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PAVLOV WOULD'VE LOVED HER Whenever my dog and I walk the track towards her arc, above the squelch of wellingtons, dog claws scraping stone and the rattle of nuts in a bucket, we are aware of sow dreams-- the rich crushed oat and barley sleep of this old pig--interrupted--broken like our view of her sandy flank-- great heaving slabs of it--snatched through gaps in the nettles. We are aware also ...