My name is Nora. My grandmother Margaret is eighty-one, and Bruno is her Labrador, a big gentle dog who has greeted every plumber, postman and neighbour for nine years with a wagging tail.

Last month my mother hired a caregiver, Denise, to help Grandma with the mornings. She was pleasant, punctual and always carried a large leather handbag.

Bruno hated her.

Not loudly. He simply positioned himself between her and the hallway every time she arrived. When Denise headed for Grandma’s bedroom, he padded ahead and sat in the doorway. When she reached toward the bookcase where Grandma keeps her jewellery box, he pressed his whole weight against her legs.

‘He’s just protective,’ my mother said. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

On Friday I stood in the kitchen and watched him take the strap of her handbag gently in his teeth as she was leaving. Denise pulled. Bruno didn’t let go, and something inside the bag clinked.

‘Let go, you silly dog,’ she said, too brightly.

I stepped forward. ‘Could I see what’s in your bag, Denise?’

She said I had no right. I said I would call the agency and ask them. She went pale and let the bag slip.

Inside, wrapped in a tea towel, were my grandmother’s pearl earrings, her mother’s silver locket and an envelope containing the cash from her weekly pension.

Denise had been stealing small things for three weeks, picking each one so that Grandma would think she had misplaced it. Bruno had noticed before any of us.

I didn’t shout. I called the agency and the police, and then I sat down on the floor and put my arms around a very large dog.

Grandma got everything back. Bruno now has his own chair at the kitchen table and a new leather collar with a brass tag. It says: ‘Head of Security.’

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