Daisy: Walking on Water by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Git a little drunk

An' you land in jail.

Ah, gits weary.

An' sick of tryin'.

Ah'm tired of livin'

An' skeered of dyin'.

But ol' man river,

He jes' keeps rollin' along!

In the morning, instead of traipsing around the Bosque, Daisy sits quietly at the Emergency Center, sedated and still bleeding, no doubt wondering what happened. I sit at home writing books and talking to any available ear to pass the time.

It is unbearable to not be occupied with some trifle. This is perversely funny as I previously sought that which I can immediately no longer stand; the overpowering silence. Daisy filled all my hours and I tried to rush through all the

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necessary chores to have more time with her. Now, the days are much too long.

When I saw her yesterday, her once almost luminous white coat was spotted with dried blood and some other substance the color of bile. She sat still on a blanket, periodically nodding off, while I continually stroked her back. I told her about the new walking area the local vet spoke of. I told her that it’s much tamer than places we had previously been, but that I was sure she’d like it. Lots of people go there. I’ve seen the parked cars. She’ll have scores of new doggy friends to say “Hi”

to and that has been the consistently growing part of our excursions since she severely tore a muscle and got the first indications of arthritis at age seven.

It’s difficult for me to see her like this. I wonder what she’s thinking and if the disease is painful. The vet says no to the latter. I know that she’s scared and that she needs to be somewhere where someone can take care of her better than I can and I’m almost certain she knows that too.

I wonder how well she remembers the days when we were able to walk 17 miles. I’m afraid that she does, yet wish that she didn’t. Drawing the comparison has to be extremely depressing.

I’d give anything to relive those days when we were way out in the Bosque and my only worry was if we would make it back. On one particularly ambitious warm morning we must have covered 25

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miles. I miscalculated how high the river was, and after walking a few miles into Rio Rancho I planned to go back on a coyote path bordering the Rio Grande. We found that the path was under water. This didn’t bother Daisy in the least as she always liked water and mud. It was also easier for her to navigate with four legs. I told her this on numerous occasions, saying; “Slow, slow, mud, mud,” but she never seemed to understand the difficulty a two-legger experienced until she was older.

On this day, we were faced with the choice of doubling back about a mile or going through the river edge mud. We went through it very slowly despite her protestations. She pulled on the leash probably wondering why I was being such an uncooperative snail. But, we made it. When we again hit dry land I said; “We’re home free now,” and immediately proceeded to slip on a slight decline and break my ankle.

No doubt Daisy now wondered why I was still so slow. At the time I thought that I had just sprained it. I had never previously broken a bone. But, I didn’t know that it was broken until a week passed. The doctor said I had a hairline fracture and that it had already re-set itself. Our walks were not deterred. I thought it my duty to keep up with Daisy, and nothing deterred her.

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The next day was particularly dismal for this time of year and inane little things like that always make me think of the end of something. I got an AM call from her Internist which was bleak. Daisy had been bleeding every four hours. I arranged to visit her again at 3PM and the doctor told me we would talk more then.

I couldn’t help but again think about my sweet baby’s imminent death. Patti Smith queries; “Have you seen death singing?” and I assured her that I have. I really do not want to go on without Daisy. I’ve always felt this way. Sometimes when we were out walking, even when she was young, I’d tell her that when she goes I’m going with her; that it would be best if someday we get hit by a car and die quickly and simultaneously.

Since that is not going to be the case, I’m confused. I could get drunk and mope around the house, crying whenever I see something that Daisy touched, which was virtually everything, remembering that good time and desperately wanting it back again. It seems like only yesterday. In an odd way, I actually like this morose feeling, as I believe that to feel otherwise is an insult to her memory. But, we loved each other, and I think she would tell me to find another companion and that we’ll see each other again soon. She might even reproach me for failing to take care of another abandoned puppy. There are so many. When Daisy was a puppy and I accidentally hurt her playing roughly,

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she stared at me a second, then ran full tilt around the back yard twice. When she came back to me I started to play very softly and she would have none of it. She disgustedly looked into my eyes as if to say; “Oh, come on now.” We again got going as we started. But, somehow that was much easier. Daisy was still immortal and we seemed to have all the time in the world.

