Yuri Pavlovich Kazakov
(1927-1982)
ARCTURUS - HOUND DOG
1
The history of his appearance in the city remained unknown. He came from somewhere in the spring and began to live.
They said that he was abandoned by passing gypsies.
Strange people- gypsies. In early spring they set off on their journey. Some travel by train, others on ships or rafts, others trudge along the roads in carts, looking with hostility at the cars rushing past. People with southern blood, they climb into the most remote northern corners. Suddenly they become a camp near the city, wander around the bazaar for several days, feel things, bargain, go from house to house, tell fortunes, swear, laugh - dark, beautiful, with earrings in their ears, in bright clothes. But then they leave the city, disappear as suddenly as they appeared, and you will never see them here. Others will come, but these will not be there. The world is wide, and they do not like to come to places they have already been to.
So, many were convinced that the gypsies abandoned him in the spring.
Others said that he sailed on an ice floe during the spring flood. He stood, black, among the blue and white crumble, alone motionless among the general movement. And swans flew above and shouted: “Clink-clank!”
People are always excited to see swans. And when they arrive, when at dawn they rise from the floods with their great spring cry “clink-clank,” people follow them with their eyes, the blood begins to ring in their hearts, and they know then that spring has come.
The ice rustled and muffledly burst along the river, swans screamed, and he stood on the ice floe, tail between his legs, wary, uncertain, sniffing and listening attentively to what was happening around him. When the ice floe approached the shore, he became agitated, jumped awkwardly, fell into the water, but quickly climbed ashore and, shaking himself off, disappeared among the stacks of timber.
One way or another, but, having appeared in the spring, when the days are filled with the shine of the sun, the sound of streams and the smell of bark, he remained to live in the city.
One can only guess about his past. He was probably born somewhere under the porch, on the straw. His mother, a purebred bitch from the Kostroma hound breed, short, with a long body, when the time came, disappeared under the porch to accomplish her great deed in secret. They called her, she did not respond and did not eat anything, completely concentrated in herself, feeling that something was about to happen that was more important than anything in the world, more important even than hunting and people...
He was born, like all puppies, blind, was immediately licked by his mother and placed close to the warm belly, still tense from birth pains. And while he lay there, getting used to breathing, more and more brothers and sisters were added to him. They moved, grunted and tried to whine - just like him, smoky puppies with bare bellies and short, trembling tails. Soon it was all over, everyone found a nipple and fell silent; All that could be heard was the mother's sniffling, smacking and heavy breathing. This is how their life began.
At one time, all the puppies opened their eyes, and they learned with delight that there was a world even greater than the one in which they had lived until now. His eyes were also opened, but he was never destined to see the light. He was blind, a thick gray film covering his pupils. For him, a blind man, a bitter and hard life. It would even be terrible if he could realize his blindness. But he did not know that he was blind, it was not given to him to know. He accepted life as it came to him.
Somehow it happened that he was not drowned or killed, which would, of course, have been mercy towards a helpless puppy, unnecessary to people. He remained alive and endured great ordeals, which hardened and hardened him ahead of time.
He did not have an owner who would give him shelter, feed him and take care of him as his friend. He became a homeless stray dog, sullen, awkward and distrustful. His mother, having fed him, soon lost all interest in him, as in his brothers. He learned to howl like a wolf, just as long, darkly and sadly. He was dirty, often sick, rummaged in the dumps near the canteens, received kicks and tubs dirty water along with the same homeless and hungry dogs.
He couldn't run fast; he didn't really need his legs, his strong legs. All the time it seemed to him that he was running towards something sharp and tough. When he fought with other dogs - and he fought many times in his life - he did not see his enemies, he bit and rushed, focusing on the sound of breathing, on growls and squeals, on the rustling of the earth under the paws of his enemies, and often rushed and bit in vain.
It is not known what name his mother gave him at birth - for people he had no name. It is also unknown whether he would have stayed in the city, left, or died somewhere in a ravine, but a man intervened in his fate, and everything changed.
2
That summer I lived in a small northern town. The city stood on the banks of the river. White steamships, dirty brown barges, long rafts, wide-chine carbas with sides stained with black tar floated along the river. There was a pier near the shore that smelled of matting, rope, damp rot and roach. Rarely did anyone go to this pier, except suburban collective farmers on market day and business travelers in gray raincoats who came from the region to the timber mill.
Around the city, along low, gentle hills, forests stretched, mighty, untouched: the wood for rafting was cut down in the upper reaches of the river. In the forests there were large meadows and remote lakes with huge old pine trees along the banks. The pines made a quiet noise all the time. When a cool, damp wind blew from the Arctic Ocean, driving up clouds, the pines hummed menacingly and dropped their cones, which hit the ground hard.
I rented a room on the outskirts, on top of an old house. My master, the doctor, was always busy, silent man. He used to live with a large family, but his two sons were killed at the front, his wife died, his daughter went to Moscow, and the doctor now lived alone and treated children. He had one strange thing: he loved to sing. With the thinnest fistula, he pulled out all kinds of arias, sweetly fading on the high notes. He had three rooms downstairs, but he rarely went there, dined and slept on the terrace, and the rooms were gloomy, smelling of dust, a pharmacy and old wallpaper.
The window of my room looked out onto a wild garden, overgrown with currants, raspberries, burdock and nettles along the fence. In the mornings, sparrows fussed outside the window, blackbirds came in clouds to peck currants - the doctor did not chase them away and did not pick berries. The neighbor's chickens and roosters sometimes flew up onto the fence. The rooster sang loudly, stretched his neck upward, shook his tail and looked curiously into the garden. Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore, he flew down, and the chickens flew after him and hastily began to rummage around the currant bushes. Cats also wandered into the garden and, hiding near the burdock trees, watched the sparrows.
I had been living in the city for two weeks already, but I still couldn’t get used to the quiet streets with wooden sidewalks with grass growing between the boards, to the creaky steps of the stairs, to the rare whistles of steamships at night.
It was an unusual city. There were white nights there almost all summer. The embankment and its streets were quiet and thoughtful. At night, a distinct knocking sound could be heard near the houses - it was workers coming from the night shift. The steps and laughter of the lovers were heard by the sleeping people all night. It seemed that the houses had sensitive walls and that the city, hiding, listened to the steps of its inhabitants.
At night our garden smelled of currants and dew, and the quiet snoring of the doctor could be heard from the terrace. And on the river the boat hummed with its engine and sang in a nasal voice: "Doo-doo-doo..."

