Dorothy Gibbons nearly had a heart attack when the cardboard box near her mailbox started barking.

Except, it wasn't _just_ normal barking. Something about it was garbled, off, as though the thing making the noise had too many tongues inside its maw.

Still, though, after calming herself and thanking Mary and Jesus on High, she resigns herself to slowly kneeling down with a pop of her joints to investigate what exactly was making the weird sounds.

The box is damp as she pulls back the flaps, probably from the rain that'd been pouring down all night long, and there appeared to be several torn pieces at the edges that could've been bite marks. Yet, within the crate was something that looked as though it could hardly hurt a fly, much less nibble on wet cardboard.

It was some kind of dog, or at least that's what Dorothy assumes it must be. Canine in shape, it has a short, pale, almost pink coat; deep, doleful black eyes; a glistening wet nose; and several, _several_ extra wormy-looking legs along its sides.

And it looks up at her with such a soulful, pleading gaze, whimpering then with a wriggle of all those legs as it sniffs at her hand.

Dorothy couldn't stop the way her heart just _melts_ as she immediately scoops the slippery thing up into her arms, nor the way she falls helplessly in love when it yips and licks at her face. Shuffling back towards her front poor with the sopping wet pooch, she wastes no time in drawing it a bath and scrubbing the poor, neglected creature clean.

It thrashes in the tub, not unlike a drowning rat, but Dorothy is undeterred as she skillfully rubs out caked dirt from its grimy pelt.

"That just isn't right," she says, more to herself than anything, as suds form and bubble around the dog's pinkish skin. “Just leaving you out there like that! How could anyone be so cruel."

"You need a name," Dorothy muses, and she laughs as she towels it dry, getting her dress wet in the process as it shakes and shakes. "Oh you! How about-- Charlie?"

At this, Charlie makes a noise that could be agreement or indigestion. He scuttles around Dorothy’s feet with dizzying enthusiasm, his extra limbs making him slightly unsteady, but there's an undeniable affection to his romps.

"I’ll take care of you, Charlie dear," she promises as he leaps into her lap. Charlie gives a toothless grin, licking at her chin.

Soon, Charlie is sitting on the rug by the heater, and she finds herself smiling at how he fits right in-- an oddball match for her cluttered little home.

Dorothy squints at his many legs. "What _breed _do you suppose you are?" she ponders out loud, and he responds with more of those peculiar barks, garbled and sweet and eager to please. He waddles over to her, and she picks him up again, cooing gently. "Ahh, whatever you are, you're _mine _now, sweetie!"

Charlie nuzzles into her neck as she sets about making them both some dinner. She places a bowl of soft leftover stew meat on the floor beside her own chair and watches with delight as he devours the food in a sloppy frenzy.

——

A week passes. Dorothy learns not to trip over Herman during his many-legged dashes around the house. She learns his strange garbled barks mean everything from "I'm hungry" to "I love you" to "I buried your slipper in the garden again."

Every day, she feels as though she learns something new about her adorable new pet-- the strange dog bringing a spark of adventure she hasn't known she's been missing all this time.

One morning, Dorothy stretches out an aching knee and decides to take Charlie out for a walk over to the local park. He wiggles and squirms as she gets his makeshift leash on, barely able to contain his excitement as they head down the street.

Once outside, with Charlie beside her, the world feels bigger, brighter. Charlie sniffs at everything with keen interest, and Dorothy grins as people passing by do a double-take at her exotic pet. Some keep walking, shaking their heads, but others stop and coo.

"He's something else!" a young woman says, crouching down and extending a hand for Charlie to inspect. "Where did you get him?"

"Mailbox," Dorothy replies with a chuckle. "Found him in a box."

The woman looks puzzled but charmed. "What's his name?"

"Charlie," Dorothy beams. "He's been _quite_ the charmer."

They continue on, Herman bounding ahead then circling back like a furry boomerang. By the time they reach the park and back home again, trudging up the path to Dorothy's home, even her neighbor Lillian seems unable to make a comment as she pokes out her head over the fence.

