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It was high noon when you noticed patches of brown fur sticking out of the sand at a rather sequestered spot on the shore. At this point, you had walked a good distance away from the Moby Dick for anyone to notice, so you approached the mound of fur and began to dig.
Some minutes later, you roamed around town with a puppy in your arms, covered by the cotton fabric of your shawl. A man in his sixties tapped your shoulder and pointed at the dog.
"You found the Alpine breed. Are you taking it?"
It wasn't long before you got back to the ship with several paper bags, the puppy out of sight until you snuck into your room and urged it out of the bag. Timid as ever, it took its first steps in your abode before it leapt across the room to hide under your dresser.
The Whitebeard Pirates docked at a tropical island a few hours ago and you had found yourself a new companion since then. The puppy was of St. Bernard descent mixed with another breed you couldn't tell—floppy ears, droopy eyes, dense white-brown coat—but its broad muzzle bore a crescent-shaped pattern with its fur, a character so strikingly similar to Pops' mustache that you couldn't let it go.
You were smitten by it. Pops hadn't been in the best condition since he started maintenance some months ago, and it troubled you immensely. To calm your worries, you found comfort in the small things that reminded you of him. Perhaps the little St. Bernard was heaven sent; you were in no position to leave it behind.
It happened that the pup escaped from wildlife traffickers some time ago and had lived by the bay since then. The locals told you this when you walked around town with the poor thing swaddled in your shawl. Because its dense coat wasn't fit for the island climate, they urged you to take it.
Now that you had the dog in your room, you didn't know how to tell your crew.
"You seem well-behaved. I hope you stay that way until I figure this out!"
It was a challenge to care for it since the little thing wasn't accustomed to the sea—it was frisky when the ship rocked about and it drooled so often that you had to clean up after it multiple times a day. But your empathy got the best of you, and you were softened by its striking resemblance to Pops to let it go. So while it was difficult to raise, you kept it under your wing.
Unfortunately, your crewmates grew suspicious of the noises that came from your room, the tissue waste you generated, the drool that stuck to your hair, and the ridiculous diet that nearly gave Thatch a stroke. The changes to your habits did not go unnoticed. From the increased meal proportions to the strangest requests, your crewmates believed something was wrong, and Ace was at the forefront of their collective worries.
"Is she hiding something from me?" he wondered as he paced around Marco's room. "Possessed? Not feeling well?"
"Beats me. Might just be mood swings."
"She asked for rabbit head, Marco. It wasn't even cooked—she wanted it raw."
The doctor spun around. "Who told you that?"
"Thatch!"
"The other day? When she asked for all kinds of fish?"
"Yes!" exclaimed Ace. "Hey, hey, shouldn't you be checking up on her? Being the ship doctor and all?"
Marco adjusted his reading glasses. "It doesn't seem as concerning as you make it out to be."
Ace shook his head. He tugged the man's sleeve and begged, "Please, you have to. She hasn't invited me over in days, and she acts all nervous when I'm around like she's hiding something. She couldn't look me in the eye like she used to. Do you know how terrible it is to worry about your girlfriend?"
Annoyed, Marco shouldered him away and removed his glasses. He closed the textbook.
"Have you talked to her?"
"She dismissed me and insisted it was nothing."
"Fine, I'll give it a look. But whatever happens, I'm blaming it on you."
Ace's pleas led them to your front door as they braved the cold air that blew past them in the late morning. At this point, the ship had docked at a winter island to unload waste and restock supplies, so you hadn't gone out of your room to preserve the warmth. Normally you would cozy up beside Ace to fight the temperature, but you hadn't approached him since the crew anchored ashore. Your boyfriend was worried you hated him.
Marco knocked on your door.
"Oi. Are you in there?"
You didn't respond.
He tried again with a call of your name. Still nothing.
"If you knock hard enough, she'll hear you." Ace pressed his ear to your door as Marco took the liberty to knock harder. "Wait. I hear something."
He leaned in closer, muting the sound of crashing waves and concentrating on the noises from your room.
He heard a loud thud.
"She fainted!" Ace yelled.
"Are you sure?" asked Marco.
"Yes! I'm breaking in."
"Wait-yoi, don't just—"
Ace punched through the wood with a fist of fire, creating a burning hole on your door. Marco stood back, mouth ajar.
As the fire burned through the wood, Ace kicked down the remnants of your door and looked into the empty room. Suddenly, a puppy not taller than two feet bolted past the entrance, its coat catching fire from the burning wood. It barked and spun on its paws before Ace smothered the fire with a flick of his hand. He reached for the pup.
"What's a dog doing in here?" He read the inscription on the metal tag around its collar. It had your name on it. "Uh . . . Marco? Is it possible for my girlfriend to turn into a dog?"
"No. What on earth are you talking about?"
Ace rubbed the puppy's chin as he pondered on your whereabouts. He was convinced the puppy had been you—"It's her. It has to be her. I haven't seen her since yesterday."—but its prominent mustache pattern made him doubt his inkling. Still, there was no proper explanation for your disappearance other than your zoonotic transformation.
