The hobby psychologist enters. She takes his coat.
The dog has a grimace that I think is supposed to be a smile, all teeth and dribble glistening from the sides of his Winston Churchill cheeks.
She has painted a clownface over her features; there is a frown inside a smile. She tries to make the frown unseeable.
Teeth sharp now, I practice smiling in front of the mirror. Is this a mouse smile?
He takes one look at the dog, then, after all this. “Looks fine to me,” he says, pats him on the head, and leaves without his coat.