Mikhail Bulgakov: Heart of a Dog

Sharik had begun by learning from colours. When he was just four months old, blue-green signs started appearing all over Moscow with the letters MSFS — Moscow State Food Stores — which meant a butcher and delicatessen. I repeat that he had no need to learn his letters because he could smell the meat anyway. Once he made a bad mistake: trotting up to a bright blue shop-sign one day when the smell was drowned by car exhaust, instead of a butcher’s shop he ran into the Polubizner Brothers’ electrical goods store on Myasnitzkaya Street. There the brothers taught him all about insulated cable, which can be sharper than a cabman’s whip. This famous occasion may be regarded as the beginning of Sharik’s education. It was here on the pavement that Sharik began to realise that ‘blue’ doesn’t always mean ‘butcher’, and as he squeezed his burningly painful tail between his back legs and howled, he remembered that on every butcher’s shop the first letter on the left was always gold or brown, bow-legged, and looked like a toboggan.

After that the lessons were rather easier. ‘A’ he learned from the barber on the comer of Mokhovaya Street, followed by ‘B’ (there was always a policeman standing in front of the last four letters of the word). Corner shops faced with tiles always meant ‘CHEESE’ and the black half-moon at the beginning of the word stood for the name of their former owners ‘Chichkin’; they were full of mountains of red Dutch cheeses, salesmen who hated dogs, sawdust on the floor and reeking Limburger.

If there was accordion music (which was slightly better than ‘Celeste Aida’), and the place smelted of frankfurters, the first letters on the white signboards very conveniently | spelled out the word ‘NOOB’, which was short for ‘No obscene language. No tips.’ Sometimes at these places fights would break out, people would start punching each other in the face with their fists — sometimes even with napkins or boots.

If there were stale bits of ham and mandarin oranges in the window it meant a grrr… grrocery. If there were black bottles full of evil liquids it was… li-li-liquor… formerly Eliseyev Bros.

The unknown gentleman had led the dog to the door of his luxurious flat on the mezzanine floor, and rang the doorbell. The dog at once looked up at a big, black, gold-lettered nameplate hanging beside a pink frosted-glass door. He deciphered the first three letters at once: P-R-O- ‘Pro…’, but after tliat there was a funny tall thing with a cross bar which he did not know. Surely he’s not a proletarian? thought Sharik with amazement… He can’t be. He lifted up his nose, sniffed the fur coat and said firmly to himself:

No, this doesn’t smell proletarian. Some high-falutin’ word. God knows what it means.

Suddenly a light flashed on cheerfully behind the pink glass door, throwing the nameplate into even deeper shadow. The door opened soundlessly and a beautiful young woman in a white apron and lace cap stood before the dog and his master. A wave of delicious warmth flowed over the dog and the woman’s skirt smelled of carnations.

This I like, thought the dog.

‘Come in, Mr Sharik,’ said the gentleman ironically and Sharik respectfully obeyed, wagging his tail.

A great multitude of objects filled the richly furnished hall. Beside him was a mirror stretching right down to the floor, which instantly reflected a second dirty, exhausted Sharik. High up on the wall was a terrifying pair of antlers, there were countless fur coats and pairs of galoshes and an electric tulip made of opal glass hanging from the ceiling.

‘Where on earth did you get that from, Philip Philipovich?’ enquired the woman, smiling as she helped to take off the heavy brown, blue-flecked fox-fur coat.

‘God, he looks lousy.’

‘Nonsense. He doesn’t look lousy to me,’ said the gentleman abruptly.

With his fur coat off he was seen to be wearing a black suit of English material; a gold chain across his stomach shone with a dull glow.

‘Hold still, boy, keep still doggy… keep still you little fool. H’m… that’s not lice… Stand still, will you… H’mm… aha — yes… It’s a scald. Who was mean enough to throw boiling water over you, I wonder? Eh? Keep still, will you…!’

It was that miserable cook, said the dog with his pitiful eyes and gave a little whimper.

‘Zina,’ ordered the gentleman, ‘take him into the consulting-room at once and get me a white coat.’

The woman whistled, clicked her fingers and the dog followed her slightly hesitantly. Together they walked down a narrow, dimly-lit corridor, passed a varnished door, reached the end then turned left and arrived in a dark little room which the dog instantly disliked for its ominous smell. The darkness clicked and was transformed into blinding white which flashed and shone from every angle.

Oh, no, the dog whined to himself, you won’t catch me as easily as that! I see it now — to hell with them and their sausage. They’ve tricked me into a dogs’ hospital. Now they’ll force me to swallow castor oil and they’ll cut up my side with knives — well, I won’t let them touch it.

‘Hey — where are you trying to go?’ shouted the girl called Zina.

The animal dodged, curled up like a spring and suddenly hit the door with his unharmed side so hard that the noise reverberated through the whole apartment. Then he jumped back, spun around on the spot like a top and in doing so knocked over a white bucket, spilling wads of cotton wool. As he whirled round there flashed past him shelves full of glittering instruments, a white apron and a furious woman’s face.

‘You little devil,’ cried Zina in desperation, ‘where d’you think you’re going?’

Where’s the back door? the dog wondered. He swung round, rolled into a ball and hurled himself bullet-fashion at a glass in the hope that it was another door. With a crash and a tinkle a shower of splinters fell down and a pot-bellied glass jar of some reddish-brown filth shot out and poured itself over the floor, giving off a sickening stench. The real door swung open.

‘Stop it, you little beast,’ shouted the gentleman as he rushed in pulling on one sleeve of his white coat. He seized the dog by the legs. ‘Zina, grab him by the scruff of the neck, damn him.’

‘Oh — these dogs…!’

The door opened wider still and another person of the male sex dashed in, also wearing a white coat. Crunching over the broken glass he went past the dog to a cupboard, opened it and the whole room was filled with a sweet, nauseating smell. Then the person turned the animal over on his back, at which the dog enthusiastically bit him just above his shoelaces. The person groaned but kept his head. The nauseating liquid choked the dog’s breathing and his head began to spin, then his legs collapsed and he seemed to be moving sideways. This is it, he thought dreamily as he collapsed on to the sharp slivers of glass. Goodbye, Moscow! I shan’t see Chichkin or the proletarians or Cracow sausages again. I’m going to the heaven for long-suffering dogs. You butchers — why did you have to do this to me? With that he finally collapsed on to his back and passed out.

When he awoke he felt slightly dizzy and sick to his stomach. His injured side did not seem to be there at all, but was blissfully painless. The dog opened a languid right eye and saw out of its corner that he was tightly bandaged all around his flanks and belly. So those sons of bitches did cut me up, he thought dully, but I must admit they’ve made a neat job of it.

‘…“from Granada to Seville… those soft southern nights”…’ a muzzy, falsetto voice sang over his head.

Amazed, the dog opened both eyes wide and saw two yards away a man’s leg propped up on a stool. Trousers and sock had been rolled back and the yellow, naked ankle was smeared with dried blood and iodine.