Daisy on bathos

My hand rests on the handle of the door. I do not turn it. Instead, I listen to the rumble of the beast. What creature does this door withhold? I hear what I take to be a tail sweeping across a wall. There are deep snorts and slow scratchings. The beast is restless. Whatever is hidden here wants to move. Its body, gigantic and heavy, is curled like a spring into my kitchen. I edge open the door. I am slow. I am careful. There is an agonising moment of silence. Then I turn to consider Daisy, who is sitting, neat and pretty, in the middle of the floor. Well, you’re an anticlimax! I say. Thank you, says Daisy unperturbed, that was exactly my intention.

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