Paws for thought
IN the lamplit cellar of the Blue Anchor Tavern in London’s Bunhill Row, a group of top-hatted Victorian gentlemen and two military officers crowd round a wooden-planked enclosure. Fob watches in hand, the gamblers have placed their bets and are gazing intently at a horde of rats, which dart about the blood-spattered pit and try to scramble up the corners. It’s one of the most arresting images in this enjoyable little show, all the more so because there appears to be no dog in the picture—until you look more closely and notice a terrier sinking its jaws into the neck of
