and claws of a flock of helpless grouse, then like a merciless executioner scooped the guts out of the fowls, stripped the flesh from the bones and put it into the mincer. Sharik meanwhile gnawed a grouse’s head. Darya Petrovna fished lumps of soaking bread out of a bowl of milk, mixed them on a board with the minced meat, poured cream over the whole mixture, sprinkled it with salt and kneaded it into cutlets. The stove was roaring like a furnace, the frying pan sizzled, popped and bubbled. The oven door swung open with a roar, revealing a terrifying inferno of heaving, crackling flame.
In the evening the fiery furnace subsided and above the curtain half-way up the kitchen window hung the dense, ominous night sky of Prechistenka Street with its single star. The kitchen floor was damp, the saucepans shone with a dull, mysterious glow and on the table was a fireman’s cap. Sharik lay on the warm stove, stretched out like a lion above a gateway, and with one ear cocked in curiosity he watched through the half-open door of Zina’s and Darya Petrovna’s room as an excited, black-moustached man in a broad leather belt embraced Darya Petrovna. All her face, except her powdered nose, glowed with agony and passion. A streak of light lay across a picture of a man with a black moustache and beard, from which hung a little Easter loaf.
‘Don’t go too far,’ muttered Darya Petrovna in the half-darkness. ‘Stop it! Zina will be back soon. What’s the matter with you — have you been rejuvenated too?’
‘I don’t need rejuvenating,’ croaked the black-moustached fireman hoarsely, scarcely able to control himself. ‘You’re so passionate!’
In the evenings the sage of Prechistenka Street retired behind his thick blinds and if there was no A’ida at the Bolshoi Theatre and no meeting of the All-Russian Surgical Society, then the great man would settle down in a deep armchair in his study. There were no ceiling lights; the only light came from a green-shaded lamp on the desk. Sharik lay on the carpet in the shadows, unable to take his eyes off the horrors that lined the room.
Human brains floated in a disgustingly acrid, murky liquid in glass jars. On his forearms, bared to the elbow, the great man wore red rubber globes as his blunt, slippery fingers delved into the convoluted grey matter. Now and again he would pick up a small glistening knife and calmly slice off a spongey yellow chunk of brain.
‘…“to the banks of the sa-acred Nile…,”’ he hummed quietly, licking his lips as he remembered the gilded auditorium of the Bolshoi Theatre.
It was the time of evening when the central heating was at its warmest. The heat from it floated up to the ceiling, from there dispersing all over the room. In the dog’s fur the warmth wakened the last flea, which had somehow managed to escape Philip Philipovich’s comb. The carpets deadened all sound in the flat. Then, from far away, came the sound of the front door bell.
Zina’s gone out to the cinema, thought the dog, and I suppose we’ll have supper when she gets home. Something tells me that it’s veal chops tonight!
On the morning of that terrible day Sharik had felt a sense of foreboding, which had made him suddenly break into a howl and he had eaten his breakfast — half a bowl of porridge and yesterday’s mutton-bone — without the least relish. Bored, he went padding up and down the hall, whining at his own reflection. The rest of the morning, after Zina had taken him for his walk along the avenue, passed normally. There were no patients that day as it was Tuesday — a day when as we all know there are no consulting hours. The master was in his study, several large books with coloured pictures spread out in front of him on the desk. It was nearly supper-time. The dog was slightly cheered by the news from the kitchen that the second course tonight was turkey. As he was walking down the passage the dog heard the startling, unexpected noise of Philip Philipovich’s telephone bell ringing. Philip Philipovich picked up the receiver, listened and suddenly became very excited.
‘Excellent,’ he was heard saying, ‘bring it round at once, at once!’
Bustling about, he rang for Zina and ordered supper to be served immediately: ‘Supper! Supper!’
Immediately there was a clatter of plates in the dining-room and Zina ran in, pursued by the voice of Darya Petrovna grumbling that the turkey was not ready yet. Again the dog felt a tremor of anxiety.
