Moscow, February 1954 Being an account of Liya Nikoleyevna, wife of Vladimir Demikhov, transplant surgeon. In the morning there is a dog that hadn’t been here before. Volodya is asleep, his eyes little half-moons. In the pale light this morning his face is waxy, a death mask. Never before has a man looked so young and yet so old. He is like a little boy, the way he purrs in his sleep. But this is no time to admire. There is a dog, a big Alsatian, slobbering on the bedclothes. On my mother’s coverlet, no less. I hiss, trying to shoo it away without waking Volodya, but then I feel a short stab of anger — it is he who has let the dog into our tiny apartment. And not a small dog, either — a huge beast. What of Olechka, sleeping soundly in the next room? Her door is ajar; it would be easy for this dog — which could, now I think more because I am shaking off the foolishness of sleep, be rabid — to get into her room and it could rip her throat out.
Dog (Where I End and You Begin)
Dog (Where I End and You Begin)
Dog (Where I End and You Begin)
Moscow, February 1954 Being an account of Liya Nikoleyevna, wife of Vladimir Demikhov, transplant surgeon. In the morning there is a dog that hadn’t been here before. Volodya is asleep, his eyes little half-moons. In the pale light this morning his face is waxy, a death mask. Never before has a man looked so young and yet so old. He is like a little boy, the way he purrs in his sleep. But this is no time to admire. There is a dog, a big Alsatian, slobbering on the bedclothes. On my mother’s coverlet, no less. I hiss, trying to shoo it away without waking Volodya, but then I feel a short stab of anger — it is he who has let the dog into our tiny apartment. And not a small dog, either — a huge beast. What of Olechka, sleeping soundly in the next room? Her door is ajar; it would be easy for this dog — which could, now I think more because I am shaking off the foolishness of sleep, be rabid — to get into her room and it could rip her throat out.