The question is whether the pigeon at the end of the garden continues to exist when we are tucked up in the house and cannot see it. Daisy’s scrambling and whining and whimpering answers the question unequivocally. I open the door and out she flies. But now there is a dog and a pigeon at the end of the garden, both with a problematic status re existence. I peer into the empty spaces. Eventually Daisy trots out of them. It’s not existence that’s the problem, she reports, so much as continuity. You mean we live amongst fragments? I ask, impressed by her modernism. I mean, says Daisy, that the pesky pigeon keeps coming back.