Daisy, I say, is that really your style? I am considering the way she can no longer see out from under her eyebrows. You know whose style it is, says Daisy. I take that to be a reference to the dog groomer. It has disclosed everything you think you know about me, she adds, a little sorrowfully. I give Daisy’s head a tussle and a scratch. Then, on a whim, I decide to stroke back her eyebrows, which, it seems, are only eyebrows insofar as they have been styled as such. I peer into the darkness. I withhold a gasp. There is no dog here. There is mammoth. Reptile. Something bird-like. An old lumbering beast from the forest. I am tracked by two points of light. You are looking into it, they say. This is the beginning of style.