If I did get another puppy, we could never have the richness of experience Daisy and I shared, as I’m just too damn old now. I might also resent any newcomer as being “not Daisy,”

unintentionally condemning the pup to a lifetime of an unfair feeling of inadequacy and not being loved. Anyone who says that dogs do not feel has never looked into their eyes. Many choose to spout the phrase; “Dogs only understand dominance.” It seems obvious to me that these people base that perception on their own frigid way of existence, and superimpose it on loving dogs.

Since Daisy has been gone, unlike my usual routine, I have not been able to play any music. It is all too joyful. Daisy was the music in my life. To hear notes seems an insult to my sick darling. The silence produces a mausoleum effect on the house in which Daisy brought life. After trying to tolerate existence in the cemetery, I thought of two songs to play. On her last release in June, 2012 titled “Banga,” my favorite artist, Patti Smith, did two songs which broke the silence. One was titled;

“This is the Girl,” and the other was titled; “Maria.” I

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previously focused on other “Banga” songs, but now these two registered with me as the most relevant expression possible. I played them over and over.

But, despite Patti’s help, I’m still confused and depressed. And I feel guilty about being confused and depressed as I am focusing on myself, rather than my rapidly wilting Daisy flower. I know that our happiest days were when I forgot myself and focused on her needs, but now I no longer am able to give her what she needs. What to do? What to do? Though it seems ages ago I strongly suspect that I felt this way when Willy died. And I was unable to do anything, until that fateful dark morning when six month old Daisy did it for me by running to me and licking my face. To repeat that day is the only good solution this brain can conjure, but I strongly suspect that will not happen again. I was extremely fortunate that it happened once.

However, barring a repeat of that event, the only acceptable solution I see is that Daisy and I should die simultaneously. I visited her-our room and saw her pink collar and chain. I had taken it home as I feared that it might have been lost in the chaos of the emergency clinic. I wanted to be certain that I had possession of Daisy’s last earthly encumbrance, something she touched, a physical reminder of her life, just in case. The streak of blood near the buckle seemed suiting and my eyes moistened.

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I left early. My exit from Corrales was customarily arduous, as I got behind yet another nothing-to-do gawker, who drove 20 MPH down the overly cautious 35 road, trying to waste as much as possible of their boring day. My inertia allowed me to see the cheery “How are you today’s?” at the sides of the main thoroughfare, in search of someone to infect with their faux merriment. Their presence presented me with a perverse thankfulness, as I realized that my plastic and metal, moving roadrunner protected me from their presumptuous, state-of-the-art New Age garbage. Contrary to flawed popular opinion, misery loves solitude. My early leave was fortunate on a mechanical basis as I’ve always been terrible with directions, and when I finally got out of town I discovered that one of the roads I usually had taken was being re-paved. I tried an alternate route but wound up lost. A jogging Good Samaritan helped me with directions after a bad one sent me the wrong way.

I got there only 15 minutes late, apologized for that, and the doctor informed me that they believe that they determined the problem and were going to perform the third surgical procedure in an hour. I again had cause for hope.

This may again require revision, but the most likely probable cause of Daisy’s problem is fixable. I sat with Daisy in her tall, stainless steel, blood spattered cage, stroked, kissed and talked to my spotted, big brown eyed friend for too

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short a time. She started to become active and I thought it best that I leave and she rest.

I had visited her every day she spent at the Emergency Clinic, sometimes twice. I would almost always sit with her in her cage, as it didn’t require her moving around. She had a number of blood spattered blankets on the floor, folded over at an edge to make her a comfortable pillow. On some of the visits she acted as if she were her old self, trying to exit the cage and have me take her home. On others she laid still. There were dried drops of blood on the hard floor and silver metallic sides which served as grisly reminders of the problem. When she was still I’d lie next to her, put an arm around her, and kiss her head. I told her stories, just as I did when we were out walking. She pretended that she had not heard the old stories countless previous times and didn’t interrupt. I felt compelled to tell her tales with happy endings as I thought that was the best thing for her to hear and also because we were three feet away from the attendants. Universally, medical people reprove the patients and family if they hear any naysaying, and I didn’t want to risk wasting our time hearing the cheer, followed with the obligatory and interminable forced smile. I have some suspicions why they do it, but wonder if they ever realize the absurdity of their chirpy approach.

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I suppose they know that in the situation most of us would like to be lied to. Though the next time we are in a similar situation and our logical mind knows the score, we still want the lies. Humans have an illogical need to believe in something, even after thousands of years of searching have produced not one iota of evidence.

