My Portuguese neighbours are asleep and all is quiet and peaceful as I head to the boulangerie on Sunday morning. On the way I bump into my neighbour Claudette.
'Ca va?' she says, with a look of concern, before pointing to my neighbours house, and shaking her head with regret. 'On a pensé de toi hier soir.'
It turns out that the loud music played by my neighbours continued all night and could be heard several streets away. Claudette expresses amazement when I tell her that I was able to sleep through it (but then I was exhausted after spending the afternoon tidying up the courtyard garden.)
After breakfast, I bundle Biff into the car and drove him over to see his second family (from whom I dognapped him) and his big sister Milou. He perks up hugely when we arrive - I am starting to worry that he might get bored with just my company - and dives straight up the garden path to greet them.
Sitting in a shady corner of their garden after a delicious Sunday lunch Frances shows me Biff's baby pictures, taken shortly after they rescued him. The pictures - of a scrawny but perky looking dog - tug at my heart strings and make me love him even more.
'We were almost embarrassed to take him out back then,' admits Frances.
With great tufts of hair missing and patches of pale flesh exposed, Tiny Tim (as he was called by the rescue) looks extremely vulnerable but still recognisable as Biff. I feel a huge surge of gratitude that thanks to the care lavished on him by his former family, Biff has grown up to be a very handsome boy indeed.