The huge mongrel licked the tin bowl clean and then lapped noisily at the fresh water Eddie had poured into a second tin. The twins had never bothered giving the animal a name, but that didn’t mean they didn’t care about it. They did: they liked the dog, but it wasn’t a pet. It was a working animal, doing its job, keeping watch. It was docile when the twins were nearby, but only then. The twins could approach without fear, but no one else. Any unfamiliar sound would provoke deep, ferocious barking, while the merest sight or smell of a stranger would see the animal bare its fangs and prepare to attack. But with the twins, the dog was different. They didn’t offer any affection, but they fed it regularly and made sure its wooden kennel was dry and draught free. And in the depths of winter, when the snow was thick on the ground, the dog was allowed into the house at night, where it slept by the stove before returning to its work place in the morning. Finishing the water, the animal lifted its head and looked at Eddie, who, without a word, refilled the tin bowl from a can he had carried over from the house.
