The stray Dog by Sadeq Hedayat (Translated by Iraj Bashiri)
Stray Dog
Several small shops designed to satisfy hunger and other primitive needs of life--a bakery, a butcher shop, a drugstore, two cafes and a barbershop--formed the Varamin square. The square, with its half-broiled inhabitants, withering under a burning sun, looked forward to the first evening breeze and the cool of the night. For the present, however, men, beasts, shops and trees were all silent and motionless. The heat hovered over the village and a light dust, thickening continually in the traffic, wavered against the azure sky.
On one side of the square was an ancient plane tree that stubbornly
spread its crooked and gnarled branches in every direction despite a rotted and
hollowed-out trunk. In the shade of its dust-laden leaves sat a large and
spacious platform from which two boys hawked their wares, rice custard and
pumpkin seeds. The water running in the juy in front of the
cafe, clotted with mud and dirt, pulled on ever so sluggishly.
The only building worthy of attention in this miserable hamlet was the
famous Varamin Tower, of which half of the cracked cylindrical body and the
conical top were visible. Even the sparrows nesting in the crevices made by
fallen bricks were dozing the afternoon away, stultified by the heat. The only
complaint came from a dog who intermittently broke the silence.
He was a Scottish breed of dog with a blue-black muzzle and black spots
on his hind legs. His hanging ears, pointed tail and curling, dirty coat were
splattered with mud, as if he had run through a swamp. Two intelligent human
eyes shone from his shaggy forehead; from the depths of those eyes shone a
human soul with a message as impenetrable as the darkness that shrouded his
whole being. Whatever this message was, it was not of the substance of light or
color; it was some other incredible thing, like the expression in the eyes of a
wounded gazelle. Not only did his eyes resemble those of a human being--they
had the same expression. And while these two brown eyes were filled with the
pain, suffering and expectation characteristic of the face of a vagabond dog,
nobody saw or comprehended his painful, beseeching expression. In front of the
baker's, the errand boy beat him; in front of the butcher shop, the apprentice
pelted him with rocks; had he taken shelter in the shade of a car, the spiked
shoes of the driver would surely have entertained him. When the others tired of
hurting him, the boy who sold rice custard took a special delight in tormenting
him. Each of the poor creature's complaints, roused by the sting of a rock
against his side, was followed by the boy's laughter and the harsh words,
"Lousy mutt!" With their raucous laughter, others gladly seconded his
efforts. In their eyes, the torture of an unclean dog, cursed by religion and
possessed of seven lives, was quite natural and worthy of eternal reward. To
please Allah, they beat him.
Today the rice-custard vendor continued his punishment until the
helpless animal escaped, dragging his hungry body in the direction of the
tower. There he took refuge in a sluice, placed his head on his paws, thrust
his tongue out and, hovering between sleep and wakefulness, looked out at the
lush fields of green. His body was tired and his nerves ached. In the cool and
damp of the sluice, a special solace and tranquillity engulfed him. Many
smells, the smell of half-dead plants, the smell of a putrid old shoe, the
smell of things dead and living, revived confused and distant memories.
Whenever he looked at the field, the animal instinct in him revived and with it
came pleasant memories of the past. This time, however, the sensations were
very strong, as if a voice were whispering in his ear, calling him to get up,
move and jump around. He felt an ungovernable urge to run and gambol in the
fields.
This was his hereditary instinct; all his ancestors were bred to be free
in the lush meadows of Scotland. His body, however, was now so fatigued that he
was unable to move even slightly. Pain, mingled with weakness and inertia,
overtook him, exciting vague and lost sensations. Once he had been obliged to
obey certain needs and requirements. He had felt bound to respond to his
master's call, to scare strangers and stray dogs off his master's property, to
play with his master's child, to treat those he knew differently from
strangers, to eat on time and to expect to be petted at a proper time. But now
all these restrictions had dissolved.
In their stead he had learned how to grab something off the trash pile,
how to tolerate daily punishment and how to howl and whimper. The latter was
his sole means of defense. In the past he had been bold, courageous, clean and
vivacious, but now he had become cowardly and pathetic; every noise, every
vibration startled him. He was afraid even of his own voice. He had become
accustomed to dirt and rubbish. His body "itched, but he did not have the
will either to catch the ticks or to lick himself clean. He felt that he had
become one with the dirt and that inside him something had died; something
lustrous had gone out.
During the two winters since he had entered this hell, he had not eaten
a full meal and had not had a good sleep. His passions and feelings had
suffocated. Nobody petted him and no one looked him in the eye. It seemed that
the inhabitants of this place, although they resembled his master, differed
from him in feeling, behavior and temperament. It was as though the people in
the past were closer to his world; they comprehended his predicament and
sympathized with him. They supported him.
