A Dog's Heart

by Mikhail Bulgakov

  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.

  Swine! thought the dog. He must be the one I bit, so that's my doing. Now there'll be trouble.

  '. . . "the murmur of sweet serenades, the clink of Spanish blades . . ." Now, you little tramp, why did you bite the doctor? Eh? Why did you break all that glass? M'm?' Oowow, whined the dig miserably. 'All right, lie back and relax, naughty boy.' 'However did you manage to entice such a nervous, excitable dog into following you here, Philip Philipovich?' enquired a pleasant male voice, and a long knitted underpant lowered itself to the ground. There was a smell of tobacco, and glass phials tinkled in the closet.

  'By kindness. The only possible method when dealing with a living creature. You'll get nowhere with an animal if you use terror, no matter what its level of development may be. That I have maintained, do maintain and always will maintain. People who think you can use terror are quite wrong. No, terror's useless, whatever its colour - white, red or even brown! Terror completely paralyses the nervous system. Zina! I bought this little scamp some Cracow sausage for 1 rouble

  40 kopecks. Please see that he is fed when he gets over his nausea.'

  There was a crunching noise as glass splinters were swept up and a woman's voice said teasingly: 'Cracower! Goodness, you ought to buy him twenty kopecks-worth of scraps from the butcher. I'd rather eat the Cracower myself!'

  'You just try! That stuff's poison for human stomachs. A grown woman and you're ready to poke anything into your mouth like a child. Don't you dare! I warn you that neither I nor Doctor

  Bormenthal will lift a finger for you when your stomach finally gives out . . .'

  Just then a bell tinkled all through the flat and from far away in the hall came the sound of voices. The telephone rang. Zina disappeared.

  Philip Philipovich threw his cigar butt into the bucket, buttoned up his white coat, smoothed his bushy moustache in front of a mirror on the wall and called the dog.

  'Come on, boy, you'll be all right. Let's go and see our visitors.'

  The dog stood up on wobbly legs, staggered and shivered but quickly felt better and set off

  behind the napping hem of Philip Philipovich's coat. Again the dog walked down the narrow corridor, but saw that this time it was brightly lit from above by a round cut-glass lamp in the ceiling. When the varnished door opened he trotted into Philip Philipovich's study. Its luxury blinded him. Above all it was blazing with light: there was a light hanging from the moulded ceiling, a light on the desk, lights on the walls, lights on the glass-fronted cabinets. The light poured over countless knick-knacks, of wh
ich the most striking was an enormous owl perched on a branch fastened to the wall.

  'Lie down,' ordered Philip Philipovich.

  The carved door at the other end of the room opened and in came the doctor who had been bitten. In the bright light he now looked very young and handsome, with a pointed beard. He put down a sheet of paper and said: 'The same as before . . .'

  Then he silently vanished and Philip Philipovich, spreading his coat-tails, sat down behind the huge desk and immediately looked extremely dignified and important.

  No, this can't be a hospital, I've landed up somewhere else, the dog thought confusedly and stretched out on the patterned carpet beside a massive leather-covered couch. I wish I knew what that owl was doing here . . .

  The door gently opened and in came a man who looked so extraordinary that the dog gave a timid yelp . . .

  'Shut up! . . . My dear fellow, I hardly recognised you!'

  Embarrassed, the visitor bowed politely to Philip Philipovich and giggled nervously.

  'You're a wizard, a magician, professor!' he said bashfully.

  'Take down your trousers, old man,' ordered Philip Philip-ovich and stood up.

  Christ, thought the dog, what a sight! The man's hair was completely green, although at the back it shaded off into a brownish tobacco colour, wrinkles covered his face yet his complexion was as pink as a boy's. His left leg would not bend and had to be dragged across the carpet, but his right leg was as springy as a jack-in-the-box. In the buttonhole of his superb jacket there shone, like an eye, a precious stone.

  The dog was so fascinated that he even forgot his nausea. Oow-ow, he whined softly.

  'Quiet! . . . How have you been sleeping!'

  The man giggled. 'Are we alone, professor? It's indescribable,' said the visitor coyly. 'Parole d'honneur - I haven't known anything like it for twenty-five years . . .' the creature started struggling with his flybuttons . . . 'Would you believe it, professor - hordes of naked girls every night. I am absolutely entranced. You're a magician.'

  'H'm,' grunted Philip Philipovich, preoccupied as he stared into the pupils of his visitor's eyes. The man finally succeeded in mastering his flybuttons and took off his checked trousers, revealing the most extraordinary pair of pants. They were cream-coloured, embroidered with black silk cats and they smelled of perfume.

  The dog could not resist the cats and gave such a bark that the man jumped.

  'Oh!'

  'Quiet - or I'll beat you! . . . Don't worry, he won't bite.'

  Won't I? thought the dog in amazement.

  Out of the man's trouser pocket a little envelope fell to the floor. It was decorated with a

  picture of a naked girl with flowing hair. He gave a start, bent down to pick it up and blushed violently.

  'Look here,' said Philip Philipovich in a tone of grim warning, wagging a threatening finger, 'you shouldn't overdo it, you know.'

  'I'm not overdo . . .' the creature muttered in embarrassment as he went on undressing. 'It was just a sort of experiment.'

