Hatch was cold, wet and miserable. He’d been like this for a while, nearly 436 years in fact. When the Mary Rose sank he’d been caught underneath a pile of wooden boxes, and despite trying his best to move them, he’d been stuck all this time, just him and a large flagon of ale that he couldn’t quite reach.
He saw a crab walking sideways across the seabed through a gap in the boxes, and tried to growl at it. Annoyingly, he wasn’t able to, as his lower jaw was inside the carpenter’s case, where one of this crab's ancestors had dragged it sometime in the 16th century.
Once his fur had gone, and the fish and crabs had lost interest in him, Hatch had been left alone, and if there's one thing dogs don't like, it's being ignored. He occasionally heard things, like ships moving overhead, getting louder as the years went on, and he was sure that someone had been stomping around a century or so ago, moving stuff around and setting off explosions, but other than the sound of shipping, everything had been quiet. At least, until recently.
Over the last few years he’d heard a lot of people moving around what was left of the ship, digging through mud and tidying up the mess made when the ship had tipped over. The captain had always been a stickler for tidiness, so Hatch thought he’d probably approve.