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

.!'
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 . . .'