When the sun is low in the sky, Daisy comes face to face with her shadow. At least, I like to think she does. She doesn’t seem to notice it herself. Look! I say, everything you have disowned is there on the ground! Daisy stares through the black, fluffy smudge. There is nothing I have disowned, she says. I give the smudge a prod with my foot. What about that? I ask. I think you will find, says Daisy, that that belongs to you. Aren’t you the one that drags it around? Aren’t you always there when it runs off the lead and rolls in poo and snaps at the neighbours and refuses to wipe its feet when it comes indoors? I consider this. The black, fluffy smudge grows very black. Sounds like you to me, I say. My point exactly, says Daisy.