I couldn’t make myself leave. I wanted one more touch; one more kiss, then another and another ............. I felt her warm, soft body next to me just as I had every night for ten years. I desperately wanted another ten. I took in her current view of the world. Through the silver bars I saw a busy room, with uniformed attendants scurrying from their rolling chairs with inadequate back support to screwed-together-metal shelves which wasted not an inch in holding medicines, food and paraphernalia; then administering their concoctions to other quiet patients. I saw a new patient admitted; a handsome, sizable, long haired black dog, who hobbled to the cage next to Daisy’s on three legs, bleeding from the place where there formerly was a fourth and requiring the attention of a few attendants. The pressed wood desks were all pushed together, like a circling of the wagons. The 2013 seekers of shelter were cluttered with computer screens and casually beeping medical diagnostic machines. It was a far cry from Daisy’s home view of

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red and yellow flowering yucca plants with hovering hummingbirds. No wonder she wants to either go home or sleep.

I held and kissed my dozing beauty. I told her that she would soon be home and that we had years of happiness ahead of us. I realized that I had promoted myself by displaying one of the characteristics requisite for a medical occupation. I requested to be let out of the cage, and drove home talking to Daisy between the tears.

In the course of Daisy’s plight I have learned that when a dog’s nose bleeds it is usually the sign of something other than an injured snout. The most likely culprit is a tumor, while bacterial and fungal infections are not uncommon. Presented with these possibilities one hopes for the bacterial infection.

During both of her rhinoscopies Daisy was tested for these infirmities and nothing was found. Perplexing. During the second rhinoscopy, the blood vessels in her right nostril were more extensively, chemically cauterized. Yet the bleeding resumed.

Doubly perplexing.

However, six months prior, Daisy had a five minute nose bleed which signified a pancreatic infection, which she no doubt got from eating a very old hot dog she fished out of the river.

Two weeks of antibiotics cleared up that infection. My hero, Dr.

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Charlotte Nova, saw this as a possible root cause of her vascular damage.

Daisy has had the more invasive procedure done, as it seems likely the damage was not limited to the veins, but included the artery or arteries further inside. She should be home again in a few days devoid of hemorrhage. I will always consider this a miracle, no matter how any rational scientist may chide.

Yesterday, despite her extensive hands-on and teaching experience, Dr. Nova had no concrete answers, even after having consulted other vets and physicians, who also had not seen anything quite like this.

The eccentricities of Daisy’s condition no longer matter. I expected that now, my baby would be back with me and soon we would be out walking again. I have re-named her Daisy Phoenix.

Dr. Nova’s morning call informed me of positive news. For the first time since this horror story began Daisy had not bled for 16 hours. Dr. Nova’s advice was to keep Daisy in her cage, as inactively as possible for another day. She administered drugs which contribute to clotting, keeping blood pressure low and lethargy.

I visited my stoned out pooch twice that day. She roused when she saw the treats I had brought, but after eating them,

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went right back to her puppy dreams. Her head and one back leg used me for a pillow. I sat there for an hour on each visit and told her stories. Unlike my previous tales of the past, I told her of our future in the manicured park with the tame doggies.

The next morning Dr. Nova’s wakeup call continued and enhanced the good news of the previous day. She told me that Daisy was doing fine, was not bleeding, and that her red blood cell count had gone from 14 pre-surgery to 28, well on its way back to 40, without the aid of a transfusion. The brilliant doctor told me that I could bring Daisy home at 5PM, which would constitute 48 hours after the last surgical procedure. Though I remained mute on the matter, I couldn’t help but worry that something would go wrong between the good news morning and the shadowy and ghostly early evening.

It was at this point that I encountered my most difficult decision. I wanted to see Daisy in the AM and assure her that her best friend was still lovingly there, but, thanks to Dr.

Nova, I also knew that 48 hours was a magic number. She told me that if one did not re-bleed in that time, it was most likely that one would not.

