She writes: Daisy (the dog) usually hears the engine of the car, which is by no means a noisy one, when it is quite a distance from even the front gate, stirs from her bed or whatever chair in the sitting room has been adequately covered against her hairs (she is a Dalmatian), barks and moves to the front door. While the engine is being cut off and things removed from the boot, she keeps barking, even more loudly, jumps up against the door, making other sounds of joy. When this does not happen, save for a cursory bark at the last minute, you know what to expect. She will go through the motions of barking on a lesser scale and when you come in the door, after one welcoming bark, curls up on the carpet in a tight circle, smiling, weakly you would swear, and, beating the carpet wildly with her tail, obviously in a state of contrition. You know at once that you have foolishly left out in the kitchen something that you should have put away, forgetting her scavenging instincts. And she has taken it. A jamjar left without lid will be found, absolutely shining as if rinsed in sudsy water, and polished, tucked into the master's armchair, or in the case of fruit, nothing will be there, not a single pip from a bunch of grapes, say. Her most audacious exploit was, while still in the care of the woman who bred her, to get up on a counter in the kitchen and demolish a bunch of eleven bananas, skins and all.
She has, too, a remarkable sense of hearing. Apparently asleep on a rug in the sitting room, if her owners make the slightest fistling when helping themselves to a bit of chocolate from one of those big bars, the tiny rustle of the silver paper will pull her out of sleep in the sitting room and she will make her way, forty two strides, measured by the husband of the correspondent, to demand her share - or sympathy if it is "all gone". Or an apple, quietly peeled in an adjoining room. Not only is her sense of smell remarkable to humans, but, it appears from the letter that the word chocolate or even choc is enough to waken her from her dozing. To refer to it as "the black stuff" seemed, for a while to be sufficient cover before stealing away to get some, but the correspondent now believes the dog can interpret, and lifts her head at the mention. Well, half believes, for Daisy is a wonderful watchdog, can present a formidable barrier to anyone strange to her around the house, but is her basically gentle self when the introduction is properly made.
Kipling wrote a book Thy Servant a Dog. In this case, you could, in spite of quirks, substitute Guardian.