Stavanger Bay Why is the rum gone?

Some wolves were gifted with an intellect, some wolves excelled at combat, some were great hunters and the rest were either bastards or plain boring. In a tiny dark nook of that gray zone Foxglove had found her particular niche that she felt comfortable at. A trash-dog born and raised and no matter, how many years lived and how many miles walked, and how many better foods eaten a trash-dog stayed the same. True to it's nature, habits and upbringing. You can take the dog away from the trash dump, but not trash dump away from the dog - something along those lines.

Though, while Foxglove was scavenging the latest supply of sea-weeds, rotten and dead things (most of them frozen) and garbage, she did not think any of those complex things. No. She was standing knee deep in the mush and with a wagging tail was excitedly making her way through the pile. Some would say she was treasure-hunting, some would simply distance themselves from the scrawny, stinky wolf, no matter, what great stuff she would find there.