If I didn’t know better, I’d say that Daisy was pumping up an inflatable mattress over by the front door. She is snorting and snuffling and huffing and wheezing. Risking a glance, I see that she has her nose pressed to a slice of air below the door. What are you doing Daisy? I say. But I know what she is doing. She is taking it all in. Yesterday’s rain. The dog up the road. Some footsteps that haven’t been heard yet. She is swishing all of this around her nostrils like a connoisseur might explore a mouthful of wine. I imagine her, glass in paw, turning to spit into a silver bucket. What delight! I say. What refinement! Is it a vintage you would recommend? This stops Daisy mid-snort. Her displeasure is obvious. I do not, she says, make recommendations.