You do not speak of the old dogs, I say to Daisy. Are there any stories to be told? Surely there has been one who could jump a bit higher or howl a bit further or sidestep for a mile like a crab? Daisy shakes her head. There are stories, she says, at this fence post, here, on the edge of the park but we know them as traces that float away on the breeze. If they were your stories, you would cut them into the post. Leave your mark. Burn your image into the earth. Digitize it. (She said this with a grimace.) But we are content for our fame to last only a little while – let us say, for the most part of a morning. What we like most of all is to sniff out those moments when all has been forgotten. What sort of fame is that? I ask. (I am disgusted.) All fame, says Daisy, rests on what you choose to forget.