Realistic wolf head on chest

You will want to know about the dog, so I'll tell you before the rest. He came aboard at Lerwick off a Faroese longliner that was bound for the knacker's, a grey and black brute with a ruff like a bad-tempered wig and eyes so pale they looked borrowed. Nobody claimed him. Davie Strachan said he'd jump ship at the first sight of weather, and he didn't. He sat on the hatch cover through three days of north-westerly with the spray going over him and never once looked at the men. He watched the horizon off the port bow, always, as though someone was due to come over it.

On the fourth night the warp fouled and Ruairidh went over the rail after it. I won't dwell on that. The dog was in the water before anyone could catch his collar, and between them they came up in the lee of the hull, the dog with a fistful of Ruairidh's oilskin in his teeth, hauling like it was a rope he had been trained on all his life. We got them both in with the boathook and a good deal of swearing.

Since then he has a place by the wheelhouse door and a tin of mince from the galley cook. Davie says he's a sled dog who got lost on the wrong ocean. I say he knew exactly where he was going, and I've stopped asking him to look at us instead of the sea.

We're making for Scalloway on Tuesday with a light hold. Keep the kettle on. I'll bring the dog up the hill to meet you, if he'll come.

Yours, Tam