The Only Colleague I Have Never Fired

The Portuguese Water Dog is not a pet. It is a colleague who happens to have four legs and an opinion about everything. Nero — named for the emperor, not the fiddler, although the distinction is increasingly irrelevant — arrived in my life four years ago as a ball of black curls with the confidence of a creature that had already decided it was in charge. He was correct. I have not made a significant decision since without consulting him, and his track record is better than most of my human advisors.

He does not fetch. I want to be clear about this because people always ask, and the answer always disappoints them. The Portuguese Water Dog was bred to work — to retrieve fishing nets, to carry messages between boats, to swim in conditions that would make a Labrador reconsider its career choices. Nero considers fetching to be beneath his station. He will watch a ball sail through the air with the expression of a sommelier being offered house wine. He may walk towards it. He will not bring it back. This is not disobedience. This is professional boundaries.

Our morning routine has not varied in four years. He wakes at six-fifteen — not six-ten, not six-twenty — and places his chin on the edge of the bed with a weight that suggests he has been waiting for hours and has shown remarkable patience. We walk for forty-five minutes along a route that he has chosen and that I have learned not to deviate from. There is a wall he must inspect. A gate he must acknowledge. A specific patch of grass where he conducts business with the solemnity of a man signing a mortgage.

He attends every writing session. He positions himself beneath my desk with his head on my left foot — always the left, never the right, for reasons he has not disclosed — and sleeps while I work. When the writing is going well, he snores. When the writing is going badly, he sighs and leaves the room. He has better editorial instincts than anyone I have worked with in publishing, and I include three editors at national newspapers and a literary agent who shall remain nameless but who knows exactly who she is.

The question people ask most often is whether he is good with children. The answer is that he is better with children than most adults are. He has a patience for small humans that borders on the saintly, and a tolerance for ear-pulling that I, personally, would not possess. He sits. He allows himself to be decorated with ribbons. He endures being called a different name by every child who meets him. He does all of this with the grace of a man who has realised that dignity is not about what happens to you, but about how you respond to it.

I have considered getting a second dog. Nero has considered this too, and his position is clear: he has looked at me with an expression that combines disappointment, betrayal, and the quiet confidence of a creature that knows where I keep the good cheese. The subject has not been raised again. Some colleagues are irreplaceable. Some partnerships work precisely because they are exclusive. Nero and I have an arrangement. He provides companionship, editorial oversight, and a reason to leave the house at six-fifteen. I provide food, warmth, and an audience for his opinions. It is the most honest working relationship I have ever had.