Read by Clive Greenwood
The squat dog made eye contact with the tubby little man with the toothbrush moustache, seeming to take exception to his appearance. With a throaty growl, its lips slid back to reveal a silo of yellow teeth.
On the thronged platform, waiting for the seven fifty-eight to Liverpool Street, Maurice Bloom said;
‘I hope you’re going to keep that thing under control.’