Heart of a Dog by Mikhail Bulgakov

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