You may not see Daisy (the Princess of Milton Street) poking around the park as much as you once did.  Or sniffing the streets for that matter.

Things are looking up for our velvety-smooth, black, brown and white doggie with the beautiful eyes.

Why, you wonder? Have her mommy and daddy moved? Near some abbatoir filled with delish bones, maybe?

No it’s nothing like that. Nothing so nasty.

But to put you in the picture, I have to shift into reverse, back up a bit so to speak.

For the past four years Daisy has been breaking the hearts of residents, constitutional takers, watchmen, children and casual passerby (everyone except people on two wheelers, whom she likes to bark at and terrorise for no good reason) ever since she arrived at our building a few years ago, a little yelper from nowhere.

She melted the hearts of the people living on the top floor even before they knew it. And before long she was ensconced in their warm bosom covered in kisses, hugs, satin sheets (colour-coordinated), designer food, dream vacations and all.

But what’s love if you can’t share it? Pretty soon everyone else in our building fell in love with Daisy.

My own heart is gooey putty in her paws and she tramples on it every day, leaving muddy footprints all over, but I love it.

My favourite part of the morning is when Daisy jumps into my red, somewhat old Santro for the short ride to my office on Promenade Road. She sticks her nose out the window, whiskers twitching this way and that, catching a whiff of Bangalore in the morning. Once in a while she’ll turn to me and plant one on my cheek. Wagging her tail.

Which brings me to my tale.

For the past few days, there has been no sign of Daisy. The spot beside me on the back seat is empty, and Bangalore’s been smelling quite lonely.

“Where is Daisy? I miss her. The people in my office miss her,” I explained unnecessarily to the watchman. He knows the whereabouts of everyone.

“Oh she won’t be coming with you to the office anymore,” he said smugly. “Those days are over Madam.”

“Whaaaaaat,” I wailed. “Why? What did I do?”

“It’s not what you did, Madam,” he replied. “It’s what her parents did. They have bought Daisy her own car. It’s a brand new, spanking white Chevvy Spark. And it’s called Daisy Cooper. She won’t be needing this,” he said, casting a veiled sneer at my dented and painted daily ride. I could swear his lips curled downwards a little.

So that’s that.

Daisy’s got her own ride. No more driving Miss Daisy, I guess.