I decided to stay home and write. I have seen interviews with various well-selling authors. They are always asked why they write. I wondered what I would say in their place and drew a blank at being compelled to say something which imparted some

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degree of insightful intelligence to the fans, at $5,000 per pitiful show. I eventually realized that my answers would have been different each time asked. But, on this promising day, a moment of clarity brought me the best, simplest and truest reply. My scribbling had begun three years prior, which coincided with the time when Daisy’s first limiting injury shortened our walks. At age 7 she tore a muscle, necessitating surgery. The vet told me to keep her in the back yard, no more than ten minutes at a time, for four months. She never fully recovered, though our walks were still two hours, lengthy by most standards, if not the prior three to four. This late age writing was merely filling the vacuum left when my most enjoyed work-play-partner’s abilities diminished. Though I had given my characters other identities, the female protagonist was consistently Daisy. I chronicled her as she attempted to deal with circumstances I imagined, far removed from that which the fickle twists of so called reality provided. There were a few exceptions, mistakenly pursued out of my periodic and subsequently reviled wish to be cutting-edge contemporary, and I consider them the lesser of my efforts, simultaneously realizing that would probably make them the most popular. While I know that these sentiments are anathema to readers, I don’t care in the least. I sincerely hope that someone gets pleasure in the reading, but if they don’t, the momentary and inconsequential

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disappointment they feel is universally removed from the pain I feel in seeing my baby, Daisy like this. This “literary departure” from what was essential was unconsciously intended for Daisy and me alone and its commercial greetings are of no importance to us. We never really cared about stupid, opinionated and desolate incursions into our world. As her ambulatory abilities waned, I gave my perfect baby new situations to explore, expecting that she would read my mind and thereby participate. I have good reason to believe that she had this ability. ................ Concurrently, I felt guilty about the good chance that I was disproportionally and selfishly focusing on myself. It seemed too discredited New-Agey and supermarket-checkout-line-periodical passé as well as basely common. Sometimes I do wish that these books are capable of providing an income stream, as I can will to an institution which rescues abandoned dogs and cats and keeps them alive as long as nature allows. My fantasy is to fund an establishment known as the “Friends of Daisy,” memorializing her wishes forever. The one already written had better do well as those to come will be missing something. Without Daisy, I won’t feel the least bit amusing or entertaining, requirements of the short attention spanned world of 2013.

My undecided reverie induced the pedantic insistence of Enemy Time to quickly pass. I do hope that the banal and easily

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predictable bastard felt neglected and abandoned, but suspect that our nemesis was deficient in its ability to feel anything.

Most importantly, I saw that the inept, silent transgression of the well-made-up illusion specified 4:12, at least as it was imperfectly indicated to me on the functional, cheap, white, plastic, kitchen microwave. The electronic four and two conveyed those numbers to me only because I had been sufficiently biased by my readily available, small college education to mindlessly accept that in the efficient and practical world, segmented straight lines were deemed a satisfactory substitute for nature’s curves. The notion that the past was totally irrelevant hit me like a well perused and discounted copy of “Self.” It was time to pick up Daisy. I took one more look and touched the urn which held Willy’s ashes and asked for her spiritual father’s help. I opened a greeting card sent after his death ten years ago. The words were inspired by a Norse legend.

By the edge of a woods, at the foot of a hill, is a lush green meadow where time stands still; where our friends do run when their time on earth is over and done.

In this wonderful place they wait and play, seeing the Rainbow Bridge they will cross over one day.

For it seems just an instant until their eyes have met;

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together again, both person and pet.

The sadness they felt while they were apart, has turned into joy once more in each heart.

They embrace with a love that will last forever, and then side by side they cross over together.

I wanted to know more of this place. With tears in my eyes, I searched the internet for Rainbow Bridge and found a veritable myriad of versions. I tried to locate the original and found that the poem’s beginning was mired in a morass of disagreement, with not even a lettered rendering of its first creation offered. I copied the version I liked best; re-read it, re-read it and re-read it.

The Rainbow Bridge inspired by a Norse legend.

By the edge of a woods, at the foot of a hill, is a lush green meadow where time stands still.

Where the friends of man and woman do run when their time on earth is over and done.

For here, between this world and the next is a place where each beloved creature finds rest.

On this golden land they wait and they play till the Rainbow Bridge, they cross over one day.

No more do they suffer in pain or in sadness.

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For here they are whole, their lives filled with gladness.

Their limbs are restored, their health renewed.

Their bodies have healed with strength imbued.

They romp through the grass without even a care, until one day they start and sniff at the air.

All ears prick forward. Eyes dart front and back.

Then all of a sudden one breaks from the pack.