I don’t like it when there’s a commotion in the house, he mused… and no sooner had the thought entered his head than the commotion took on an even more disagreeable nature. This was largely due to the appearance of Doctor Bormenthal, who brought with him an evil-smelling trunk and without waiting to remove his coat started heaving it down the corridor into the consultingroom. Philip Philipovich put down his unfinished cup of coffee, which normally he would never do, and ran out to meet Bormenthal, another quite untypical thing for him to do.
‘When did he die?’ he cried.
‘Three hours ago,’ replied Bormenthal, his snow-covered hat still on his head as he unstrapped the trunk.
Who’s died? wondered the dog sullenly and disagreeably as he slunk under the table. I can’t bear it when they dash about the room like that.
‘Out of my way, animal! Hurry, hurry, hurry!’ cried Philip Philipovich.
It seemed to the dog that the master was ringing every bell at once. Zina ran in. ‘Zina! Tell Darya Petrovna to take over the telephone and not to let anybody in. I need you here. Doctor Bormenthal — please hurry!’
I don’t like this, scowled the dog, offended, and wandered off round the apartment. All the bustle, it seemed, was confined to the consulting-room. Zina suddenly appeared in a white coat like a shroud and began running back and forth between the consulting-room and the kitchen.
Isn’t it time I had my supper? They seem to have forgotten about me, thought the dog. He at once received an unpleasant surprise.
‘Don’t give Sharik anything to eat,’ boomed the order from the consulting-room.
‘How am I to keep an eye on him?’
‘Lock him up!’
Sharik was enticed into the bathroom and locked in.
Beasts, thought Sharik as he sat in the semi-darkness of the bathroom. What an outrage… In an odd frame of mind, half resentful, half depressed, he spent about a quarter of an hour in the bathroom. He felt irritated and uneasy.
Right. This means the end of your galoshes tomorrow, Philip Philipovich, he thought. You’ve already had to buy two new pairs. Now you’re going to have to buy another. That’ll teach you to lock up dogs.
Suddenly a violent thought crossed his mind. Instantly and clearly he remembered a scene from his earliest youth -a huge sunny courtyard near the Preobrazhensky Gate, slivers of sunlight reflected in broken bottles, brick- rubble, and a free world of stray dogs.
No, it’s no use. I could never leave this place now. Why pretend? mused the dog, with a sniff. I’ve got used to this life. I’m a gentleman’s dog now, an intelligent being, I’ve tasted better things. Anyhow, what is freedom? Vapour, mirage, fiction… democratic rubbish…
Then the gloom of the bathroom began to frighten him and he howled. Hurling himself at the door, he started scratching it.
Ow-ow…, the noise echoed round the apartment like someone shouting into a barrel.
I’ll tear that owl to pieces again, thought the dog, furious but impotent. Then he felt weak and lay down. When he got up his coat suddenly stood up on end, as he had an eerie feeling that a horrible, wolfish pair of eyes was staring at him from the bath.
In the midst of his agony the door opened. The dog went out, shook himself, and made gloomily for the kitchen, but Zina firmly dragged him by the collar into the consulting-room. The dog felt a sudden chill around his heart.
What do they want me for? he wondered suspiciously. My side has healed up — I don’t get it. Sliding along on his paws over the slippery parquet, he was pulled into the consulting-room. There he was immediately shocked by the unusually brilliant lighting. A white globe on the ceiling shone so brightly that it hurt his eyes. In the white glare stood the high priest, humming through his teeth something about the sacred Nile. The only way of recognising him as Philip Philipovich was a vague smell. His smoothed-back grey hair was hidden under a white cap, making him look as if he were dressed up as a patriarch; the divine figure was all in white and over the white, like a stole, he wore a narrow rubber apron. His hands were in black gloves.
The other doctor was also there. The long table was fully unfolded, a small square box placed beside it on a shining stand.
The dog hated the other doctor more than anyone else and more than ever because of the look in his eyes. Usually frank and bold, they now flickered in all directions to avoid the dog’s eyes. They were watchful, treacherous
