"I was thinking about you on Tuesday," she said. She saw him only at weekends. He was harmless, but one can get dependent on the most inoffensive substances, like chocolate and Marmite and TV soaps. She knew her interruption was irritating; the Coffee-Couple's fingers had clasped on the same beaker and they were about to smile into each others' eyes. But he looked at her inoffensively.

"Couldn't help thinking about you," she continued. "You saw Tuesday's documentary?" He was always at the Box. He looked at her, uneasily. She knew how to unsettle him. One or two of her special remarks and his adrenals would be twitching.

"What was it? That film about dogs?"

"No." he said. He had never taken to dogs since boyhood, since that greyhound with the slate-blue popeyes used to lie in wait for him in its doorway and then chase him, rather languidly it must be said, to his garden gate.

"An American documentary," she said. "This woman in Alabama or somewhere, breeding dogs. Breeding them with wolves. Putting the wolf back into the pooch. People are bored with amiable dogs over there. There's a lot of demand."

"There would be over there." he said, she thought he looked a bit cagey, but didn't offer the pun. She didn't feel like even a pretended smile. "Naturally it made me think of you." she continued. There they were, these lovely prancing dogs, with a touch of wolf shagginess on their backs. So much life in them, so much vitality compared with their mums. Soppy German Shepherdesses."

"Just what you could have done with," she said, "a bit of wolf. I bet your parents were nice spanielised types. I bet they were housetrained from birth, I bet you were, too."

He began to flush a little, forgetting the Coffee-Lovers, who in any case had been superseded by a puppy being naughty near the lavatory.

She smiled thinly. "Wonder if something could be done for you. With syringes or implants. What would be the equivalent, d'you think? A bit of baboon? I love that mandrill sort with purple jaws and red arses. They're luscious." She smiled. He shifted uneasily, knowing what she was getting at. They'd not been long downstairs, and he hadn't quite come up to scratch last night. Her expression.

"You didn't quite come up to scratch that time." she had said on the first occasion for such a remark. "To coin a phrase." she'd said. "Not to put too fine a point on it." she'd said.

Nowadays, she looked at him, half-smiling, if it was a smile, afterwards, and gently scratched at the side of her nose. Half an hour ago. No need to say anything. "Why don't you look into monkey therapy? Must be available. That Irish poet had it back in the thirties and it worked even then. It'd be expensive, I guess. But I'd willingly help you out. It'd be a bit much for you to cope with on your pay. And I'd get the benefit, after all. Because you're quite happy, aren't you? Perfectly happy as we are?"

"You know I'm not," he said. "I don't know anything of the sort, you'd lie there until five, quite happy, watching that silly wench and her pal ogling each other's pheromones." She always bundled him homewards by five. "Pheromones are invisible," he retorted, thinking he'd scored. "They are for some people," she said. "And for some people they're fucking non-existent. But consider the lucky old Canidae. I bet wolves are simply wreathed in pheromones. Wish I were a wolf."

"Well, you ..." he nearly replied. But he daren't. He needed her. She wasn't always bitchy. Sometimes she was really sweet. But it was often a relief to get back to his studio flat on Sunday afternoons. "Why a studio flat?" she'd asked, just after they'd got acquainted. "You aren't in the least artistic." He wished her comments didn't stick in his mind. They were well-crafted, fitting whatever came up. Or didn't.

"It's time I made tracks." he said. But she never registered his timid attempts to amuse. He went upstairs for his pyjamas and briefcase. Down again, he put his head round the door to say goodbye. She moved quickly towards him and kissed him on the lips. Things weren't disastrous just yet. She was her darkly beautiful self again. Clinging, they drifted towards the cream lambswool Chesterfield - then simultaneously thought, held back, and separated. He said goodbye and left her, looking lovely in her lovely room. Till next Saturday. He was in reasonable spirits as he walked to the bus. Largely because she'd mentioned thinking of him on a week-day. He'd long feared that he only came into her mind when his finger was actually pressing her bell on Saturday afternoons.

