Daisy has her rhythms. In the morning, she is quick to slip through a door and find a dark corner. But she will nuzzle you first and roll over. Every day she does this: nuzzle and roll and nap. I point out to her that she lives her day like a line of poetry. I think she must agree. Even if you were to lie down now, I say, and refuse to nuzzle – that is just a missing beat in the rhythm of your life. It speaks to me! You are a living, breathing poem, no doubt about it! I was happy with this and pranced about for a while. But Daisy caught me with the whites of her eyes. I am not a poem, she said briskly. It is your tiny, beating poem that is an animal.