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just think—after that you can move in with a lovely family and maybe have a couch to sleep on in the living room. Maybe even some children to play with.”
    The dog didn’t look convinced.
    On the way home from the track I’d picked up Stella’s brother, Stanley, from his foster home with, a lady who lived in a hundred-year-old cottage in the heart of Gawler. The tall elegant dog had passed all his GAP tests with ease, including tolerating cats, little fluffy dogs and allowing his foster mum to remove his food before he’d finished eating. He’d even been presented with a special green collar to show he could be walked on the streets without a muzzle now.
    There was only one procedure left to face before Stanley was ready for his new adoptive home. The one I was attempting to downplay—neutering.
    As though seeking more reassurance, and who could blame the poor guy, Stanley stretched his neck forward and licked my left ear with his hot rough tongue.
    “Hey, that tickles.” I laughed and gently pushed him away, then tightened my grip on the steering wheel to maneuver the car around a large concrete roundabout and onto the new highway. “We’ll pay a visit to the vet tomorrow, okay? Not today. Lofty, Witchy, Clark and Bugs are tired and hungry. We need to get them home out of the trailer and into their warm comfortable beds, pronto.”
    As though understanding every word I said, Stanley’s tongue scorched a hot damp trail across the sensitive skin at the back of my neck. I reached behind with one hand and ruffled his ears. “I know, I know, that’s fine with you. You’re not in any hurry to visit the vet either.”
    By the time I pulled into the Angle Vale shopping center and parked the car and dog-trailer outside the delicatessen where I always bought ice-cream for the dogs after racing, tiredness enveloped me. I was so looking forward to the familiar sight of my own front gate topped by the sign that said, McKinley Greyhound Kennels . It had been one heck of a day. What with Ben borrowing several very energetic cups of sugar , the mystery of why and who stole Stella, worrying whether the dog-napper actually had his beady eyes on Lofty, plus the excitement of winning three races—I was all ready for a night in—with the kennel-house double-padlocked, my front door secure and my feet up.
    Maybe watching something light and fluffy that didn’t overtax my tired brain, like Death at a Funeral.
    When I pushed open the shop door and set the overhead bell tinkling, Nona, the grey haired, stooped matriarch of the Makris family, gave me a bright gummy smile of recognition. She reached for the box of cones under the counter. “Good afternoon, Katrina,” she said, her dark eyes alive and twinkling and belying her grand old age of eighty nine. “How many today, dear?”
    “Let’s see. Four in the trailer and one in the car. That makes five scoops of vanilla today, thanks, Nona.”
    “And you? You like some of my Petar’s home-made ice cream too? He does good job. No?”
    “He does good job. Yes !” My taste buds already salivating at the thought of being seduced by Petar’s home made recipe, I studied the twelve available flavors in the tubs on the other side of the see-through plastic screen. Petar Makris’s ice-cream was the toast of the North. Absolutely mouth-wateringly yummy. The taste of the fruit dripped off the tongue as the cold confection slipped down the throat.
    “Let’s see,” I mused and leaned closer, all the better to select a flavor. But which one? I loved them all. Blueberry? Tutti-frutti? Lemon Sherbet? Chocoholic’s Delight? I shook my head. “Mrs. Makris, you can tell your son from me that he makes it almost impossible for his customers to make a decision. Doesn’t matter which flavor ice cream I select, there’s another eleven I’ve missed out on. Okay, today’s choice is… Eeney, Meeney, Miney, Mo… Banana Dream.”
    “You make good decision, Katrina. My favorite