They always forget about the scullery maid, these professional types.

Oh sure, they remember us if there’s a locket missing, or a brooch, or a bit of cash. But they usually head for the housemaids and lady’s attendants first: they even check with the butlers and valets before us. We’re a sort of last resort. It’s the same story when a young gentleman goes missing, his bed unslept in: even if we’re pretty, they still talk to chambermaids first. The same goes for serious crime. Nobody ever seriously talks to the scullery maids or truly suspects them of having the brains to pull off a haul. They think there's no way they could gain access to a firearm: a knowledge of poison is laughably beyond a mere servant girl's comprehension.

It makes my life easier in more ways than one. Too bad police are so thick skulled: it'd be good cover to have one for a partner.

They never advertise the it at the shelters, or the breeders, or the neighbor’s house with a small crate in the front yard. They tell you all about the love that a pet will bring into your life: but they say nothing about the war. But it’s just as omnipresent.

From day one it’s a struggle. Potty training: now that’s an uphill battle, for sure. You have to struggle on, through waking up six times a night, cleaning up messes every five minutes, endless relapses after weeks of good behavior.

Other types of training come through conflict too. At least, with dogs they do. Cats are easier. You don’t have to train them in as many ways. It’s true, you might have to fight their instinct to climb, and remove them from the countertops time and time again. It’s a struggle, to be sure. But dogs? They have to be overcome in so many areas. You have to teach them not to steal your food, for starters. The big ones try to stand up on their hind legs o reach the counter or the table, where they can munch away on whatever they please. The little ones hang about wherever food is, running between your feet or yapping incessantly until you trip and spill, or capitulate and hand over the spoils. Then you have to teach them not to chew on anything— anything at all— except toys. Even adult dogs need to be retaught this particular lesson again and again, each lesson just as fraught with struggle as the last. No breed is naturally servile to the leash either: and this battle is far more tangible than any of the others, as they actively chew on and growl at the leash.

As difficult as these wars may be, the battle to keep one’s pets happy and healthy is far harder. It takes commitment and hard effort to keep them away from danger. Miss a shot? They may sicken. Forget to put the poinsettia out of reach? They might die. You have to be willing to say no to those imploring faces begging for bones.

But even harder than any of this is the last battle, the one they definitely never warn you about. When your pet is old, and they're no longer able to run: when they're toothless and unable to chew: when their organs give out, and you're left with a pity and no way to help. That's when all the love and affection truly turns to bottle rivalry, this time directed not against the animal's faults, but your own affection.