  'Well, what were the results?' asked Philip Philipovich sternly.

  The man waved his hand in ecstasy. 'I swear to God, professor, I haven't known anything like it for twenty-five years. The last time was in 1899 in Paris, in the Rue de la Paix.'

  'And why have you turned green?'

  The visitor's face clouded over. 'That damned stuff! You'd never believe, professor, what those rogues palmed off on me instead of dye. Just take a look,' the man muttered, searching for a mirror. 'I'd like to punch him on the snout,' he added in a rage. 'What am I to do now, professor?' he asked tearfully.

  'H'm. Shave all your hair off.'

  'But, professor,' cried the visitor miserably, 'then it would only grow grey again. Besides, I

  daren't show my face at the office like this. I haven't been there for three days. Ah, professor, if only you had discovered a way of rejuvenating hair!'

  'One thing at a time, old man, one thing at a time,' muttered Philip Philipovich. Bending down, his glittering eyes examined the patient's naked abdomen.

  'Splendid, everything's in great shape. To tell you the truth I didn't even expect such results. You can get dressed now.'

  ' "Ah, she's so lovely . . ." ' sang the patient in a voice that quavered like the sound of someone hitting an old, cracked saucepan. Beaming, he started to dress. When he was ready he skipped across the floor in a cloud of perfume, counted out a heap of white banknotes on the professor's desk and shook him tenderly by both hands.

  'You needn't come back for two weeks,' said Philip Philipovich, 'but I must beg you - be careful.'

  The ecstaticvoice replied from behind thedoor: 'Don't worry, professor.' The creature gave a delighted giggle and went. The doorbell tinkled through the apartment and the varnished door opened, admitting the other doctor, who handed Philip Philipovich a sheet of paper and announced:

  'She has lied about her age. It's probably about fifty or fifty-five. Heart-beats muffled.'

  He disappeared, to be succeeded by a rustling lady with a hat planted gaily on one side of her head and with a glittering necklace on her slack, crumpled neck. There were black bags under her eyes and her cheeks were as red as a painted doll. She was extremely nervous.

  'How old are you, madam?' enquired Philip Philipovich with great severity.

  Frightened, the lady paled under her coating of rouge. 'Professor, I swear that if you knew the agony I've been going through . . .!'

  'How old are you, madam?' repeated Philip Philipovich even more sternly.

  'Honestly . . . well, forty-five . . .'

  'Madam,' groaned Philip Philipovich, I am a busy man. Please don't waste my time. You're not my only patient, you know.'

  The lady's bosom heaved violently. 'I've come to you, a great scientist ... I swear to you - it's terrible . . .'

  'How old are you?' Philip Philipovich screeched in fury, his spectacles glittering.

  'Fifty-one!' replied the lady, wincing with terror.

  'Take off your underwear, please,' said Philip Philipovich with relief, and pointed to a high white examination table in the comer.

  'I swear, professor,' murmured the lady as with trembling fingers she unbuttoned the fasteners on her belt, 'this boy Moritz ... I honestly admit to you . . .'

  ' "From Granada to Seville . . ." ' Philip Philipovich hummed absentmindedly and pressed the foot-pedal of his marble washbasin. There was a sound of running water.

  'I swear to God,' said the lady, patches of real colour showing through the rouge on her cheeks, 'this will be my last affair. Oh, he's such a brute! Oh, professor! All Moscow knows he's a card-sharper and he can't resist any little tart of a dressmaker who catches his eye. But he's so deliciously young . . .'As she talked the lady pulled out a crumpled blob of lace from under her rustling skirts.

  A mist came in front of the dog's eyes and his brain turned a somersault. To hell with you, he thought vaguely, laying his head on his paws and closing his eyes with embarrassment. I'm not going to try and guess what all this is about -it's beyond me, anyway.

  He was wakened by a tinkling sound and saw that Philip Philipovich had tossed some little shining tubes into a basin.

  The painted lady, her hands pressed to her bosom, was gazing hopefully at Philip Philipovich. Frowning impressively he had sat down at his desk and was writing something.

  'I am going to implant some monkey's ovaries into you, madam,' he announced with a stern look.

  'Oh, professor - not monkey's ?'

  'Yes,' replied Philip Philipovich inexorably.

  'When will you operate?' asked the lady in a weak voice, turning pale.

  ' ". . . from Granada to Seville . . ." H'm ... on Monday. You must go into hospital on Monday morning. My assistant will prepare you.'

  'Oh, dear. I don't want to go into hospital. Couldn't you operate here, professor?'

  'I only operate here in extreme cases. It would be very expensive - 500 roubles.'

  'I'll pay, professo
r!'

  Again came the sound of running water, the feathered hat swayed out, to be replaced by a head as bald as a dinner-plate which embraced Philip Philipovich. As his nausea passed, the dog dozed off, luxuriating in the warmth and the sense of relief as his injury healed. He even snored a little and managed to enjoy a snatch of a pleasant dream - he dreamed he had torn a whole tuft of

  feathers out of the owl's tail . . . until an agitated voice started yapping above his head.

  'I'm too well known in Moscow, professor. What am I to do?'

  'Really,' cried Philip Philipovich indignantly, 'you can't behave like that. You must restrain

  yourself. How old is she?'