Biscuit was a big dog. A very, very big dog. A Newfoundland dog, which meant he had paws like dinner plates, fur like a wet mop, and a nose that could smell a sardine tin from three streets away. Captain Marta crouched down on the dock and pointed at the grey-green water. "Red life ring," she said. "It's bobbing by the orange buoy. Fetch it back, Biscuit. Sailing lesson starts soon." Biscuit lifted his enormous nose and sniffed, sniffed, sniffed. Salt water. Seaweed. One distant mackerel. And yes — rubber, round, red. He had it. He knew exactly where to go.
He launched off the dock with a splash like a small whale arriving. His great webbed paws churned the choppy water — whomp, whomp, whomp — and he was off, dark fur streaming behind him, bubbles fizzing past his ears. Cold. The water was properly, bracingly cold, and it stung his nose in the nicest way.
He was halfway to the buoy when he heard it. A tiny sound. Not a seagull. Not a wave. Something smaller. Something going peep, peep, PEEP in a very urgent circle. Biscuit stopped swimming and sniffed, sniffed, sniffed. There, near the orange buoy, something yellow was spinning. Round and round and round, no bigger than a bread roll, tangled in a loop of old fishing line and going absolutely nowhere. A duckling. A very small, very dizzy duckling.
Biscuit could not swim past a spinning duckling. That was simply not possible. He paddled closer, very slowly, so the water barely rippled. He opened his mouth — soft, careful, the mouth that could carry an egg without cracking it — and he nosed at the fishing line. Gently. Gently. The loop shifted. He nudged it again. Then — pop — the line slipped free, and the duckling stopped spinning and sat there, blinking its tiny bright eyes. It looked at Biscuit. Biscuit looked at it. The duckling climbed onto his head.
Just like that. Tiny orange feet, gripping his soggy fur, and the duckling sat down between his ears as if it had always lived there. Biscuit sighed through his nose. The red life ring was still bobbing by the buoy, waiting. He paddled to it. He opened his jaws — soft, careful — and clamped down on the rubber ring. The life ring. The thing he had come for. He turned around in the water, the ring in his mouth, the duckling on his head, and began the long paddle back. Whomp, whomp, whomp. The boat grew bigger. Captain Marta was leaning over the side, one hand shading her eyes. Then both hands went to her mouth. Then her shoulders started shaking.
Biscuit hauled himself up onto the dock. He shook himself — a long, full-body shake that sent water flying in every direction — and then he lay down. All four paws out. Chin flat on the warm wood planks. The sun had come out, and the dock smelled of pine tar and dried salt. One back leg twitched. Then again. Then Biscuit was still, enormous and dripping and done, while the duckling watched him from its rope nest with small, satisfied eyes.
