An idea had begun to form in his overactive imagination. Nat had compared Woody to one picture of a German shepherd dog and another of a wolf. The wolf looked more like Woody, except that Woody had much longer legs and his weird Mohawk hairdo seemed to suggest some sort of mane. His paws were enormous! They were almost twice as big as Nat’s own hand and the toes were long: unusually long, and joined together by a thin webbing of skin.

“Like a wolf,” he told his mum when she and Apple came to see how he was getting on with Woody’s beautification.

“Did you know that only wolves and Newfoundland dogs have webbed feet?” he asked her excitedly.

“Or Woody may have just been born lucky!” Jude laughed. “Just because he has a bit of skin joining his toes doesn’t mean we have a wolf among us.”

But to Nat, this was just another check mark in the box for his big THEORY about his new pet.

“OK then, Mum,” he said patiently. “Have you asked yourself why Woody never barks?”

Jude shrugged. “Maybe he’s got a sore throat from all that howling we had to put up with the other day.”

“Exactly!” cried Nat triumphantly. “Howling! He howls but he never barks. And look at him. Tell me he doesn’t look just like a wolf.”

Jude sighed. “Yes, he does, but so do most German shepherds, that’s why they frighten people.”

“And why did Mr. Tate seem so keen to get rid of him?” Nat was warming to his subject. “I bet it’s because Woody is one of those illegal imports, you know, a hybrid wolf, a cross between a wolf and a dog.”

“Nat, listen to yourself,” said Jude mildly. “What on earth would somebody like Mr. Tate be doing with an illegally imported dog?”

“Money?” said Nat, knowing he was losing ground.

“D’you know how much granddad paid for him?” asked his mum gently.

“No,” admitted Nat, a little sulkily.

“The promise of a barrel of Apple’s organic cider.”

“Yes, but …,” protested Nat.

“Nat, you’re almost thirteen years old,” sighed Jude. “It’s time to rein in your imagination a bit.”

Nat narrowed his eyes. He was never going to live down Gary the Imaginary Unicorn! He was just about to give his mother four other reasons why Woody could be an illegal import when Apple interrupted them.

“What on earth …?” Apple exclaimed. She had been helping to brush Woody’s Mohawk and was now peering at something intently.

There was a strange collection of livid blue marks on Woody’s skin.

“Looks like a tattoo!” marveled Nat, straining his neck to get closer. “P’raps Mr. Tate got it done to brand him, in case Woody got stolen.”