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Yuri Pavlovich Kazakov
Arcturus - hound dog

Yuri Kazakov(1927–1982) - a wonderful Soviet prose writer, author of subtle and lyrical stories, a successor to the traditions of I. Bunin. Like many of his contemporaries, his fate was not easy: a half-starved childhood in Moscow in a family who came from Smolensk peasants, soon the Great Patriotic War, after - construction technical school. At the age of 15 - School of Music named after the Gnessins, then the orchestra Musical theater them. K. S. Stanislavsky and V. I. Nemirovich-Danchenko, work in jazz and symphony orchestras and – admission to the M. Gorky Literary Institute. And soon his first works appeared in print, and in 1957 - a whole book: “Arcturus - the Hound Dog”, after which it became obvious that a real, great writer was born.

Yuri Kazakov traveled a lot and visited many places - Pechora, Tarusa, Novgorod land, and the northern regions, the stories about which so fascinate the reader. But the writer was also a climber, a hunter, and a fisherman; he loved to walk, was not afraid to spend the night anywhere in any weather, stayed in remote villages and, as he himself wrote: “he looked, listened and remembered all the time.” That is why the stories of this writer, who sincerely loves his land, are so melodic and truthful.

Arcturus - hound dog

The history of his appearance in the city remained unknown. He came from somewhere in the spring and began to live.

They said that he sailed on an ice floe during the spring flood. He stood, black, among the blue and white crumble, alone motionless among the general movement. And swans flew above and shouted: “Clink-clank!”

