There is time in Daisy’s barks. Some of them are long drawn out howls; some are short sharp woofs. There is the time of their utterance and the time at which they reach me here, snoozing in bed. Some of them are ancient barks, having been barked amidst the elders of the old packs. Some of them attempt something new. Some will not be understood for at least a thousand years. Thus I lie here, listening to the guttural patterning of time. After a while, Daisy’s voice becomes clearer. She is complaining about my concepts. Do you think that’s what time is? she is asking – a consequence of my own barking? I nod sleepily. Well, it’s not, she says. Get out of bed at once!