Two dachshunds portrait on a calf

The ovens were lit by four this morning, and I have to tell you about Biscuit and Hob, because you will not believe me otherwise. They came in through the back gate of Thorne's on Calder Street the way they always do, low and long as tins, nails clicking on the flags. Hob is the red one, the colour of a crust just out of the oven, and he goes everywhere with his tongue lolling as if he has run a mile to tell you something. Biscuit is the black one with the tan eyebrows, and she does not run anywhere.

Mrs Okafor's shop next door had a fox in the bins last week, and the two of them sat on the back step for an hour, not barking, just watching the dark gap under the wall until the fox gave up. I have never seen anything so serious. Hob thumped his tail once, slowly, the way a man nods at a bill he cannot pay. Biscuit stared until the fox was gone, then came inside and lay down on the warm sack of flour by the proving tins, which is forbidden, and I let her.

Here is the thing I meant to write. Last Tuesday the lad from the council came about the lease, and while I signed I looked out and saw the pair of them on the step, Hob's chin resting on Biscuit's head, both gazing up at the sky as though the morning owed them something. I thought about you, and the spring we nearly closed. I had believed the shop was only the ovens and the till. I was wrong. It was these two, and the flour on their paws.

The lease is renewed for five years. I have put a card in the window that says Dogs Welcome, Flour Not Included. Come by on Sunday before the queue and bring the good butter. Yours in dough, Edie.