I saw a dog with a peg leg yesterday.

Perhaps I should be clearer. I was running late for work yesterday morning, 'yesterday' being a Sunday and 'work' starting at 9am every Sunday. I hadn't showered and I was still in last night's clothes and eyeliner but, you know what? I really like early Sunday mornings. I like how, in my increasingly hipster infested corner of the city, the only people up are the dog walkers, the middle-aged cafe-dwelling paper readers, the men from the boarding houses on their benches with their brown paper bags. I like how Sunday mornings always smell like wet concrete. I even kind of like the idea of six quiet hours in a quiet office, where I have no particularly challenging responsibilities and I am not required to wear shoes.

So, despite my mascara crusted eyes, unwashed hair and vaguely inappropriate clothes I was in exactly the kind of mood you would want to be in to meet a dog with a peg leg.

She was a miniature schnauzer and she was sitting on the kerb, presumably waiting for her owner to come back with the paper and a coffee. She wore a little coat. Her left front paw was made of metal and rubber, as though someone had hacked off the leg of a zimmer frame and lashed it to the dog. I tried not to stare.