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

'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 . .