"Well Dorothy, who's this little fella I've been seeing around?"

Dorothy grins with pride as Herman rolls belly-up for a rub. "Charlie's the name! Found him cold and shivering all lost and alone just last week. Ain't he just precious?"

Lillian narrows her eyes at Herman's many legs, at his pale skin and impossibly dark black eyes. "He's sure somethin' alright! But _what _is he?"

"Don't rightly know," Dorothy laughs, rubbing Charlie's belly before patting his head. "But he's a new regular member of the family, I'll tell you that." The dog gurgles happily and wriggles back into Dorothy's arms.

Lillian huffs, shaking her head. "Well I'll be!"

——

Another week goes by.

Dorothy has grown more than used to her new pet and his antics by now, delighting in the way Charlie greets her every morning by his food bowl, in the way he sleeps by her feet come noon in her reading chair, in the way he cuddled up at her side when they both tucked in the for the night. He was everything she figured she'd been missing in life, a treasure the old woman promises she'll take care of for as long as she lives.

Except for one thing. One teensy, little thing.

People have started showing up at her door asking about Charlie.

They all had the same deep dark eyes and spoke in hushed tones that she couldn't quite make out, even despite turning her hearing aid all the way up. Sometimes they came dressed in suits. Other times in flowing red robes.

And though she couldn't quite make out what exactly their business was, somehow, she understood deep in her soul that they were here for Charlie.

But Dorothy's response to their nonsense pleads was the same thing every time:

"I don't know who you are, but he ain't leavin' this home!" She shouts for the umpteenth time, slamming the door in the face of another dark-eyed man.

He garbles something low and incomprehensible from behind the door, but eventually leaves her porch, and Dorothy tips back into the kitchen, opening the sink cupboard. "You can come out now," she whispers.

Charlie yips and comes scampering out with a wag of his stumpy tail, running around Dorothy in a flurry of slapping appendages. All she can do is laugh and hold him close, thanking him for being such a good boy.

That evening, as Dorothy settles into her armchair with a cup of tea, she notices Charlie acting peculiar. He's pacing by the window, those many legs working in an unsettling rhythm, his garbled barks more insistent than usual.

"What's the matter, boy?" she asks, setting aside her knitting.

Charlie scuttles to the back door, stands on all six of his hind legs, and begins scratching at the wood. When Dorothy doesn't immediately respond, he returns to her chair, tugs at her dress with his toothless mouth, and then hurries back to the door.

"Alright, alright," she sighs, groaning as she rises. "Just a quick potty break, then straight back inside. Those strange folk might still be lurking about."

The night air is cool against her face as she steps onto the porch, Charlie whisking straight past her and onto the small, fenced-in lawn. But rather than lifting his legs to pee or squatting somewhere by the flowers, he makes a beeline straight for the hedges.

Charlie stops by an overgrown bush near the roses, and Dorothy cringes when she notices a few of them have been trampled flat-- but then her heart gives a soft twinge, not unlike it did when she first heard that box barking. Because there in the dirt lie four tiny bundles. Squirmy little things with slick pink coats.

"Oh my," Dorothy breathes. Charlie nudges one with his nose, and wobbles upright on its many legs.

Hastening over, she kneels down to grasp the wriggling creatures in her palms, looking at Charlie.

"Are these your babies?" She asks in amazement.

Charlie gives a sharp yap.

"Your brothers and sisters?"

A softer yip.

Dorothy smiles, petting one of them gently with a wrinkled thumb. "Well, who cares what they are, huh? They're perfect, just like you, Charlie."

She gathers the squirming pink bundles into her apron, cradling them against her chest. Each one has the same dark, fathomless eyes as Charlie, the same wormy appendages-- though these are smaller, more delicate. They make soft gurgling sounds that remind her of a pot of stew just before it boils over.

"Let's get you little ones inside," she coos, shuffling back toward the house with Charlie trotting happily beside her, his many legs clicking against the pathway.

And together, several years later that ought to have been impossible at her age, Dorothy Gibbons still continues to live with her many strange dogs to this day.