Who is this genius, who can even bring stray dogs off the street past a porter? Look at the bastard - not a move, not a word! He looks grim enough, but he doesn't seem to mind, for all the gold braid on his cap. That's how it should be, too. Knows his place. Yes, I'm with this gentleman, so you can keep your hands to yourself. What's that - did he make a move? Bite him. I wouldn't mind a mouthful of homy proletarian leg. In exchange for the trouble I've had from all the other porters and all the times they've poked a broom in my face.

    'Come on, come on.'

    OK, OK, don't worry. I'll go wherever you go. Just show me the way. I'll be right behind you. Even if my side does hurt like hell.

    From hallway up the staircase: 'Were there any letters for me, Fyodor?'

    From below, respectfully: 'No sir, Philip Philipovich' (dropping his voice and adding intimately), 'but they've just moved some more tenants into No. 3.'

    The dog's dignified benefactor turned sharply round on the step, leaned over the railing and asked in horror: 'Wh-at?'

    His eyes went quite round and his moustache bristled.

    The porter looked upwards, put his hand to his lips, nodded and said: 'That's right, four of

them.'

    'My God! I can just imagine what it must be like in that apartment now. What sort of people are they?'

    'Nobody special, sir.'

    'And what's Fyodor Pavolovich doing?'

    'He's gone to get some screens and a load of bricks. They're going to build some partitions in the apartment.'

    'God - what is the place coming to?'

    'Extra tenants are being moved into every apartment, except yours, Philip Philipovich. There was a meeting the other day; they elected a new house committee and kicked out the old one.'

    'What will happen next? Oh, God . . .

'Come on, doggy.'

I'm coming as fast as I can. My side is giving me trouble, though. Let me lick your boot. The porter's gold braid disappeared from the lobby.

Past warm radiators on a marble landing, another flight of stairs and then - a mezzanine.




Two




Why bother to leam to read when you can smell meat a mile away? If you live in Moscow,

though, and if you've got an ounce of brain in your head you can't help learning to read -and without going to night-school either. There are forty-thousand dogs in Moscow and I'll bet there's not one of them so stupid he can't spell out the word 'sausage'.

    Sharik had begun by learning from colours. When he was just four months old, blue-green signs started appearing all over Moscow with the letters MSFS - Moscow State Food Stores - which meant a butcher and delicatessen. I repeat that he had no need to learn his letters because he could smell the meat anyway.