Among the scents that he perceived now, the smell of the rice custard
excited him the most. This white liquid, so much like his mother's milk,
reminded him of his puppyhood. A feeling of numbness overtook him as he
recalled how, as a pup, he had sucked that nourishing, warm liquid from his
mother's nipple while her soft, firm tongue had licked him clean. He recalled
his mother's pungent odor and then the scent of his brother as they suckled
together at their mother's side. Recollection of the strong and heavy smell of
his mother and her milk enveloped him.
When he had been fully satisfied with milk, his body became warm and
comfortable; a liquid warmth flowed through his veins and sinews. Sleepily he
let go of his mother's nipple, trembling throughout his body; then he fell into
a deep sleep. What pleasure could surpass such satisfaction? Even when
accidentally he pressed his mother's nipple with his paw, without any need for
struggle and without difficulty, milk flowed out. His brother's fluffy body, his
mother's bark, all these were intoxicating and soothing. He recalled his wooden
house and the games he and his brother had played in those lush, green meadows.
He used to bite his brother's floppy ears and together they would roll
on the ground, get up and run. Unforgettable were his master's caresses and the
lumps of sugar he had fed him. Later he had found another friend--his master's
son. He would run after his new friend at the end of the garden, barking and
biting his clothes. He had especially liked his master's son, because the boy
was his playmate and never hit him. Later, suddenly, he had lost his mother and
his brother; he had remained alone with his master, his master's wife, their
son and an old servant. He could distinguish the odor of each quite well and
knew the sound of their footsteps. When it was time for their dinner, he walked
around the table to smell the food. Sometimes his master's wife, despite her
husband's objections, gave him one or two choice pieces of meat. Then the
servant would come and call his name, "Pat ... Pat..." His food was
put in a special bowl in the corner of his wooden house.
Pat's misfortunes began when his rut came on; his master would not allow
him out of the house to run after bitches. Then, as fate would have it, one
autumn day his master and two others whom he knew and who often visited their
house got into an automobile, called Pat and put him beside them in the car.
Pat had traveled in a car with his master several times, but this time he was
in heat and felt a special agitation and restlessness. Hours later they arrived
at Varamin square and got out of the car. His master and the other two were
passing the alley beside the tower when Pat picked up a scent--this scent of a
female canine brought him close to insanity. Every few steps he stopped and
smelled the ground; at last he entered a garden through an open sluice.
Near sunset, once again, he heard his master's voice calling,
"Pat... Pat!" Was this his master's voice or merely an echo of that
voice ringing in his ear?
His master's voice, cumbering him as it did with every duty and
responsibility, had a special effect on Pat, but a force above and beyond the
forces of that alien world pressed him to stay with the bitch. This obligation
dulled and deafened his ears to the sounds of that world. Strong sensations
awoke in him; the smell of the bitch was so strong and poignant that it made
him dizzy. His body and his senses disobeyed him and he lost control. Before
long, however, some club wielders discovered him in the garden and drove him
out through the sluice.
Pat felt a little dizzy and tired, but at the same time lighter and more
relaxed. Confused, he began to look for his master. All he could pick up was a
weak scent in several alleys. He followed all the alleys and intermittently
left his own sign. He went as far as the ruins outside the village; then he
came back, knowing that his master would return to the square. There, however,
his master's weakening scent was lost in all the other scents. Had his master
gone and left hi behind? A mixture of dread and apprehension seized him. How
could Pat survive without his master, his God? His master was like a deity!
Surely his master would come back, seeking him out. Terrified, he ran down
several roads, but his searches were useless.
At night, tired and beaten, he returned to the square. He found no sign
of his master. He toured the village several times more, finally arriving at
the sluice where he had met the bitch. Heavy rocks now blocked the sluice. With
a special zeal, Pat began to dig his way into the garden, but he made little
headway. Losing hope, he began to doze, eventually falling asleep in that same
spot.
Near midnight, Pat's own moans and groans awoke him. Terrified, he began
to run through the alleys, smelling the walls and searching. He felt an acute
pang of hunger. Reaching the square, the smells of many different foods struck
him: the smell of leftover meat, the smell of freshly baked bread and the smell
of yogurt all mingled tantalizingly. At the same time he felt guilty for
trespassing on the property of others, for having to beg from these people for
food and for expecting, if there were no rivals to force him out, to make this
his own locale. Perhaps one of these creatures who resembled his master and who
carried food in his hands might keep him as a pet.
