It sits in the middle of one of the rugs in the hallway.

I have just woken up and it is quite dark, the weather being overcast. In my sleep-stupor, it looks like a roll of packing tape. “How the hell did he get that?”, I wonder.

I pick it up. It’s not a roll of packing tape. It’s a tin. An empty tin. A very clean, empty tin. A slightly chewed, clean, empty tin. It had elk pate until yesterday. Yesterday I finished it for lunch. I had put it in the bin. The bin is hidden behind the curtain that hangs in front of the sink. I expect to see the bin contents everywhere in the kitchen. An involuntary “Oh no!” escapes my lips. Probably followed by “bloody dog”.

As I turn into the kitchen, I see that, in fact, everything is just as it should be. The curtain is still there. There is no mess in the kitchen.

I had got up earlier in the night to find him sitting in his bed. He looked at me, almost daring me to come over. I didn’t. It seemed he was chewing a bone that he got from the toy basket. Obviously it wasn’t. It was the tin. No wonder he looked at me as if expecting me to take it from him.

Now that I’m up properly, I look in the bed. There are 5 cigarette butts. Hmm. It makes me laugh that he has managed to get the tin out without making a mess in the kitchen – no cigarette butts over the floor, just neatly in the bed. I can’t be angry but he really shouldn’t smoke in bed.