[adapted]

by
Anton Chekhov

The police chief Otchumyelov is walking across the market square wearing a new coat and carrying a package under his arm. A red-haired policeman walks behind him with a bowl with holes full of gooseberries that were taken away in his hands. There is silence all around. Not a single person in the square.… The open doors of the shops and bars look out at God’s world sadly, like hungry mouths; there is not even a beggar near them.

“So you bite, you bad animal?” Otchumyelov hears suddenly. “Boys, don’t let him go! Biting is not allowed these days! Hold him! ah … ah!”

There is the sound of a dog crying. Otchumyelov looks toward the sound and sees a dog, hopping on three legs and looking around her, run out of Pitchugin’s wood yard. A man in a stiff cotton shirt, with his vest unbuttoned, is chasing her. He runs after her, and, throwing his body forward, falls down and grabs the dog by her back legs. Once more there is a cry and a shout of “Don’t let go!” Sleepy faces are looking out of the shops, and soon a crowd, which seems to have come out of the ground, is gathered around the wood yard.

“It looks like a fight, sir…” says the policeman.
Otchumyelov turns a little to the left and walks quickly towards the crowd.

He sees the same man mentioned before in the unbuttoned vest standing near the gate of the wood yard, holding his right hand up and showing a bleeding finger to the crowd. On his half-drunk face it is easy to read: “I’ll make you pay, you rascal!” and even the very finger looks like a flag of victory. In this man Otchumyelov recognises Hryukin, the gold worker. The one at fault who has caused the fuss, a white borzoy puppy with a sharp nose and a yellow patch on her back, is sitting on the ground with her front paws stretched out in the middle of the crowd, shaking all over. There is a look of sadness and fear in her eyes full of tears.

“What’s it all about?” Otchumyelov asks, pushing through the crowd. “What are you here for? Why are you waving your finger…? Who shouted?”
“I was walking along here, not bothering anyone, your honour,” Hryukin begins, coughing into his hand.
“I was talking about firewood to Mitry Mitritch, when this nasty animal for no reason bit my finger.… You must excuse me, I am a working man.… My work is fine work. I must have money for damages, because I won’t be able to use this finger for a week, maybe.… It’s not even right by the law, your honour, that one should have to take this from an animal.… If everyone is going to be bitten, life won’t be worth living.…”

“H’m. Very good,” says Otchumyelov seriously, coughing and raising his eyebrows. “Very good. Whose dog is it? I won’t ignore this! I’ll teach them to let their dogs run all over the place! It’s time these people were dealt with, if they won’t follow the rules! When he’s fined, that bad man, I’ll teach him what it means to keep dogs and such stray animals! I’ll give him a lesson!… Yeldyrin,” cries the chief, speaking to the policeman, “find out whose dog this is and write a report! And the dog must be choked to death. At once! It’s sure to be mad.… Whose dog is it, I ask?”

“I think it’s General Zhigalov’s,” says someone in the crowd. “General Zhigalov’s, h’m.… Help me off with my coat, Yeldyrin … it’s very hot! It must be a sign of rain…. There’s one thing I can’t understand, how it came to bite you?” Otchumyelov turns to Hryukin. “Surely it couldn’t reach your finger. It’s a little dog, and you’re a big, heavy fellow! You must have scratched your finger with a nail, and then you got the idea to get money for it. We all know … your kind! I know you devils!”

“He put a cigarette in her face, your honour, for a joke, and she had the sense to bite him.… He is a silly man, your honour!”
“That’s a lie, Squinteye! You didn’t see, so why tell lies about it? His honour is a wise man, and will see who is telling lies and who is telling the truth, as God sees it.… And if I am lying let the court decide. It’s written in the law.… We are all equal nowadays. My own brother is in the police … let me tell you….”
“Don’t argue!”

“No, that’s not the General’s dog,” says the policeman, very sure, “the General hasn’t got one like that. His are mostly setters.”
“Do you know that for sure?”
“Yes, your honour.”

“I know it, too. The General has expensive dogs, of a good kind, and this is who knows what! No fur, no shape.… A bad creature. And to keep a dog like that!… what’s the point of it. If a dog like that were to show up in Petersburg or Moscow, do you know what would happen? They would not care about the law, they would kill it at once! You’ve been hurt, Hryukin, and we can’t let it go.… We must give them a lesson! It is time…!”

“But maybe it is the General’s,” says the policeman, thinking out loud. “It’s not written on its face... I saw one like it the other day in his yard.”
“It is the General’s, that’s for sure!” says a voice in the crowd.

“H’m, help me put on my overcoat, Yeldyrin, my boy … the wind is getting stronger.… I’m cold.… You take it to the General’s, and ask there. Say I found it and sent it. And tell them not to let it out into the street.… It may be an expensive dog, and if every pig puts a cigar in its mouth, it will soon be hurt. A dog is an animal that is easy to hurt.… And you put your hand down, you fool. It is no use you showing your silly finger. It’s your own fault.…”

“Here comes the General’s cook, ask him … Hi, Prohor! Come here, my dear man! Look at this dog.… Is this one of yours?”
“What an idea! We have never had one like that!”
“There’s no need to waste time asking,” says Otchumyelov. “It’s a lost dog! There’s no need to waste time talking about it.… Because he says it’s a lost dog, a lost dog it is.… It must be killed, that’s all about it.”

“It’s not our dog,” Prohor goes on. “It belongs to the General’s brother, who arrived the other day. Our master does not like dogs. But his honour likes them….”
“You don’t say the General’s brother is here? Vladimir Ivanitch?” asks Otchumyelov, and his whole face lights up with a very happy smile. “‘Well, I never! And I didn’t know! Has he come for a visit?
“Yes.”
“Well, I never.… He couldn’t stay away from his brother.… And there I didn’t know! So this is his honour’s dog? Glad to hear it.… Take it. It’s not a bad pup.… A lively animal.… Snapped at this man’s finger! Ha-ha-ha.… Come, why are you shivering? Rrr … Rrrr…. The naughty one’s angry … a nice little pup.”

Prohor calls the dog, and walks away from the wood yard with her. The crowd laughs at Hryukin.
“I’ll teach you a lesson yet!” Otchumyelov threatens him, and wrapping himself in his big coat, goes on his way across the square.