If having a soul means being able to feel love and loyalty and

Host: The sun was sinking over the hills, bleeding gold and crimson into a pasture that still smelled of rain. A faint mist clung to the grass, rising in soft spirals like ghosts of the day. Cows moved slowly in the distance, and the wind carried the low hum of their calls — a kind of earthly hymn to quiet survival.

At the edge of the field, near a broken fence post, Jack sat on the tailgate of an old truck, a half-empty flask in his hand. His boots were muddy, his coat damp, but his eyes, cold and grey, were fixed on the dog lying at his feet — a black shepherd mix, watchful, loyal, and still.

Jeeny was kneeling beside the dog, her hands stroking its fur with gentleness that belonged more to prayer than touch. Her hair, long and black, clung to her cheek in strands of wet silk, and when she looked up at Jack, her eyes held that tender conviction he never could destroy.

Host: The sky was quietly collapsing into night, and between them, a question waited — ancient, human, and impossibly gentle.

Jeeny: (softly) “James Herriot once said, ‘If having a soul means being able to feel love and loyalty and gratitude, then animals are better off than a lot of humans.’”

Jack: (scoffing, taking a sip) “Herriot was a vet, not a philosopher. Easy for him to say — he spent more time with dogs than people.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why he understood souls better than most of us.”

Jack: (smirking) “You think that dog there understands love and loyalty the way you do?”

Jeeny: (without hesitation) “Better.”

Host: Jack’s brow furrowed, a subtle crease born not of anger, but of unsettled thought. The dog’s tail thumped once, as if agreeing. A faint smile flickered across Jeeny’s face — not smug, but sadly amused.

Jack: “You really believe an animal can love? I mean really love — not just react, not just bond out of habit or hunger?”

Jeeny: “What’s the difference, Jack? Between instinct and devotion? Between survival and love? Maybe they’re the same — except animals don’t lie about it.”

Jack: (dryly) “So you’re saying a wagging tail is purer than a promise.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because a dog doesn’t wag to manipulate. He wags because he’s happy to see you. No agenda, no deceit.”

Host: The evening wind shifted, brushing through the grass, carrying the faint sound of a barn door creaking in the distance. The dog lifted its head, sniffing the air, its eyes fixed on Jeeny with quiet trust.

Jack: (gruffly) “You talk like you’ve never been bitten.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because I learned when to kneel and when to stay still. Animals teach that — patience, humility, forgiveness.”

Jack: “They teach obedience, not ethics.”

Jeeny: “You call it obedience; I call it faith.”

Host: The last light of the day caught the dog’s fur, turning it a deep bronze. The scene was almost holy, though neither of them would have used that word aloud.

Jack: “Faith is dangerous, Jeeny. People kill for it. People break for it.”

Jeeny: “But animals don’t. They just live it. They don’t need to define loyalty — they are it. When a dog stays beside his dying owner, he doesn’t quote philosophy, he doesn’t rationalize. He just stays. That’s soul, Jack. The pure kind.”

Jack: “That’s dependency, not divinity.”

Jeeny: (sharply) “No — that’s love without pretense. Maybe that’s why it scares you. It’s too simple. You can’t dissect it, you can’t win against it. You either feel it or you don’t.”

Host: Her voice rose, the tremor of anger and sadness woven into the wind. The dog, sensing the tension, stood, shook off the rain, and sat between them — a living bridge of fur and breath.

Jack: (quietly) “I used to have a dog, when I was a kid. He’d sit by the door until I came home from school. One day, he didn’t move when I called. My old man said, ‘That’s what loyalty gets you.’ I never forgot that.”

Jeeny: (softly) “And that’s why you stopped believing in it.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe I just realized love doesn’t protect you from loss. It leads you right into it.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point, Jack. Love isn’t armor. It’s surrender.”

Host: The silence after her words was thick, like the air before a storm. Jack looked away, his jaw tightening, his eyes unwilling to meet hers.

Jack: “You think animals understand that? That they choose to love, knowing they’ll lose everything someday?”

Jeeny: “Maybe they don’t have to think about it. Maybe that’s what makes them better than us. We waste our lives fearing endings. They just love until it’s over.”

Host: The dog shifted, resting its head against Jack’s boot, eyes half-closed. The gesture was small, but it unraveled something ancient inside him — the part of the soul that still remembered trust.

Jack: (barely audible) “I don’t deserve that.”

Jeeny: “No one does. That’s why it’s sacred.”

Host: A bird cried from the trees, a lonely sound swallowed by the twilight. The mist had lifted, revealing a sky streaked with purple and silver. For a long moment, the world seemed still, as if listening.

Jack: “You make it sound like animals have souls and we just... lost ours somewhere along the way.”

Jeeny: “Maybe we did. Maybe we traded it for ambition. For logic. For walls we thought would keep us safe.”

Jack: “And you think they’re happier without all that?”

Jeeny: “Not happier. Freer. They live in truth — not in stories about truth.”

Jack: (with a faint smile) “So what, we’re the fallen species and dogs are the saints?”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Maybe saints have always had four legs.”

Host: They both laughed, the sound light, unrehearsed, echoing through the field. The dog’s ears perked, as if pleased with the peace it had brought.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack… Herriot wasn’t talking about theology. He was talking about decency. About how simple creatures can carry purer hearts than the ones who write commandments.”

Jack: “And you think that makes them better?”

Jeeny: “Not better. More honest. They don’t know how to betray what they feel.”

Jack: (looking at the dog) “I wonder what that feels like.”

Jeeny: “To love without fear?”

Jack: “To live without masks.”

Host: The moon had risen now, casting the field in a soft silver that made every blade of grass shimmer. Jack’s cigarette had burned out, forgotten in his hand.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Maybe that’s what a soul really is — the ability to love without calculation.”

Jack: “Then we spend our lives trying to buy back what a dog is born with.”

Host: The dog stretched, yawned, and leaned its head against Jack’s knee, as if to say, I forgive you anyway.

For a moment, Jack’s hand moved, hesitant, then rested on the dog’s fur. His fingers tightened, not in ownership, but in recognition.

Host: The night was fully fallen now, the sky a deep indigo quilt. The stars were beginning to breathe, one by one. The world was silent, except for the soft wind and the sound of two souls remembering what it meant to feel.

Jeeny: “Maybe animals remind us what we’re meant to be — not perfect, just present.”

Jack: “And loyal to something other than ourselves.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The dog closed its eyes, its breathing slow and steady, as if the earth itself had finally exhaled. Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, their shadows long, their hearts humbled.

In that quiet pasture, beneath the watchful sky, it was not the human beings who seemed wise, but the animal between them — the creature that loved, trusted, and forgave, without needing a reason.

And for once, Jack did not argue. He simply listened, as the dog’s breath became the sound of a soul — simple, steadfast, and whole.