Good girl! I say to Daisy. She is sitting very nicely and beating her tail on the floor. That’s a cheap trick! she says. Why don’t you just dress me in pink and give me a doll to play with? Taken aback, I sit myself down next to her. Is there something wrong? I ask. Since you ask, says Daisy, I am fed up of being treated as a heteronormative symbol of futurity. I see, I reply, slowly moving my hand away from her mouth. Daisy stretches her long mass of scraggy black hair out in front of me. You’re in a queer mood today, I remark. That’s closer to the truth, says Daisy, continuing to stretch and blur one concept after another. You may call me a queer dog.