Daisy and I guard the front door. She woofs at passers-by and I sit and stroke her little head. We have decided that no one can come in who: (a) looks like they might eat Daisy’s food; (b) looks like they might go within 1 metre of Daisy’s bed; or (c) looks like they might not leave. In this way, we have been known to welcome the occasional guest, carefully herding them around the house and back out the door. These are our laws of hospitality and we are very pleased about them. The last thing we need, says Daisy, is for someone to come in and turn everything upside down. I whisper my agreement. We survey the mud up the wall and the schnozzle marks along the sofa. The last thing we need is to open ourselves up to any more love.