I have spent much of my life believing that affection must be earned. You work hard, help people, remember birthdays, support friends through crises, and show up when needed. If you are lucky, people appreciate you. If you are very lucky, they love you. Then along came Nico and completely transformed my understanding of human relationships. Nico is my dog. Or rather, he is the family dog who has somehow decided that I am the most important person in the household. This will be understandable if I was the one who fed him, walked him, groomed him or bathed him. I do none of these things. Others ensure that he is fed on time, exercised properly, and kept looking presentable. Yet Nico is devoted to me.

Every morning, when I wake up, he appears by my bedside. When I sit down with my tea and newspaper, he settles beside me. When I go to bed, he jumps onto the bed within minutes. Before going for a walk, he comes to me as if seeking permission. On returning, he comes straight back to me as though reporting that all is well with the world. The truth is that my contribution to his life is embarrassingly modest. I pat him while reading the newspaper. When he wedges himself close to me on the sofa, I call him my hand rest. I sing nonsense songs to him in a language known only to the two of us. He responds by wagging his tail rhythmically, and together we seem ridiculously pleased with our performance. And I share little bits of whatever I am eating, despite being regularly warned by the rest of the family that this is neither healthy nor advisable. That is it.

Yet Nico follows me around as though I possess some extraordinary wisdom. Recently, I made the mistake of reading about dog behaviour. Experts explain that dogs form deep attachments. They choose favourite humans. They seek comfort, security and companionship. The more I read, the more emotional I became. I felt unbelievably fortunate that, for reasons known only to him, Nico had chosen me. And then the guilt set in. Was I doing enough for him? The question troubled me because I belong to a generation that is comfortable giving, striving and earning. Receiving something precious without having worked for it feels slightly uncomfortable.

A relationship in which one party contributes very little and receives such abundance of love and affection feels strangely undeserved. But perhaps I have been looking at the relationship the wrong way.

Nico does not seem particularly concerned about who fills his food bowl. What appears to matter to him is that I am there when he wakes up, there when he returns from his walk, and there when he settles down for the night. He seems content simply to share space. As I grow older, I am beginning to appreciate the wisdom in that. Much of our lives is spent proving ourselves to employers, colleagues, family members and sometimes even friends.

We learn to equate love with effort, and worth with achievement. Then a dog comes along and quietly ignores all those rules. I still cannot explain why Nico is so attached to me. It makes very little sense. But I have stopped trying to deserve it.

These days, when he curls up beside me while I read the newspaper, I simply place my hand on his head, accept the gift, and thank God for bringing him into our lives. I still don’t know why Nico chose me. At this stage of life, I have decided that some blessings are best accepted without demanding an explanation.

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