This is Daisy. She is a clown – though I’m not sure that’s how she earns her living. Her main income comes from being utterly adorable, and having a doting owner. Dogs have, from wolf-times, genetically engineered their humans to fall for their big cute eyes, quizzical head-tilts, and soft pawing reminders at dinner-time, and basically we do their bidding. They’re clever that way.
But back to Daisy. Here she is again, out of costume:
…an utter beauty.
And she has quite a story – aged 4, she was paralysed, came out of surgery unable to walk, and had to relearn, step by step, due to one very patient and loving owner. Daisy’s like a canine What Katy Did, a childhood favourite of mine (though a little harder to take as an adult, when I found myself regretting the lost wildness of young Katy in the maturer saint-like creature who emerges after her fall from the swing. Hey ho, we live in a cynical age.) So maybe it’s time for a remake, What Daisy Did, from couch to clowning.
Anyhow, despite my joking earlier on, Daisy does actually have a proper day job – as a registered therapy dog, working in a physiotherapy clinic. Which makes her both useful and beautiful, thus fulfilling both of William Morris’s criteria:
“If you want a golden rule that will fit everything, this is it: Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.”
[I might embroider this on a cushion for my own Jeffy. It will keep him on his toes.]
To work, however. And Daisy, who was a joy from silhouette to finish.
I missed the before and after shots of the magic moment when the highlight goes in the eye, and the portrait springs to life. But here she is, highlighted:
Then comes the background. I like to think the flowers in the print are daisies. And I shan’t listen to anyone telling me that they aren’t. Sometimes, you just have to believe.
Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do.