The ice rustled and dully burst along the river, the swans screamed, and he stood on the ice floe, tail between his legs, wary, uncertain, sniffing and listening attentively to what was happening around him. When the ice floe approached the shore, he became agitated, jumped awkwardly, fell into the water, but quickly climbed ashore and, shaking himself off, disappeared among the stacks of timber.

One way or another, but, having appeared in the spring, when the days are filled with the shine of the sun, the sound of streams and the smell of bark, he remained to live in the city.

One can only guess about his past. He was probably born somewhere under the porch, on the straw.

He was born, like all puppies, blind, was immediately licked by his mother and placed close to the warm belly, still tense from birth pains. And while he lay there, getting used to breathing, his brothers and sisters kept growing. They moved, grunted and tried to whine - just like him, smoky puppies with bare bellies and short, trembling tails.

At one time, all the puppies opened their eyes, and they learned with delight that there was a world even greater than the one in which they had lived until now. His eyes were also opened, but he was never destined to see the light. He was blind, a thick gray film covering his pupils. For him, a blind man, a bitter and difficult life began. It would even be terrible if he could realize his blindness. But he did not know that he was blind, it was not given to him to know. He accepted life as it came to him.

He did not have an owner who would give him shelter, feed him and take care of him as his friend. He became a homeless stray dog, sullen, awkward and distrustful. His mother, having fed him, soon lost all interest in him, as in his brothers. He learned to howl like a wolf, just as long, darkly and sadly. He was dirty, often sick, rummaged in landfills near canteens, received kicks and buckets of dirty water along with the same homeless and hungry dogs.

He couldn't run fast; he didn't really need his legs, his strong legs. All the time it seemed to him that he was running towards something sharp and tough. When he fought with other dogs - and he fought many times in his life - he did not see his enemies, he bit and rushed, focusing on the sound of breathing, growls and squeals, the rustling of the ground under the paws of his enemies, and often rushed and bit wasted.

It is not known what name his mother gave him at birth - for people he had no name. It is also unknown whether he would have stayed in the city, left, or died somewhere in a ravine, but a person intervened in his fate, and everything changed.

That summer I lived in a small northern town. The city stood on the banks of the river. White steamships, dirty brown barges, long rafts, wide-cheeked carbas with sides stained with black tar floated along the river. There was a pier near the shore that smelled of matting, rope, damp rot and roach. Rarely did anyone go to this pier, except suburban collective farmers on market day and business travelers in gray raincoats who came from the region to the timber mill.

Around the city, along low, gentle hills, forests stretched, mighty, untouched: the wood for rafting was cut down in the upper reaches of the river. In the forests there were large meadows and remote lakes with huge old pine trees along the banks. The pines made a quiet noise all the time. When a cool, damp wind blew from the Arctic Ocean, driving up clouds, the pines hummed menacingly and dropped their cones, which hit the ground hard.

I rented a room on the outskirts, on top of an old house. My master, the doctor, was an always busy, silent man. He used to live with a large family, but his two sons were killed at the front, his wife died, his daughter went to Moscow, and the doctor now lived alone and treated children.

The window of my room looked out onto a wild garden, overgrown with currants, raspberries, burdock and nettles along the fence. In the mornings, sparrows fussed outside the window, blackbirds came in clouds to peck currants - the doctor did not chase them away and did not pick berries. The neighbor's chickens and roosters sometimes flew up onto the fence. The rooster sang loudly, stretched his neck upward, shook his tail and looked curiously into the garden. Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore, he flew down, and the chickens flew after him and hastily began to rummage around the currant bushes. Cats also wandered into the garden and, hiding near the burdock trees, watched the sparrows.

I had been living in the city for two weeks already, but I still couldn’t get used to the quiet streets with wooden sidewalks, with grass growing between the boards, to the creaky steps of the stairs, to the rare whistles of steamships at night.

