Heart of a Dog

by Mikhail Bulgakov

The whole horror, you see, is that his heart is no longer a dog’s heart, but a human one. And the vilest you could find!”

* Approximately twelve square yards.

“Merci. No, Professor,” replied the guest, placing his peaked helmet on the corner of the table. “I am most grateful to you . . . Hm . . . I’ve come in connection with a different matter, Philip Philippovich . . . my great regard for you . . . hm . . . to warn you. It’s obvious nonsense. He is simply a scoundrel. . . .” The patient opened his briefcase and took out a sheet of paper. “Fortunately, it was reported directly to me. .

“It’s him, all right,” said Fyodor’s voice. “Only he’s grown his fur back, the scoundrel.” “But he spoke . . . khe . . . khe . . .” “He still speaks, but less and less. I would suggest you take advantage of the moment, because he’ll soon grow silent altogether.” “But why?” the black man inquired in an undertone. Philip Philippovich shrugged his shoulders. “Science has not yet discovered methods of transforming animals into humans. I tried, but unsuccessfully, as you can see. He spoke for a while, and then began to revert to his original state. Atavism.”

accordions of the radiators hummed. The curtains shut out the dense Prechistenka night with its solitary star.