A Dog's Heart

  '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 and in their depths lurked something mean and nasty, even criminal. Scowling at him, the dog slunk into a comer.

  'Collar, Zina,' said Philip Philipovich softly, 'only don't excite him.'

  For a moment Zina's eyes had the same vile look as Bormenthal's. She walked up to the dog and with obvious treachery, stroked him.

  What're you doing ... all three of you? OK, take me if you want me. You ought to be ashamed ... If only I knew what you're going to do to me . . .

  Zina unfastened his collar, the dog shook his head and snorted. Bormenthal rose up in front of him, reeking of that foul, sickening smell.

  Ugh, disgusting . . . wonder why I feel so queer . . .,
thought the dog as he dodged away.

  'Hurry, doctor,' said Philip Philipovich impatiently. There was a sharp, sweet smell in the air. The doctor, without taking his horrible watchful eyes off the dog slipped his right hand out from behind his back and quickly clamped a pad of damp cotton wool over the dog's nose. Sharik went dumb, his head spinning a little, but he still managed to jump back. The doctor jumped after him and rapidly smothered his whole muzzle in cotton wool. His breathing stopped, but again the dog jerked himself away. You bastard . . ., flashed through his mind. Why? And down came the pad again. Then a lake suddenly materialised in the middle of the consulting-room floor. On it was a boat, rowed by a crew of extraordinary pink dogs. The bones in his legs gave way and collapsed.

  'On to the table!' Philip Philipovich boomed from somewhere in a cheerful voice and the sound disintegrated into orange-coloured streaks. Fear vanished and gave way to joy. For two seconds the dog loved the man he had bitten. Then the whole world turned upside down and he felt a cold but soothing hand on his belly. Then - nothing.

  The dog Sharik lay stretched out on the narrow operating table, his head lolling helplessly against a white oilcloth pillow. His stomach was shaven and now Doctor Bormenthal, breathing heavily, was hurriedly shaving Sharik's head with clippers that ate through his fur. Philip Philipovich, leaning on the edge of the table, watched the process through his shiny, gold-rimmed spectacles. He spoke urgently:

  'Ivan Arnoldovich, the most vital moment is when I enter the turkish saddle. You must then instantly pass me the gland and start suturing at once. If we have a haemorrhage then we shall lose time and lose the dog. In any case, he hasn't a chance . . .' He was silent, frowning, and gave an ironic look at the dog's half-closed eye, then added: 'Do you know, I feel sorry for him. I've actually got used to having him around.'

  So saying he raised his hands as though calling down a blessing on the unfortunate Sharik's great sacrificial venture. Bormenthal laid aside the clippers and picked up a razor. He lathered the defenceless little head and started to shave it. The blade scraped across the skin, nicked it and drew blood. Having shaved the head the doctor wiped it with an alcohol swab, then stretched out the dog's bare stomach and said with a sigh of relief: 'Ready.'

  Zina turned on the tap over the washbasin and Bormenthal hurriedly washed his hands. From a phial Zina poured alcohol over them.

  'May I go, Philip Philipovich?' she asked, glancing nervously at the dog's shaven head.

  'You may.'

  Zina disappeared. Bormenthal busied himself further. He surrounded Shank's head with tight gauze wadding, which framed the odd sight of a naked canine scalp and a muzzle that by comparison seemed heavily bearded.

  The priest stirred. He straightened up, looked at the dog's head and said: 'God bless us. Scalpel.'

  Bormenthal took a short, broad-bladed knife from the glittering pile on the small table and handed it to the great man. He too then donned a pair of black gloves.

  'Is he asleep?' asked Philip Philipovich.

  'He's sleeping nicely.'

  Philip Philipovich clenched his teeth, his eyes took on a sharp, piercing glint and with a flourish of his scalpel he made a long, neat incision down the length of Sharik's belly. The skin parted instantly, spurting blood in several directions. Bormenthal swooped like a vulture, began dabbing Sharik's wound with swabs of gauze, then gripped its edges with a row of little clamps like sugartongs, and the bleeding stopped. Droplets of sweat oozed from Bormenthal's forehead. Philip Philipovich made a second incision and again Sharik's body was pulled apart by hooks, scissors and little clamps. Pink and yellow tissues emerged, oozing with blood. Philip Philipovich turned the scalpel in the wound, then barked: 'Scissors!'

