OK, so this metaphor is getting interesting.
On a dark and rainy night, five years after that fateful day, a rapping echoes down the dismal hallway. As the door squeaks open, sheet lightning frames a tall stranger in a dark coat. You freeze for a second, but then you realize it's just that fellow from the dog pound. He sold you a great dog once. It died, but hey. Great dog. Guy looks a bit strange, though. Different somehow.
A voice like a grating stone slab escapes the pale, cracked lips beneath the shadow of a soggy wide-brimmed hat. "Five years ago. Dog killed. Hit and run. Messy business."
Uh, yes. You know that stuff. Don't see what he's got to...
"Took this long to rebuild it. Done now. Here."
To the sound of thunder, a Thing crosses the threshold to your home. It is a stitched-up thing. A battered thing. A patchwork creature. It stands. It moves. It is... recognizable. It turns its head just slightly, just like so, and for a second you think...
The man from the pound croaks, "That will be $19.99. Thank you kindly."
What is your reply?
[ ] "What a steal! Dogmeat! Come here, you! I'm gonna hug you and pet you and call you George."
[ ] "Wait, WTF."
[ ] "Hmm... knock off a tenner and you have yourself a deal. Left back leg is hanging by a thread. Is that the spleen?"
[ ] "No, seriously, WTF."
[ ] "UuuhhhhhhIdon'treallytakedeaddogsfromstrangersbyeSLAM"