A loud crash comes from downstairs in your home. You arm yourself, prepared to fend off a burgular. But a humongous, black puppy is snuffling in your cupboards, chewing on anything her huge puppy teeth are sinking into. And she is sinking her shiny, razor-sharp pup's teeth into all the food. She freezes as you make a small sound, her pointed ears flick up, the black fur wobbling in the air. Her eyes look like the dying embers of a campfire, and are full of bright, spirited soulfulness. She stares down at the small creature, and slowly opens her maw, coughing a wet envelope at your feet. Inside is a well-penned, if chewed, letter. 'Dear Homeowner, by opening this, you have signed and sealed an unbreakable contract, binding you to care for this hellpup. Her name is Constance, and that is about all she understands. Good luck, thanks for looking after her. She'll be independent in about five years' time. I'll return to collect her in 2030. Hail Satan, have a great day.'