There's always one.

He'd gotten the idea from J K Rowling. He couldn't remember the dog's name but it had three heads.

He'd practised on three cuddly toys bought from a charity shop. One head hung at an odd angle but his grandkids had shrieked with glee at his efforts.

He had only dogsat their generally yappy litter for a week but now, confident in his needlecraft, he waits for his daughter and her children to return off holiday, and as he hears the key in the lock, he remembers to lift Sheba's floppy head. There's always one, he thinks stifling his giggles.