Cautious and trembling, he approached the bakery which had just opened
its door, filling the air with the aroma of freshly baked bread. A man carrying
bread under his arms called to him, "bia... bia!" How alien was that voice! Its
owner threw a piece of bread to Pat who, with some hesitation, ate it and
wagged his tail. The man then put the bread on the platform of the shop and
fearfully and cautiously petted Pat on the head. Using both hands, he
unfastened Pat's collar. How relieved Pat felt! It was as though all binds,
responsibilities and duties were removed from him. But when he wagged his tail
again and approached the baker, he was rewarded with a strong kick in the side.
The baker walked to the juy and, ritually, washed his hands
three times. Pat recognized his collar hanging in front of the bakery.
Since that night Pat had experienced no other attitude from these
people. They kicked him, pelted him with rocks and beat him with clubs. It was
as though they were his bitter enemies, gaining a particular pleasure from
torturing him.
He did not recognize this world he was entering. In it no one shared his
sentiments and ways. The first several days were the hardest. Then, gradually,
he became accustomed to this new life. Besides, at the corner to the right he
had discovered a trash pile in which he could find tasty pieces like bones,
fat, skin, fish heads and many other edibles that he could not name. He spent
the rest of each day in front of the butcher shop and the bakery. His eyes were
riveted to the butcher's hand, but the amount of punishment he received always
exceeded the number of delicious pieces. He became accustomed to this new life
though, and his previous life was soon no more than a vestige of some smells
and the recollection of a series of vague and discolored events. He kept this
lost paradise in his memory, escaping to it in desperate moments.
What most tortured Pat was his need for caressing. In spite of being
continually beaten and maltreated, his feelings had remained tender, like a
child's. Especially in this new life, full of pain and suffering, he needed to
be fondled. His eyes begged for love and he was ready to give his life for
anyone who would be kind to him and pet him on the head. He needed to convey
his love to someone, to sacrifice himself and to show his devotion and loyalty,
but it seemed that no one needed such an outpouring of affection; nobody took
his side, and in every eye he saw nothing but enmity and malice. The more he
tried to attract their attention, the more, it seemed, he excited their anger
and rage.
Today Pat slept in the sluice while nightmarish dreams passed before his
eyes. He moaned several times, then woke up. He was extremely hungry. The smell
of kabob filled the air. A relentless hunger tortured his
insides, making him forget all his other miseries. He rose painfully and headed
cautiously for the square.
***
Was this really happening or was he dreaming? Pat ate a full meal
without interruption or punishment. Could it be that he had found a new master?
Despite the heat, the man got up, went to the alley by the tower, halted there
a moment, then continued on his way, passing through several other labyrinthine
alleys. Pat followed until the two of them had left the village limits. The man
then entered some ruins where now only a few walls remained. Pat's master had
visited the same site. Perhaps these, too, were seeking the scent of females!
Pat waited in the shade of the wall; then both returned to the square by a
different route. Once again the man patted Pat on the head and, after a quick
stroll around the square, he went and sat in one of those automobiles that Pat
knew. Pat, who did not dare enter the automobile, sat beside the car and
watched the man.
Suddenly, amid the dust, the automobile began to move. Pat, too, without
hesitation, began to run after it. No, this time he did not intend to lose this
man. He was panting; despite the pain in his body, he was right behind the car
and running with speed. The car left the village and was now passing some
fields. Two or three times Pat caught up with the automobile, then again lagged
behind. Out of despair, he had given all his energy to this run, but the car
was faster than he was. He had made a mistake: his weak and broken body was no
match for the speed of the car. He felt queasy and suddenly he was no longer in
control of his parts--he could not move, not even slightly. All this effort had
been useless. He knew neither why he was running, nor where he was running. He
was spent and there was no way out. He stopped. He was panting, his tongue
hanging out of his mouth. His sight was darkened. With a lowered head and with
difficulty he pulled himself off the road and into a juy by
the field; he lowered himself onto the hot, damp sand. He knew he would never
leave this place. His instincts had never been wrong. He was dizzy; his
thoughts and sensations grew dull. He felt an intense pain in his belly and a
sick light glowed in his eyes. Gradually his paws became numb and a cold sweat
engulfed his body; it was an intoxicating and comforting, cool sensation.
***
Near sunset three hungry crows hovered above Pat's head. They had picked
up his scent. Approaching cautiously, one of them perched nearby and watched
carefully. When he was sure that Pat was not yet completely dead, he flew away.
These three crows had come to pluck out Pat's two brown eyes.
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