A few weeks later, almost home after an ambivalent twentysix hours with her, he was reminded of that dog conversation, if you could call it such. A creature seemed to be tagging on behind. He didn't linger. One didn't in these streets. It came into full view in the security flood as he clicked through the British Standard mortices. Not a hedgehog, not a squirrel, not a cat, not a fox. But a small dog. Or rather a big puppy. It was whining a little, and came near. A husky, furry puppydog with pointed ears and a nice bushy tail. "A bit wolfish, maybe?" Then he remembered that dog conversation. He slammed the door shut, relieved to get inside. You never knew whether a couple of juveniles might jostle you in and lock the door on all three of you. It did happen, and not only to pensioners.

He looked round and saw that the video and TV were still there. Everything was undisturbed. He switched on the TV and went to the kitchen alcove and did himself a Horlicks. He carried it over to his convertible, still converted and rumpled from Friday night. He de-converted it, sat down on its beige-buttoned polyurethane and picked up the remote.

"Great! Another Coffee instalment!" She was bewitching in her pyjamas. He loved the cautious romantic increments. It was so slow, yet satisfyingly predestined. And to travel hopefully is better etc... Then sanitary protection loomed and he lost interest.

He now heard a whining. Quite loud, and continuous, blending with the triumphal chorus accompanying the fully protected girl on water-skis. Eventually he went to the door and the little dog immediately ran inside. It was very furry, with an attractive grey pelt shimmering with rainwater. It made for the hearthrug.

He could hear the downpour on the corrugated roof nearby. The dog began to shake itself as he lit the gas fire. He got last week's dirty towel out of the bin and began to dry its fur, gingerly. But it didn't object. Then, after a glance from its slanted yellow eyes - "Oriental! Yellow! Intriguing!" - he warmed up one of his several tins of Scotch broth. Their labels were getting shabby. She was weaning him from tins. The little dog started with the meaty chunks and went on to the potatoes and gravy. It licked the plate spotless with a surprising black tongue. It had black lips, too. Really a very nice-looking dog. Unusual. He sipped his cool neglected Horlicks and began to stroke the thick grey fur.

Several months later she said, "I'm slowly finding out about you." He was stroking the chow, now quite a large dog, almost full grown. "I never thought you were a thief." But he didn't respond and merely kissed the dog's black nose, gazing into its yellow Mongolian eyes. "And a liar, too. You told me that you'd reported it to the police."

"Well, I didn't," he said. Not defiant, but indifferent. "We're too fond of each other. It would have been a betrayal."

"One of these days they'll catch you with it," she said.

But he never took Susie along the streets. Every evening after he was home and it grew dark he'd head quickly to the end of his street with her, to where the marshes started. Once there, she could rustle about to her heart's content, among the ditches and weeds, snuffing and growling after rats and voles, her tightly curved tail joyously threshing. Very occasionally they'd see one of the contraband pit bulls, also out for romps on the reedy wasteland that stretched miles along the estuary. But their owners kept well clear; always called their pals to heel, leashed them and dodged off into the darkness. Nobody wanted dog trouble. When he came to her on Saturdays he took the most deserted route through the same area, through the landfills and over the enormous black pipes. It was a long tramp, taking much longer than the bus, but at last he'd hop over the fence at the end of her street and be ringing her bell within twenty seconds. Not much chance of being seen.

"She's not an It, she's a Her. Aren't you, love?" And he kissed her glistening nose again. She wondered if he took the bitch into his bed. Quite possible. It always wanted to join them on Saturday night. A kind of voyeurism, or perhaps envy, she thought. Not to be tolerated. But the dog hated to be left outside and scratched every now and then, affectionately snuffling, throughout the night. Bed was better for them these days. He was more reliable. Confident, actually. The bloody dog had done him good. He was getting almost cocky, to coin a phrase. Nowadays she couldn't get him on the raw so easily.

