since Thom had freed him from the cage, the dog raced forward the two metres the leash allowed and barrel-rolled over his own paws when the leash stopped him short. Then, as he had done every time, the dog shook himself and looked back at Thom with a wounded expression that was an unquestionable, but why? As if