For just at that instant their eyes have met; Together again, both person and pet.

So, they run to each other, these friends from long past.

The time of their parting is over at last.

The sadness they felt while they were apart has turned into joy once more in each heart.

They embrace with a love that will last forever.

And then, side by side, they cross over ...... together.

I again thought of death and how quickly good news can turn sour. I completely lost it and ran to the car. The synthesized rubber, insulated trek seemed interminable. There were no words or thoughts capable of meaningful consolation. The soon-to-be-extinguished radio regurgitated last year’s smash hit; a repetitious, and ersatz naughty refrain, with romantic “lyrics”

concerning the taking of some girl to the toilet to see if she’d like it. In 2012, it was therefore an irresistible work of

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cutting edge, money making art, popular with low-standardized-test-scoring adolescents with short attention spans, who demanded constant “entertainment.” The soundtrack made no mistakes in its pre-recorded syncopation. I found a reason to be thankful; that I was no longer near any teenagers and that I possessed the ability to identify the on-off button. I pushed it in fear of an interview with the now wealthy protagonist.

I thought of the thousands of times I had driven this 18

year old Toyota with Daisy in the back seat, patiently waiting for her opportunity to again see and feel the forest’s wild growth, the Rio’s change in course and depth, the other friendly dogs, and perhaps most of all, the fast food bags, containing the remnants of schedule-induced, convenient fatty breakfasts.

The hinterlands could not be considered truly wild without them.

I trailed a codger, driving 15 MPH on their way to an exciting PM at his post office box, looking for the magic letter that makes everything all right, dawdling to delay the time proven assuredness of disappointment. He was in hope of finding the unknown and elusive good news which had been anonymously and mystically delivered to his $9.99 per month standardized metal box in a self-sealing envelope. After he turned off, I was soon out of Corrales, and enjoyed Albuquerque speed. My mind switched gears, entirely abandoning the morose considerations partially induced by the flat drear of faux exurbia, and retained the

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morose considerations certainly induced by my lack of faith. Of necessity, I focused on the potentially deadly, risk immune, imminent threats of maniacal motorists who had one thought in their harassed minds; to get home to their loved ones as quickly as possible, after a tiring and mind-numbing, yet financially necessary day of trivial, consuming and petty, yet obligatory and contentious negotiations. The yellow plastic, Day-Glo, come-on sign at the thrift store entrance told me to “BUY LOW OR BUY

HIGH.” I didn’t buy it either way.

Without the interference of the radio, my mind touched on a celebratory song from years past; “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper,” the biggest hit of the Blue Oyster Cult, having reached the enviable position of number six on the popular charts in 1977, or something like that. It helped formulate my “**** you” attitude toward the executor of this pathetic game.

As I made the last turn onto busy Montgomery Boulevard, I knew that I was less than a cigarette’s life expectancy from the emergency facility. I almost prayed that Daisy’s condition was still as it was at last report, countering that I was praying to the Christian dogmatic idea of a benevolent god, believed to be all powerful. I knew that if I bought that scam, I could not escape the next logical question of what or who was thereby responsible for Daisy’s travail. The reasoning seemed

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irrefutable to an imperfect mere mortal, and the miserable situation was without question egregiously unfair.

I arrived at the clinic and slowed down in their parking lot. It wasn’t because of the speed bumps. I had successfully negotiated others at 40 MPH while transporting my bleeding friend. I was afraid of hearing the bad news with which I had become accustomed. My car’s digital clock read 4:45. I was momentarily tempted to have a cigarette before entering, undoubtedly pursuing a masochistic fantasy capable of prolonging the hypothetical agony. As I walked alone I saw the line of dried blood, now brown on the white concrete, which trail Daisy had left when she first came here. I recalled the dream which I had the previous evening. Daisy agitatedly led me to the back fence and much out of character, she barked threateningly at something invisible to me.

I rejected any notion of delay and entered, eyeing the dried stains and wondering how long they would remain. This was the most important time in my long life. The glass entry doors reflected the uncertainty of the declining, late day sun. I wondered if it was a vision produced by an uncaring and omniscient producer of omens, filming my trepidation for his-her or both’s, wicked and fleeting enjoyment, as much and no more than a forgotten, Chaplin, little tramp short entertainment.