She noticed that Susie was staring at her in that special protective way. Her pre-emptive stare. Whenever she raised her voice to him Susie growled. Commandingly, telling her, "Stop it." And she always did, aware of his little grin as he soothed the dog with a caress or kiss. He followed the dog's eyes to hers. "Did you know Chows are one man dogs? It's the wolf in them," he remarked. "One person you mean." she said. This dog would never take food from her fingers. Never had. Not chicken, liver, even steak, that he sometimes got because it loved steak most of all.

"I don't like being snubbed." she thought. By anybody, let alone a slanty-eyed, uneasy-tempered bitch, that had always murmured a growly warning whenever she'd tried a little stroking. She'd given that up. She didn't care too much for Susie - he sometimes called her Susie Wong - and Susie seemed to know it.

"D'you really have to bring her every Saturday?" she said. "Can't you get the old girl next door to feed her for once? Surely she could manage a night on her own at your place. I don't sleep all that well with her prowling outside. I can always hear her breathing. I'm sure it's catarrh. Couldn't you leave her next time?"

"No, I bloody couldn't." he said.

The American feature film came on. They watched in silence. But throughout its guns and cars and sex and death she was aware of Susie looking at her as if she knew what she had proposed. She kept glancing at the dog as if she knew that it knew.

More months passed. Their weekend menage á trois endured, although she resented the dog more than ever. At the start of their acquaintance he had sometimes suggested meeting on a weekday evening. Without success. She didn't want to, although she rather liked him to ask. But since Susie's appearance he had never even hinted at seeing more of her. In fact, their relationship had changed. She'd wanted good sex with a little affection on the side and he had mostly wanted affection. Now she realised that he now only wanted the sex. For affection he had his Chink-eyed wolf-dog. She didn't know whether it would do for much longer. Perhaps she should chuck him. And his dog.

One Saturday afternoon he didn't arrive at his usual time. At four o'clock it began to rain and she kept going to the window to look down the street towards the marshland that extended blankly into rising mist. At five o'clock it was dark. At nine o'clock he rang. "What happened to you?" she asked calmly. She'd just eaten, and put the rest of the meal in the fridge.

"I'm sorry," he said, "it's Susie." His voice faltered. "I've lost her. I was on my way just crossing the footbridge over the big pipes when a pit bull in harness and studs came charging at her, and she ran off. Right away, along the ditch. I've been searching ever since." He was tremulous with emotion and probably exhaustion.

"Where are you?" she asked.

"I'm back home. I had to have a bit of a rest and I thought she might be outside, just a chance. I wonder if anybody's found her and taken her to the police. But I'm not keen on ringing them. I'll go out again in half an hour and take my whistle." He had just spent several pounds on a supersonic gadget. "I don't want anything to happen." He hesitated, "You know she's a grown-up dog now?" He sighed. "It's probably too late. But I've got to find her."

"Hope you don't get lost in all that mud and mist out there." she said. "Do let me know what happens."

She turned to look at Susie. She was stretched out before the flickering Magicoal, tired, but entirely at ease. The pit bull, swaggering in black leather and brass buttons, had trotted up with Susie to her very porch, early in the afternoon, before the rain. She watched everything through the window. Susie had shown no reluctance. And the pit bull came repeatedly up to scratch. "One can't help seeing," she told herself, "that she's thoroughly enjoying herself." Eventually the sated proletarian had gone off down the street, perhaps towards incarceration and death. Susie had been quite willing to come in and lie down in the fireglow. The image of a distraught figure whistling soundlessly and fruitlessly in wet dark loneliness brought a little smile to the woman's lips. "True Love demands Sacrifice," she thought "Wonder if he'll spend the night out there."

"Now try a caramel!" she said, picking out another Belgian handmade. Susie dropped a black-edged jaw and she popped it in. They looked into each other's eyes. Not exactly in friendship. "The Big Question is," she said, rocking back on her heels, "what am I going to do with you?

Susie had not the slightest idea of the possibilities. She merely yawned in reply, shamelessly displaying her exotic mouthparts and her sharp and spotless teeth.