Finding True North

Pushed up from the lower dock planks and cruised toward the covered boathouse workbench. Resting right on a faded marine chart was an open brass pocket compass. I leaned forward and gave the glass casing a crisp tap with my front paw. The delicate red needle spun around in a lazy circle before trembling to a halt toward the channel. Pretty slick gadget. I nudged my shades down my snout to check out the stamped degree marks and cardinal letters circling the dial. One more light tap sent the needle quivering again. Now I know precisely where the harbor wind is coming from. Slid my shades back up, completely oriented.