Suddenly, the puppy began to wrestle Ace's hold and bark about. It flailed its arms free from his grip, its head bucking away from his touch, until it hit the floor and raced down the hallway.
Ace set on foot to chase after it with Marco tailing from behind. He followed the puppy as it zoomed up the stairs and sprang into the snowy main deck, where it proceeded to assail unsuspecting crewmates, drunk and sober alike. It weaved through pairs of feet, crashed into a game of Old Maid, and hopped over frosted crates that tumbled down in disarray.
The puppy had ascended the central mast when much of the crew noticed its presence. Panic rang about on the ship as they watched it climb with skill. Ace dug his elbow into Marco's side and pointed at the loose animal.
"Fly to it, right now! That could be her, for all I know!"
Marco sprinted across the deck and leapt into the air with his wings spread wide, his blue flames engulfing the sky. He flew up the mast and swooped the puppy into his arms effortlessly. Ace followed him off the ship and watched as he struggled with the dog in his arms.
Soon enough, it escaped Marco's grip and plummeted into the snowy shore.
"Hey! Who brought a damn dog on the ship?" Deuce yelled from the Moby Dick, where many of the crew lined by the rail to witness the commotion.
Ace scrunched his nose. He told him his suspicions about your unforeseen transformation.
"No way! Really?" Deuce looked behind his shoulder before continuing. "Bring it back! Pops wants to see it— uh, her!"
Moments later, the puppy was back on board in a tray full of snow, a safety measure (as Marco called it) to prevent the dog from escaping his clutches. It wasn't long before you arrived yourself, carrying crates of kitchen supplies upon Thatch's request, which sparked chaos among the crew.
Ace was the first person you saw, and he was rather panic-stricken upon seeing you.
"Ace?" you called out. You looked at the crowded deck where Pops usually sat. Thatch, who had accompanied you on the supply run to keep up with your food demands, had disappeared into the crowd. "What's the meaning of this?"
"Oh no," Ace said, horrified. "Oh no."
You raised a brow. You had a bad feeling.
"You're not the dog?" he asked.
"Sorry?" You urged him to speak.
Ace was truly convinced you transformed into the small dog after not seeing you for the past 24 hours. He didn't know you were out with Thatch on this winter morning, and he certainly did not think that you willingly left your room despite the cold. But you stood in front of him looking well, alive, and human, that he couldn't help but to shiver in fright.
He was terribly, terribly wrong.
"I messed up."
Ace recounted his silly adventure with your dog, which earned him a pinch on the cheek and an earful of yelling. (You made sure to emphasize the consequences for breaking your door, and he apologized profusely.) Once that was settled, you approached Pops, who had the dog in question on his lap. While he spoke little of the animal, he seemed to not mind its presence as it played about in the snow.
"Puppy!" you cried in relief. The puppy looked toward your direction and barked as you approached it. "I can't believe you caused trouble while I was gone!"
The dog jumped into your arms and snuggled in the crook of your neck. As you rubbed its body for comfort, your eyes fell to the ground.
The crew fell into silence at your admission.
"Guess the secret is out. Sorry to worry everyone, but I've been living for two since we left the last island."
Somewhere in the pack, Ace looked abashed by his incorrect assumptions. Beside him, Marco shook his head for believing Ace. Thatch placed his hands on his hips, relieved that you were doing just fine after all.
Pops, on the other hand, was unaware of what transpired. When he asked, you revealed your attachment to the dog after finding it abandoned on the shore. In true St. Bernard fashion, the dog drooled profusely as it looked up at your Captain, who then noticed the crescent-shaped pattern on its muzzle.
Suddenly, he laughed.
"It looks just like me." He held out his hand and you handed him your pet. It barked excitedly as he held it up to his face. To your surprise, Pops beckoned you forward and gently patted your head. "Keep it. If it eases my daughter's worries, take care of it."
Your heart swelled. You held the puppy in your arms as you winked at Ace in the crowd.
A few days later, you and Ace stood in front of a life-sized snow globe built exclusively for your pet. The puppy had rolled itself in the snow, speckles of snowflakes sticking to its fur. Ace looked on with amusement.
"Lucky dog," he said, "but it does look like Pops, so the lavish treatment makes sense."
"Sounds like you're jealous that it shares a room with me," you teased. You pointed at the dog. "It hates the heat. That puts you at a good distance away from it unless it's in the globe. Got it?"
Ace threw a thumbs up. "Succumb to the cold for the dog. Got it."
"Not what I meant!"
He laughed. Pulling you close, he mumbled, "I'm just glad you're you, and not a dog. And that all you've been secretive of was a puppy and not some lethal illness."
"Of course." Your smile fell shortly. "I'm sorry for not telling you."
"Some secrets are probably worth sharing," he said. "The next time you smuggle a puppy, I want in."
You punched his side playfully, but you made sure to remember the next time you do.