Heart of a Dog by Mikhail Bulgakov

swear I have never seen a more impudent creature than you.'
        Bormenthal giggled.
        'You,' went on Philip Philipovich, 'are nothing but a lout. How dare you say that? You caused the whole thing and you have the gall . . . No, really! It's too much!'
        'Tell me, Sharikov,' said Bormenthal, 'how much longer are you going to chase cats? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. It's disgraceful! You're a savage!'
        'Me - a savage?' snarled Sharikov. 'I'm no savage. I won't stand for that cat in this flat. It only comes here to find what it can pinch. It stole Darya's mincemeat. I wanted to teach it a lesson.'
        'You should teach yourself a lesson!' replied Philip Philipovich. 'Just take a look at your face in the mirror.'
        'Nearly scratched my eyes out,' said Sharikov gloomily, wiping a dirty hand across his eyes.
        By the time that the water-blackened parquet had dried out a little, all the mirrors were
    covered in a veil of condensed vapour and the doorbell had stopped ringing. Philip Philipovich in red morocco slippers was standing in the hall.
        'There you are, Fyodor. Thank you.'
        'Thank you very much, sir.'
        'Mind you change your clothes straight away. No, wait -have a glass of Darya Petrovna's vodka before you go.'
        'Thank you, sir,' Fyodor squirmed awkwardly, then said:
        'There is one more thing, Philip Philipovich. I'm sorry, I hardly like to mention it, but it's the matter of the window-pane in No 7. Citizen Sharikov threw some stones at it, you see . . .'
        'Did he throw them at a cat?' asked Philip Philipovich, frowning like a thundercloud.
        'Well, no, he was throwing them at the owner of the flat. He's threatening to sue.'
        'Oh, lord!'
        'Sharikov tried to kiss their cook and they threw him out. They had a bit of a fight, it seems.'
        'For God's sake, do you have to tell me all these disasters at once? How much?'
        'One rouble and 50 kopecks.'
        Philip Philipovich took out three shining 50-kopeck pieces and handed them to Fyodor.
        'And on top of it all you have to pay 1 rouble and 50 kopecks because of that damned cat,'
    grumbled a voice from the doorway. 'It was all the cat's fault . . .'
        Philip Philipovich turned round, bit his lip and gripped Sharikov. Without a word he pushed him into the waiting-room and locked the door. Sharik immediately started to hammer on the door with his fists.
        'Shut up!' shouted Philip Philipovich in a voice that was nearly deranged.
        'This is the limit,' said Fyodor meaningfully. 'I've never seen such impudence in my life.'
        Bormenthal seemed to materialise out of the floor.
        'Please, Philip Philipovich, don't upset yourself.'
        The doctor thrust open the door into the waiting-room.
        He could be heard saying: 'Where d'you think you are? In some dive?'
        'That's it,' said Fyodor approvingly. 'Serve him right . . .a punch on the ear's what he needs . . .'
        'No, not that, Fyodor,' growled Philip Philipovich sadly. 'I think you've just about had all you can take, Philip Philipovich.'
    Six

    'No, no, no!' insisted Bormenthal. 'You must tuck in vour napkin.'
    'Why the hell should I,' grumbled Sharikov.
        'Thank you, doctor,' said Philip Philipovich gratefully. 'I simply haven't the energy to reprimand him any longer.'
        'I shan't allow you to start eating until you put on your napkin. Zina, take the mayonnaise away from Sharikov.'
        'Hey, don't do that,' said Sharikov plaintively. 'I'll put it on straight away.'
        Pushing away the dish from Zina with his left hand and stuffing a napkin down his collar with the right hand, he looked exactly like a customer in a barber's shop.
        'And eat with your fork, please,' added Bormenthal.
        Sighing long and heavily Sharikov chased slices of sturgeon around in a thick sauce.
        'Can't I have some