Butch was a young brindled dog of about ridgeback size. I don’t know where Anton got him – presumably during one of my absences at Clifton. He was a fast runner, and would track the car as we drove down the two-rut road that paralleled the canal, running with ease in the ploughed field as fast as the car could go. Friendly beyond the bounds of decency, he would lick hands, ram his nose into groins and fuck the knees of guests. He was cured of the hand-licking by Anton, who, walking in a field of cayenne peppers, crushed the shiny red fruits in his hands as he saw Butch running up.