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 sugar-tongs, 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 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: 'Tre
pan!'
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:
"Give me a cigarette, Zina. And then some clean clothes and a bath.'
Layino- his chin on the edge of the table he parted the dog's right eyelids, peered into the obviously moribund eye and said:
'Well, I'll be ... He's not dead yet. Still, he'll die. I feel sorry for the dog, Bormenthal. He was naughty but I couldn't help liking him.'
Four
Subject of experiment: Male dog aged approx. 2 years.
Breed: Mongrel.
Name: 'Sharik'.
Coat sparse, in tufts, brownish with traces of singeing. Tail the colour of baked milk. On right flank traces of healed second-degree burn. Previous nutritional state -poor. After a week's stay with Prof. Preobrazhensky -extremely well nourished. Weight: 8 kilograms (!). Heart: ... Lungs: ... Stomach: ... Temperature: ...
December 23rd. At 8.05pm Prof. Preobrazhensky commenced the first operation of its kind to be performed in Europe: removal under anaesthesia of the dog's testicles and their replacement by implanted human testes, with appendages and seminal ducts, taken from a 28-year-old human male, dead 4 hours and 4 minutes before the operation and kept by Prof. Preobrazhensky in sterilised physiological fluid.
Immediately thereafter, following a trepanning operation on the cranial roof, the pituitary gland was removed and replaced by a human pituitary originating from the above-mentioned human male. Drugs used: Chloroform - 8 cc.
Camphor - 1 syringe.
Adrenalin - 2 syringes (by cardiac injection ).
Purpose of operation: Experimental observation by Prof. Preobrazhensky of the effect of combined transplantation of the pituitary and testes in order to study both the functional viability in a host-organism and its role in cellular etc. rejuvenation.
Operation performed by; Prof. P. P. Preobrazhensky. Assisted by: Dr I. A. Bormenthal. During the night following the operation, frequent and grave weakening of the pulse. Dog apparently in terminal state.
Preobrazhensky prescribes camphor injections in massive dosage.
December 24th. Improvement. Respiration rate doubled. Temperature: 42C. Camphor and caffeine injected subcutaneously.
December 25th. Deterioration.
Pulse barely detectable, cooling of the extremities, no pupillary reaction. Preobrazhensky orders cardiac injection of adrenalin and camphor, intravenous injections of physiological solution.
December 26th. Slight improvement. Pulse: 180.
Respiration: 92. Temperature: 41C. Camphor. Alimentation per rectum.
December 27th. Pulse: 152. Respiration: 50. Temperature: 39.8C. Pupillary reaction. Camphor - subcutaneous.
December 28th. Significant improvement. At noon sudden heavy perspiration. Temperature: 37C.
Condition of surgical wounds unchanged. Re-bandaged. Signs of appetite. Liquid alimentation.
December 29th. Sudden moulting of hair on forehead and torso. The following were summoned for consultation:
1. Professor of Dermatology - Vasily Vasilievich Bundaryov.
2. Director, Moscow Veterinary Institute.
Both stated the case to be without precedent in medical literature.
No diagnosis established.
Temperature: (entered in pencil).
8.15pm. First bark.
Distinct alteration of timbre and lowering of pitch
noticeable. Instead of diphthong 'aow-aow', bark now enunciated on vowels 'ah-oh', in intonation reminiscent
of a groan.
December 30th Moulting process has progressed to almost total baldness.
Weighing produced the unexpected result of 80 kg., due to growth (lengthening of the bones). Dog still lying prone.
December 31st. Subject exhibits colossal appetite.
(Ink-blot. After the blot the following entry in scrawled hand-writing): At 12.12pm the dog distinctly pronounced the sounds 'Nes-set-a'.
(Gap in entries. The following entries show errors due to excitement):
December 1st (deleted; corrected to): January 1st 1925. Dog photographed a.m.
Cheerfully barks 'Nes-set-a', repeating loudly and with apparent pleasure.
3.0pm (in heav
y lettering): Dog laughed, causing maid Zina to faint. Later, pronounced the following 8 times in succession: 'Nesseta-ciled'. (Sloping characters, written in pencil):
The professor has deciphered the word 'Nesseta-ciled' by reversal: it is 'delicatessen' ... Quite extraord ...
January 2nd. Dog photographed by magnesium flash while smiling. Got up and remained confidently on hind legs for a half-hour. Now nearly my height. (Loose page inserted into notebook): Russian science almost suffered a most serious blow. History of Prof. P. P. Preobrazhensky's illness:
1.13pm Prof. Preobrazhensky falls into deep faint. On falling, strikes head on edge of table.
Temp.: ...
The dog in the presence of Zina and myself, had called Prof. Preobrazhensky a 'bloody bastard'.
January 6th (entries made partly in pencil, partly in violet ink):
Today, after the dog's tail had fallen out, he quite clearly pronounced the word 'liquor'.
Recording apparatus switched on. God knows what's happening.
(Total confusion.)
Professor has ceased to see patients. From 5pm this evening sounds of vulgar abuse issuing from the consulting-room, where the creature is still confined. Heard to ask for 'another one, and make it a double.'
January 7th. Creature can now pronounce several words: 'taxi', 'full up', 'evening paper', 'take one home for the kiddies' and every known Russian swear-word. His appearance is strange. He now only has hair on his head, chin and chest. Elsewhere he is bald, with flabby skin. His genital region now has the appearance of an immature human male. His skull has enlarged considerably. Brow low and receding.
My God, I must be going mad...
Philip Philipovich still feels unwell. Most of the observations (pictures and recordings) are being carried out by myself.
Rumours are spreading round the town ... Consequences may be incalculable. All day today the whole street was full of loafing rubbernecks and old women ... Dogs still crowding round beneath the windows. Amazing report in the morning papers: The rumours of a Martian in Obukhov Street are totally unfounded. They have been spread by black-market traders and their repetition will be severely punished. What Martian, for God's sake? This is turning into a nightmare.
Heart of a Dog Page 5
