Clues to a ‘Shetland’ plotline. The dog can talk!

Has anyone figured out the plot?

There’s pet food in that fake cake fridge

It’s to do with dogs…oh yes! I’ve got

It! There’s crap upon the football pitch!

A number two by the corner post!

They’ve called  Perez; that idle sod

Spends maybe half an hour at most

Each working day as PC Plod

On an island where the only crime

Occurs whenever cruise ships call

And tourists, spending not cash but time

Shoplift from every knitwear stall

And so Perez searches for clues

Among the unbagged excrement

Forensics scan the scattered poos

And carry out experiments

Until, at last, arrests are made

Prime suspects, possibly on drugs

There’s no need to get legal aid:

For a Staffie, a Sheepdog and a Pug

The Staffie seems a dodgy mutt

Muscle and scars the least of it

He truly looks the part – ah, but

He’s vegan – there’s no match with his shit

The pug is ugly, and prone to peeing

And frankly, just a little small

The sheepdog – sleekit, wise, all-seeing

Sits calm, a canine know-it-all

She speaks: “Look, Perez, do not screw

Around with me. Your card is marked

I know who did that jobbie – you!

Skulking in Lerwick after dark 

“Public toilets here are rare

There’s no need to be ashamed

But please in future take more care

And don’t deny it. Your name

“Is on the samples I procured

From football pitch and cop shop cludgie

The doctor tells me she is sure

They are the same, though both quite sludgy.”

And finally, we know the facts

Through every series we have slogged

There’s just one thing this show has lacked

The presence of a talking dog

No more to Shetland luvvies will flock

To close our roads and bridges down

Fire-station doors will not be  blocked

Nor orca-spotting stars abound

And some will miss the extra rent

The money, glamour, compensation

The preening self-entitlement

The arrogance, the sheer vexation

Caused in the name of bad TV

Another maverick detective

In Jersey, Iceland, Frinton-on-Sea

All his relationships defective

Using the quaint and the remote

In contrast with the urban madness

Another copper in a coat

Cut to reflect his  inner sadness 

Now they’re scouting Faroe and the Uists

(Scenic, desperate, lots of space)

Where the inhabitants are fewest

And willingly will be displaced

But beware: The gifts that TV gives

Will be withdrawn in the end

These people don’t know how to live

They only dress up and pretend.

Copyright 2021, Tom Morton