It takes a while to see it but slowly it dawns on me that the chewed-up bit of old rag that Daisy carries about with her is a text. So used am I to texts arriving cleanly, digitally, that it seems I have overlooked this soggy old rag. It is the remnants of a soft toy. Its fur is matted. Its threads are broken. It stinks. Daisy trots up and drops it at my feet. But I am moved by the insight. Instead of lifting the rag between two fingers and carrying it to the bin, I delight in it. I ruffle Daisy’s head. I sing to her. I push into the weave. Daisy is definitely caught by surprise. Her eyes widen. She knows that somehow she has brought me a treasure, a woven nugget of gold.