"Michail Bulgakov. The heart of a dog" - читать интересную книгу автора

Look at me. I'm dying. I'm so wretched, I'll be your slave for ever!
The dog crawled tearfully forward on his stomach. Look what that cook
did to me. You'll never give me anything, though. I know these rich people.
What good is it to you? What do you want with a bit of rotten old horsemeat?
The Moscow State Food Store only sells muck like that. But you've a good
lunch under your belt, haven't you, you're a world-famous figure thanks to
male sex glands. Oowow-owow . . . What can I do? I'm too young to die yet
and despair's a sin. There's nothing for it, I shall have to lick his hand.
The mysterious gentleman bent down towards the dog, his gold
spectacle-rims flashing, and pulled a long white package out of his
right-hand coat pocket. Without taking off his tan gloves he broke off a
piece of the sausage, which was labelled 'Special Cracower'. And gave it to
the dog. Oh, immaculate personage! Oowow-oowow!
'Here, doggy,' the gentleman whistled, and added sternly, 'Come on!
Take it, Sharik!'
He's christened me Sharik too. Call me what you like. For this you can
do anything you like to me,
In a moment the dog had ripped off the sausage-skin. Mouth watering, he
bit into the Cracower and gobbled it down in two swallows. Tears started to
his eyes as he nearly choked on the string, which in his greed he almost
swallowed. Let me lick your hand again, I'll kiss your boots - you've saved
my life.
'That's enough . . .' The gentleman barked as though giving an order.
He bent over Sharik, stared with a searching look into his eyes and
unexpectedly stroked the dog gently and intimately along the stomach with
his gloved hand.
'Aha,' he pronounced meaningly. 'No collar. Excellent. You're just what
I want. Follow me.' He clicked his fingers. 'Good dog!'
Follow you? To the end of the earth. Kick me with your felt boots and I
won't say a word.
The street lamps were alight all along Prechistenka Street. His flank
hurt unbearably, but for the moment Sharik forgot about it, absorbed by a
single thought: how to avoid losing sight of this miraculous fur-coated
vision in the hurly-burly of the storm and how to show him his love and
devotion. Seven times along the whole length of Prechistenka Street as far
as the cross-roads at Obukhov Street he showed it. At Myortvy Street he
kissed his boot, he cleared the way by barking at a lady and frightened her
into falling flat on the pavement, and twice he gave a howl to make sure the
gentleman still felt sorry for him.
A filthy, thieving stray torn cat slunk out from behind a drainpipe and
despite the snowstorm, sniffed the Cracower. Sharik went blind with rage at
the thought that this rich eccentric who picked up injured dogs in doorways
might take pity on this robber and make him share the sausage. So he bared
his teeth so fiercely that the cat, with a hiss like a leaky hosepipe,
shinned back up the drainpipe right to the second floor. Grrrr! Woof! Gone!
We can't go handing out Moscow State groceries to all the strays loafing
about Prechistenka Street.
The gentleman noticed the dog's devotion as they passed the fire
station window, out of which came the pleasant sound of a French horn, and
rewarded him with a second piece that was an ounce or two smaller.