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The hallucinatory brainwave disappeared when the force of my right hand produced a whirr in the overwhelmed and weary, glass emergency door. I recalled the first time I heard this sound, slightly more than a long two weeks prior. I was dazed and confused when I announced my presence at the front desk and was ushered to a private room to wait for Daisy. I read all the thank you cards posted to the bulletin board, wanting to read of testimonials to the doctors for saving dogs. Though the initial survey met my wishes, further scrutiny produced an averaging out of results. The room seemed cold. When I entered it, the digital thermostat mimicked a number reminiscent of 73, but that had dropped to 70 during my card reading. The windowless, interior room reminded me of a particularly dismal day at home alone.

There, I had noticed that despite the thermostat being set at 72, I was warm on a sunny day and cold on a cloudy one. This room was an unnatural, yet efficient, black cloud. I waited on the plastic cushion, my hands seeking warmth under my butt.

After what seemed like the afternoon I spent at the side of my maternal grandmother’s coffin, sickeningly sweet with the aroma of dead flowers, Dr. Nova entered with an energetic Daisy, whose tail drummed the wall. The busy doctor advised me that Daisy was still not bleeding, and that given the time which had elapsed since the last surgery, that it was very unlikely that it would start again. With a minimum of last minute discharge

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instructions, Dr. Nova told me to take Daisy home. She was not able to detect what had caused the bleeding, but it had been corrected.

I forgot my superfluous, day long ruminations, gave Dr.

Nova a gigantic hug and left with Daisy. I felt sorry for my derisive lack of faith. After lifting her leg on the low lying light feature near the front entrance, Daisy walked to the car.

I opened the back door, expecting her to put her paws on the seat, if not hop in. She did neither. Stains from her blood had produced an ugly, asymmetric desecration on the back seat, which was repugnant to her. I directed her eyes to her blood that was still on my shirt. She saw it and apparently took some understanding from the deepening red dots and hopped in. I was especially happy as I didn’t quite know what it was that I had communicated. Our hope tanks refilled and brimming, we drove home in twilight.

I wanted her to rest the remainder of the day and the next, despite the doctor’s advisement that that was not necessary. I wanted to spend the time cuddling and kissing her in our own room, away from any bloody cage crudely put in our mutual paths.

More than ever I wanted to be sure that Daisy knew that I loved her. We had plenty of time to meet all the well-mannered puppies starting the day after tomorrow.

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A Reflection in the Muddy Rio Grande Regrets? Sure; growing old. Who doesn’t feel that way? But, outside of that I think not. Daisy went with all she had when she had it and is not one to complain.

How much longer do we have? Who knows? Who wants to think about it? More than ever, we just try to make the most of every day.

Were there those who demanded that I keep my friendly, feral, female away from their precious pooches? Sure, but they’re not worth remembering. It was their loss in not having had the privilege of knowing Daisy better.

Am I just another sad old man, reminiscent of De Sica’s

“Umberto D?” Up until the last two weeks I haven’t wasted any of the last ten years being the least bit sad.

I have a favorite memory of when we were still young.

Perhaps I should more accurately say; “When she was still young,” but when we were out on an adventure I felt that way too. There was one Rio Grande River island we enjoyed going to in particular; sometimes prompted by her and sometimes by me. It

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was about 80 feet from shore and looked interesting because it was there a long time, its maturity and resilience evidenced by 30 foot trees. The problem was that the river had deep spots between shore and it and I didn’t like to risk getting in water over my head. Actually, Daisy didn’t either, but she had an overriding bravery and sense of adventure. During our first visit she found a two foot turtle shell on the island and tried to gnaw it like a bone without much success. I sat and watched.

She eventually decided to carry the shell back home, which was about a five mile trip. She kept it in our backyard and little by little, ate the whole thing. I started calling the place Turtle Island.

Turtles are uncommon in Corrales. I’ve met people who have lived here all their lives and have never seen one in the vicinity. We’ve seen four or five, two of them just born.

There was something else unusual about Turtle Island.

Though it was difficult to get there, once we did we soon discovered that there were two other islands right behind it, each separated by only three feet of shallow water. They must have been new as they contained only sparse, tiny vegetation on a sandy floor. They were just barely above sea level and not visible from the mainland. When we were out there, anyone

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watching from the safety of shore would have to have thought that Daisy and I were walking on water. We were.

Let It Never Be the End

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