My husband Preppy is the big boss in Georgia for a well-known clothing line — I’ll protect his anonymity by not mentioning which one. Let’s just say Sarah Jessica Parker really likes their khakis.

Because Preppy represents the brand wherever he travels, it’s of great importance that he stay current, wearing whatever is on display in stores. If something is inadvertently ripped or stained, he must replace it with a duplicate.

This is beyond my comprehension. My job does not require well-maintained clothes. I’m a writer. My job literally does not require clothes. If I took the notion, I could do my job entirely nude. I don’t, of course, because I do not enjoy being naked for extended periods of time unless I’m engaged in an activity which explicitly requires it — like showering, or some but not all sexual acts.

For the last three and a half years, my husband Preppy and I have shared our home with Daisy, a Jack Russell beagle. The breed is called Jackabees by some, but not by us. Not everything needs to be a damn portmanteau, people. Sometimes we can just expend the effort and utter multiple words. Preppy has a very healthy relationship with Daisy, in that he treats her like a dog.

Me? I’m not quite so adamant about labels like “human” and “dog.” I don’t have a pet as much as a cohort — someone to sit on the couch and watch “Mad Men” with while we eat a whole bunch of carrots. When we are alone, I turn on my favorite music from high school and we dance. When I see Daisy eating a sock, I take her picture and put it on Instagram.

When Preppy gets up to go to work, she moves from the end of the bed to his pillow. I wake up to her staring at me. I have no idea how long she lies there waiting. Preppy finds that unsettling. I think it is conclusive evidence that I am Daisy’s favorite person in the whole world. She is totally my best friend.