  Like a conjuring trick the instrument materialised in Bormenthal's hand. Philip Philipovich delved deep and with a few twists he removed the testicles and some dangling attachments from Sharik's body. Dripping with exertion and excitement Bormenthal leapt to a glass jar and removed from it two more wet, dangling testicles, their short, moist, stringy vesicles dangling like elastic in the hands of the professor and his assistant. The bent needles clicked faintly 54

  against the clamps as the new testicles were sewn in place of Sharik's. The priest drew back from the incision, swabbed it and gave the order:

  'Suture, doctor. At once.' He turned around and looked at the white clock on the wall.

  'Fourteen minutes,' grunted Bormenthal through clenched teeth as he pierced the flabby skin with his crooked needle. Both grew as tense as two murderers working against the clock.

  'Scalpel!' cried Philip Philipovich.

  The scalpel seemed to leap into his hand as though of its own accord, at which point Philip

  Philipovich's expression grew quite fearsome. Grinding his gold and porcelain bridge-work, in a single stroke he incised a red fillet around Sharik's head. The scalp, with its shaven hairs, was removed, the skull bone laid bare. Philip Philipovich shouted: 'Trepan!'

  Bormenthal handed him a shining auger. Biting his lips Philip Philipovich began to insert the auger and drill a complete circle of little holes, a centimetre apart, around the top of Sharik's skull. Each hole took no more than five seconds to drill. Then with a saw of the most curious design he put its point into the first hole and began sawing through the skull as though he were making a lady's fretwork sewing-basket. The skull shook and squeaked faintly. After three minutes the roof of the dog's skull was removed.

  The dome of Sharik's brain was now laid bare - grey, threaded with bluish veins and spots of red. Philip Philipovich plunged his scissors between the membranes and eased them apart. Once a thin stream of blood spurted up, almost hitting the professor in the eye and spattering his white cap. Like a tiger Bormenthal pounced in with a tourniquet and squeezed. Sweat streamed down his face, which was growing puffy and mottled. His eyes flicked to and fro from the professor's hand to the instrument-table. Philip Philipovich was positively awe-inspiring. A hoarse snoring noise came from his nose, his teeth were bared to the gums. He peeled aside layers of cerebral membrane and penetrated deep between the hemispheres of the brain. It was then that Bor-menthal went pale, and seizing Sharik's breast with one hand he said hoarsely: 'Pulse falling sharply . . .'

  Philip Philipovich flashed him a savage look, grunted something and delved further still. Bormenthal snapped open a glass ampoule, filled a syringe with the liquid and treacherously injected the dog near his heart.

  'I'm coming to the turkish saddle,' growled Philip Philipovich. With his slippery, bloodstained gloves he removed Sharik's greyish-yellow brain from his head. For a second he glanced at Sharik's muzzle and Bormenthal snapped open a second ampoule of yellow liquid and sucked it into the long syringe.

  'Shall I do it straight into the heart?' he enquired cautiously.

  'Don't waste time asking questions!' roared the professor angrily. 'He could die five times over while you're making up your mind. Inject, man! What are you waiting for?' His face had the look of an inspired robber chieftain.

  With a flourish the doctor plunged the needle into the dog's heart.

  'He's alive, but only just,' he whispered timidly.

  'No time to argue whether he's alive or not,' hissed the terrible Philip Philipovich. 'I'm at the saddle. So what if he does die ... hell ..."... the banks of the sa-acred Nile" . . . give me the gland.'

  Bormenthal handed him a beaker containing a white blob suspended on a thread in some fluid. With one hand ('God, there's no one like him in all Europe,' thought Bormenthal) he fished out the dangling blob and with the other hand, using the scissors, he excised a similar blob from deep within the separated cerebral hemispheres. Sharik's blob he threw on to a plate, the new one he inserted into the brain with a piece of thread. Then his stumpy fingers, now miraculously delicate and sensitive, sewed the amber-coloured thread cunningly into place. After that he removed various stretchers and clamps from the skull, replaced the brain in its bony container, leaned back and said in a much calmer voice:


  'I suppose he's died?'

  'There's just a flicker of pulse,' replied Bormenthal.

  'Give him another shot of adrenalin.'

  The professor replaced the membranes over the brain, restored the sawn-off lid to its exact place, pushed the scalp back into position and roared: 'Suture!'

  Five minutes later Bormenthal had sewn up the dog's head, breaking three needles.

  There on the bloodstained pillow lay Sharik's slack, lifeless muzzle, a circular wound on his

  tonsured head. Like a satisfied vampire Philip Philipovich finally stepped back, ripped off one glove, shook out of it a cloud of sweat-drenched powder, tore off the other one, threw it on the ground and rang the bell in the wall. Zina appeared in the doorway, looking away to avoid seeing the blood-spattered dog. With chalky hands the great man pulled off his skull-cap and cried: