Oh, master! 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.