Jack wades his way through the pile of wiggling pups at his feet before dropping onto the sofa in my living room, box clutched to his chest. From his pen, Elvis lets out a plaintive little meow and, seeing as the baking is effectively on pause for the moment, I step over to let him out, turning worried eyes on Jack when I do.

"Oh, hon, of course I remember," I tell him, coming over then to sit on the couch beside him and resting my hand on his knee. From here, I can sorta see in the box which looks about full of hand-drawn cards and crafts and knickknacks. "Oh goodness, did the kids all make these for you?"