At night our garden smelled of currants and dew, and the quiet snoring of the doctor could be heard from the terrace. And on the river a boat hummed with its engine and sang in a nasal voice: “Doo-doo-doo...”

One day another inhabitant appeared in the house. Here's how it happened. Returning from duty one day, the doctor saw a blind dog. With a piece of rope around his neck, he sat huddled between the logs and trembled. The doctor had seen him several times before. Now he stopped, examined him in all details, smacked his lips, whistled, then took the rope and dragged the blind man to his home.

At home the doctor washed him warm water with soap and fed. Out of habit, the dog shuddered and cowered while eating. He ate greedily, was in a hurry and choked. His forehead and ears were covered with whitened scars.

- Well, now go! - said the doctor when the dog had eaten, and pushed him from the terrace.

The dog resisted and trembled.

“Hm!” said the doctor and sat down in the rocking chair.

Evening came, the sky darkened, but did not go out completely.

The biggest stars lit up. The hound dog lay down on the terrace and dozed off. He was thin, his ribs protruded, his back was sharp, and his shoulder blades stood out straight up. Sometimes he opened his dead eyes, pricked his ears and moved his head, sniffing. Then he put his muzzle back on his paws and closed his eyes.

And the doctor looked at him in confusion and fidgeted in the rocking chair, coming up with a name for him. What should I call it? Or is it better to get rid of it before it's too late? What does he need a dog for? The doctor looked up thoughtfully: low above the horizon, a large star shimmered with a blue shine.

“Arcturus...” muttered the doctor.

The dog moved his ears and opened his eyes.

- Arcturus! – the doctor said again with a pounding heart.

The dog raised his head and shook his tail uncertainly.

- Arcturus! Come here, Arcturus! – the doctor called authoritatively and joyfully.

The dog stood up, walked over and carefully nuzzled his owner’s knees. The doctor laughed and put his hand on his head.

Dogs are different, just like people. There are beggar dogs, beggars, there are free and gloomy tramps, there are stupidly enthusiastic liars. There are groveling, begging for handouts, crawling up to anyone who whistles at them. Wriggling, tail wagging, slavishly affectionate, they rush away with a panicked squeal if you hit them or even just swing them.

I have seen many loyal dogs, submissive, capricious, proud, stoic, sneaky, indifferent, crafty and empty dogs. Arcturus was not like any of them. His feeling for his master was extraordinary and sublime. He loved him passionately and poetically, perhaps more life. But he was chaste and rarely allowed himself to open up to the end.

The owner had minutes Bad mood, sometimes he was indifferent, often he smelled irritatingly of cologne - a smell never found in nature. But most often he was kind, and then Arcturus languished with love, his fur became fluffy, and his body pricked as if with needles. He wanted to jump up and rush, choking on joyful barks. But he held back. His ears unfurled, his tail stopped, his body went limp and motionless, only his heart beat loudly and rapidly. When the owner began to push him, tickle him, stroke him and laugh with intermittent, cooing laughter, what a pleasure it was! The sounds of the owner’s voice were then drawn-out and short, gurgling and whispering, they were immediately similar to the ringing of water and the rustling of trees and were unlike anything else. Each sound gave rise to some sparks and vague smells, just as a drop gives rise to tremors of water, and it seemed to Arcturus that all this had already happened to him, it had been so long ago that he could not remember where and when.

Soon I had the opportunity to become more closely acquainted with the life of Arcturus and learned a lot of interesting things. It seems to me now that he somehow felt inferior. In appearance, he was a completely adult dog, with strong legs, a black back and red markings on his stomach and face. He was strong and big for his age, but all his movements showed uncertainty and tension. And yet, his face and whole body were characterized by a confused questioning quality. He knew perfectly well that all living beings around him were freer and more swift than he. They ran quickly and confidently, walked easily and firmly, without stumbling or bumping into anything. Their steps sounded different from his steps. He himself always moved carefully, slowly and somewhat sideways - numerous objects blocked his path. Meanwhile, chickens, pigeons, dogs and sparrows, cats and people and many other animals boldly ran up stairs, jumped over ditches, turned into alleys, flew away, disappeared into places that he had no idea about. His lot was uncertainty and wariness. I have never seen him walking or running freely, calmly and quickly. Perhaps only along a wide road, along a meadow and on the terrace of our house... But if animals and people were still understandable to him and he probably somehow identified himself with them, then cars, tractors, motorcycles and bicycles were completely incomprehensible and scary to him . Steamboats and boats aroused great curiosity in him at first. And only after realizing that he would never solve this mystery, he stopped paying attention to them. In the same way, he was never interested in airplanes.

