The dog shelter was located in that odd netherworld at the edge of our cities where suburbia seems to end but the country has not quite begun. The carpark had more potholes than parking spaces, and it was with a rising sense of irritation that I finally managed to manoeuvre my black Mercedes coupe into a runt-sized spot between a concrete wall and an old Mazda. Squeezing myself out of the car I pointed the key to lock it, my heart sinking as I noted the rust and dents on its homely neighbour. I had just turned towards the bleak…