The home-based, freelance PR expert – it’s a (perfect) dog’s life
Time to read: 3 minutes
Sam Howard writes about going from an in-house PR expert to a freelance PR expert…
Seven years ago, when I gave up my ‘proper job’ running the PR division of a large London agency to try my hand at being a freelance PR expert, the primary motivations were to get back to doing real PR, spend more time with my son, and finally, get a dog.
After serving a six-month probation to prove I could hack freelance life, I ‘rescued’ Moby – a five-month-old Labrador cross (crossed with ‘something huge’ was all the charity could tell me). So that was it – no going back. Moby was my insurance policy to ensure I never took a proper job again!
In the early days, it was fortuitous that my skills were less in demand. It turned out Moby wasn’t sure he was best suited to being a freelance PR expert type of hound. As vocations go, I think his early preferences would have been to be the companion of a side-order chef, a WWE wrestler, or a clown.
The turbo-charged Labrador
Owners of bull breeds would put their dogs on leads when they saw Moby tearing across the field in their direction. On an early foray, an experienced dog walker eyed him with reservation as he tussled a Rottweiler to the ground and chewed affectionately on its throat. “Hmm,” she said as we discussed potential heritage, “I’d say he’s part black lab, part something awful.”
Whatever he was, he was not office material. He chewed my chair, shoes and my arms. When nothing else was available, he only interrupted his endeavours to work out how to open the fridge door. Or to bay loudly like a Baskerville hound if he noticed I was on a conference call.
Eventually, shamed into admitting we had the worst-behaved dog in the park, we registered for duplicate dog training classes in two boroughs. One class didn’t seem to be enough to quell his, er, “enthusiasms”. Thinking back, I should have expensed this as ‘staff training’.
Tranquility prevails
In our own way, life began to settle down into some sort of freelance fashion; mornings began with Moby pinning me down in my sheets and barking into my face. After breakfast and Pilates (he insisted on partaking in both), a long walk, and then lunch, Moby would finally concede to a power nap while I got on with some work.
On waking, there was no rest for the busy with a full-on training session. Again, with hindsight, I am not sure who was training who, given how many sausages we got through. Finally a few more hours of focused napping until Elliot came home and Moby could torment him for a few hours while I finished off. The end of work was announced by my streaming The Archers as I pottered around the kitchen. On hearing the theme tune, Moby would parade around the house for at least half an hour with a cushion in his mouth to celebrate the imminence of mealtime.
By now, Moby was enormous and towered over proper Labradors. With his domed head, golden eyes, heavy jowls, velvet ears, sleek coat, and beautifully muscled physique, he was a real head-turner. The office Romeo, if you will. For he was, it turned out, a Labrador Mastiff cross.
Here, in the UK, that’s a happy accident, but in the US, it’s a deliberate combination, and they are called Mastadors. A breed much prized for its impressive physical build and wonderful temperament.
We still had to wait a bit longer for the temperament…
The fog finally lifts
After a somewhat protracted adolescence, Moby was around two when the fog finally lifted. There he was, the most majestic, level-headed, dignified dog. An absolute ambassador for the breed. He went from being the worst to the best-behaved dog in the park.
And Moby excelled as an office hound, a perfect patient companion, and accordingly went on to receive the employee of the month every month for the next five years. He was excellent on and off the lead, in cars, on trains and on buses. Thanks to his flexible working, he even got to go to the seaside every month to dig in the dunes, paddle in the sea by day, lie by an open fire, and dream of sheep while I worked in the evening.
He regularly went to business meetings, where the techie boys tried so hard not to lose their thread, and to uni lectures, where his Barrack Obama good looks and Bill Clinton charisma had the USC girls swooning in unison. He was even the inspiration for our brand identity – how many dogs can say that?
Moby makes freelance Mondays no biggie
In return, Moby made sure that every working day was a pleasure. That freelance Mondays were no biggie; that office politics were no more than an insistent stare if I had the temerity to sit down at the laptop before finding him a treat. Moreover, in seven years, I never once knew the loneliness others talk of when working from home.
So, as my former agency colleagues continue to climb the corporate ladder and now have every right to look down on all they survey from truly impressive heights, I am not at all jealous. For they may have the power and the glory, but I had Moby. Moby the Mastador.