But if he could not see anything, then not a single dog could compare with him in sense of smell. Gradually he learned all the smells of the city and found his way around it perfectly. There was never a time when he got lost and didn’t find his way home. Every thing smelled! There were many smells, and they all sounded like music, they all loudly declared themselves. Each object smelled differently: some were unpleasant, others were impersonal, others were sweet. As soon as Arcturus raised his head and sniffed, he immediately felt landfills and garbage dumps, houses, stone and wooden, fences and barns, people, horses and birds as clearly as if he had seen it all.

There was on the river bank, behind the warehouses, a large gray stone, almost rooted in the ground, which Arcturus especially loved to sniff. The most amazing and unexpected smells lingered in its cracks and pores. They sometimes lasted for weeks; they could only be blown out strong wind. Each time, running past this stone, Arcturus turned towards it and spent a long time examining it. He would snort, get excited, leave and come back again to find out more details for himself.

And he also heard the subtlest sounds that we will never hear. He woke up at night, opened his eyes, raised his ears and listened. He heard all the rustling, many miles around. He heard mosquitoes singing and itching in a wasp's nest in the attic. He heard a mouse rustling in the garden and a cat walking quietly on the roof of the barn. And the house for him was not silent and lifeless, as it was for us. The house also lived: it creaked, rustled, crackled, shuddered slightly noticeably from the cold. Dew flowed down the drainpipe and, accumulating below, fell onto the flat stone in rare drops. From below came the indistinct splash of water in the river. A thick layer of logs was moving in the pit near the sawmill. The rowlocks creaked quietly—someone was crossing the river in a boat. And very far away, in the village, roosters crowed faintly in the courtyards. It was a life completely unknown and inaudible to us, but familiar and understandable to him.

And he also had one peculiarity: he never squealed or whined, asking for pity, although life was cruel to him.

One day I was walking along the road out of town. It was getting dark. It was warm and quiet, as it only happens here on calm summer evenings. In the distance, dust rose on the road, mooing, thin, drawn-out cries, and the cracking of whips were heard: the herd was being driven from the meadows.

Suddenly I noticed a dog running with a businesslike look along the road towards the herd. I immediately recognized Arcturus by his special, tense and uncertain run. He had never ventured outside the city before. “Where is he running?” - I thought and suddenly noticed extraordinary excitement in the already approaching herd.

Cows don't like dogs. Fear and hatred of wolf-dogs became innate in cows. And so, seeing a dark dog running towards them, the first rows immediately stopped. Now a squat fawn bull with a ring in his nose squeezed forward. He spread his legs, bent his horns to the ground and roared, hiccupping, twitching his skin, rolling out blood proteins.

- Grishka! – someone shouted from behind. - Run forward quickly, the cows are gone!

Arcturus, not suspecting anything, moved along the road at an awkward trot and was already very close to the herd. Frightened, I called him. Taking a running start, he ran a few more steps and sank down abruptly, turning to me. At that same second, the bull wheezed, rushed at Arcturus with extraordinary speed and caught him with its horns. The black silhouette of a dog flashed against the background of the dawn and plopped down into the thick of the cows. His fall gave the impression of a bomb exploding. The cows rushed to the sides, wheezing and knocking their horns together. Those in the rear pressed forward, everything was mixed up, dust rose in a column. With tension and pain, I expected to hear a dying squeal, but there was none.

