Daisy on the uncanny

The evenings pull in and Daisy finds her way up onto the sofa. She rests her weight against me. The fire burns. The window is dark. It is so homely. I comment on this to Daisy. As I do so, a bark comes from outside. Strange to say, it is Daisy’s bark, exactly the same rise and fall, the same heroic warble. Daisy lifts an ear. She has heard it. I look to the window and it is darker now: an impenetrable black. It can’t be Daisy outside, I know, but the sound of her bark returns. I listen. My eyes fix on the window. There is a shiver of recognition. Then the ball of fur beside me shifts and snorts and a head rears up out of it. Daisy? I say quietly, thinking it best to check. Yes, she replies sleepily, it is all so homely.

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