A Field Report from the Office, by Lars (7-month-old Dachshund, Junior Staff Member)

It has now been nearly 3 months. I have therefore conducted a thorough review of my role, my routines, and my contributions to this institution. The findings are, on balance, positive. Largely because of me.

The morning routine is now well established and I want to be clear that it is not optional.

First: Julia, the cleaner. Finding Julia is the absolute priority upon arrival. She is usually near the entrance, but if she isn’t, we go and look for her. This is non-negotiable. My person sometimes seems to feel that we could proceed directly upstairs and Julia would understand, and I want it noted that my person is wrong about this.

Second: a quick sweep behind the front desk. The front of house volunteers are lovely but they are not always tidy, and the last thing Julia needs is biscuit crumbs and stray treats making unnecessary work for her. I do this out of pure professional courtesy. It has nothing to do with the biscuit crumbs and stray treats.

Third: upstairs, to the office, and to the bed. I will not get into the bed until the morning treat has been placed in it. This was established in my first week and is, as far as I’m concerned, a contractual obligation. My person has occasionally looked at me as though she’s considering whether this is a battle worth having. It is not. She always remembers this eventually.

Once the treat has been delivered and I have settled in for my pre-opening nap, my person begins making clacky noises on her computer, which she refers to as “work.” I find this a little fanciful but I allow it. On occasion I have attempted to intervene by sitting at her feet and staring at her sadly until she gets the hint and lets me sit on her lap, where I assist the “work” by sleeping with my head on her mouse arm. She claims this isn’t helpful. I think she secretly likes it.

I am aware that some people feel I am not entirely conducive to productivity. I want to address this directly. My goal has never been output. It has always been morale. If my person and her colleagues occasionally stop what they are doing to watch me navigate my ramp, or to observe me sleeping in a particularly compelling way, or simply to note that I am present and that this is pleasing, that is not a distraction. That is the job. I don’t know why this needs explaining.

My human is, I should mention, a very routine-based person, which I respect because so am I. She does, however, have a slight tendency to forget her own routines, which I find equal parts frustrating and endearing. When this happens, I take up a position under the desk and deploy side eye until the situation is resolved. The side eye is a skill I have worked hard to develop and I am quite proud of it. She always gets there in the end. We are, I think, well suited.

After opening, I conduct a security sweep of the museum. My person seems to feel this is unnecessary on the grounds that the volunteers check the building at the start of their shift, which tells me she has fundamentally misunderstood the nature of threat assessment. The volunteers are looking for unlocked windows and lights left on. I am sniffing out active threats at floor level; potential hazards including but not limited to rubber pencil tops, stray leaves, and bits of thread. I attempt to deal with these by eating them. My person confiscates them. I cannot explain her reasoning and I have stopped trying.

I have also recently begun trial front of house shifts, which have been going reasonably well by my assessment. My person says I need to work on my customer service skills, specifically with regard to greeting visitors as they arrive. I maintain that a firm bark establishes the appropriate tone for a heritage visit and that she is being shortsighted about this. We have agreed to disagree. I have also been assisting with shop sales when my person briefly abandons her post (apparently she occasionally needs to “use the facilities,” which is mysterious to me) and with stock control, conducting a thorough olfactory inspection of the merchandise. The toys in particular require close attention. My person has asked me to stop trying to eat them. I am reviewing this request.

The care of the collection continues to be a priority. I take a detailed inventory of floor-level objects by smell on a regular basis, and I have begun some basic outdoor maintenance in the yard in collaboration with our gardening volunteer, clearing leaves and moss by the most efficient method available to me. She has not yet formally acknowledged my contribution to her work. I am sure this is an oversight.

Most recently I have assisted with school visits, greeting groups as they arrive. The children seem pleased to see me, which I appreciate. However, I want to address something. I am six months old. I am a professional. I have been here a month, I hold two formal titles, and I have personally secured the building against threats… I am not a baby sausage.

I have, after some reflection, concluded that my true vocation lies in security and early warning systems. My person recently made the error of allowing me to sit on her desk in the sun, and I want to be clear that this is now permanent. I have a bed. I have a ramp. I have a window.

From this position I am able to monitor the yard, the street, the car park opposite, and anyone unwise enough to enter the office without appropriate clearance. School groups in the yard are alerted to my presence. Visitors on the pavement are advised. People parking their cars across the road should be aware that they have been observed and their details noted. I am extending my territory incrementally and I see no reason to stop.

My person calls it barking at strangers from a cushion. I call it defending the perimeter. I have tried the other roles, front of house, stock control, collection care, outdoor maintenance, and while I performed well in all of them, this is where my talents lie.

Lars, Assistant Head of Security and Junior Staff Member, from my window.

Lars’s person would like to clarify that he is, in fact, a little bit of a baby sausage. He has been informed of this editorial note and is not pleased – Ed.