The soul of a lurcher and the secret of a capon

A county, a house, a dog — and a bottle. Somerset: men have delved and farmed and built here for millennia, reshaping the landscape but never losing harmony with nature. There lies the dearest freshness pretty near the surface of things. My friends live in the Vale of Blackmore, good hunting country, in a prosperous farmhouse. Over the centuries, it has been added to and bashed about. The exterior isVictorian-esque, but I bet that there is medieval masonry at the core of the stouter walls.

In the kitchen, there are oak beams, perfect for hanging hams and flitches of bacon. Indeed, they could be needed for a similar purpose now, because of the dog. El Awrence, a lurcher, is a splendid example of the breed, in his charm, character and relentless criminality. Now that no one in polite society would dream of referring to gypsies as pikeys, the word is left vacant. Perhaps it should be applied to lurchers: pikey-dogs. In El Awrence’s case, there is an alternative. He has not yet learned how to co-exist with sheep, to the extent that he almost qualifies as a sheep-hound.

What a monster. But sin does not necessarily mean soullessness. These days, no one seems interested in debating whether animals have souls. If they did, lurchers would provide powerful evidence for the ‘yes’ camp. For a start, and however mired in evil, they generally manage to look soulful. There is also a clinching theological point. If you do not have a soul, how can you have original sin? Could anyone deny that the lurcher/pikey has a treble dose of ancestral depravity? Ergo, it must have a soul.

El Awrence would look superb if taken hunting in the desert. Even so, I am not sure that it was wise to give him a name which is an incitement to brigandage.