Meanwhile, the shepherds ran up, clapped their whips, shouted in different voices, the road cleared, and I saw Arcturus. He was lying in the dust and looked like a heap of dust or an old rag thrown on the road. Then he stirred, stood up and, staggering, hobbled to the side of the road. The senior shepherd noticed him.

- Oh, dog! – he shouted maliciously, swore and very strongly and deftly lashed Arcturus with his whip.

Arcturus did not yelp, he only shuddered, turning his blind eyes to the shepherd for a moment, reached the ditch, stumbled and fell.

The bull stood across the road, tore up the ground and roared. The shepherd lashed him just as hard and deftly, after which the bull immediately calmed down. The cows also calmed down, and the herd slowly moved on, raising dust that smelled of milk and leaving cakes on the road.

I approached Arcturus. He was dirty and breathing heavily, his tongue hanging out, his ribs moving under his skin. There were some wet stripes on his sides. Hind paw, depressed, trembling. I put my hand on his head and spoke to him. He didn't respond. His entire being expressed pain, bewilderment and resentment. He did not understand why he was trampled and whipped. Usually dogs whine a lot in such cases. Arcturus didn't whine.

And yet Arcturus would have remained a house dog and, perhaps, would have grown fat and lazy, if not for a happy accident, which gave him all his later life sublime and heroic meaning.

It happened like this. In the morning I went into the forest to look at the farewell flashes of summer, after which, I already knew, a quick withering would begin. Arcturus followed me. I chased him away several times. He sat down at a distance, waited a little and ran after me again. I soon got tired of his incomprehensible persistence, and I stopped paying attention to him.

The forest stunned Arcturus. There, in the city, everything was familiar to him. There were wooden sidewalks, wide pavements, boards on the river bank, smooth paths. Here, unfamiliar objects suddenly approached him from all sides: tall, rather harsh grass, thorny bushes, rotten stumps, fallen trees, elastic young fir trees, rustling fallen leaves. From all sides something was touching him, stabbing him, touching him, as if they were conspiring to drive him out of the forest. And then – smells, smells! How many of them, unfamiliar, terrible, weak and strong, the meaning of which he did not know! And Arcturus, bumping into all these odorous, rustling, crackling, prickly objects, shuddered, blew his nose and huddled at my feet. He was confused and scared.

- Ah, Arcturus! – I quietly told him. - You poor dog! You don’t know that there is a bright sun in the world, you don’t know how green the trees and bushes are in the morning and how much the dew glistens on the grass; you don’t know that around us there are a lot of flowers - white, yellow, blue and red - and that among the gray spruce trees and yellowing foliage, clusters of rowan berries and rose hips are so tenderly red. If you saw the moon and stars at night, you might bark at them with pleasure. How do you know that horses, and dogs, and cats are all different colors, that fences are brown, and green, and just gray, and how much the glass of the windows shines at sunset, what a fiery sea the river then floods! If you were normal healthy dog, then your master would be a hunter. Then in the morning you would listen to the mighty song of the horn and wild voices, such as ordinary people never shout. You would then chase the beast, choking on barking, not remembering yourself, and with this frantic running in hot pursuit you would serve your master.

So, slowly talking to him so that he wouldn’t be so scared, I went further and further into the forest. Arcturus gradually calmed down and began to explore the bushes and stumps more boldly. How many new and unusual things he found, what delight overwhelmed him! Now he, carried away by his important matter, no longer pressed against me. From time to time he stopped, looked in my direction with his dead white eyes, listened, wanting to make sure whether he was doing the right thing, whether I was following him, then again he began circling through the forest.

Soon we went out into the meadow and walked small. Arcturus was gripped by terrible excitement. Biting the grass, stumbling on hummocks, he flashed among the bushes. He breathed loudly, climbed ahead, no longer paying attention to me or the thorny branches. Finally, he couldn’t stand it, he closed his eyes, popped into the bushes with a crash, disappeared there, fumbled around, made a fuss... “He smelled someone!” – I thought and stopped.

“Gum! – rang loudly and uncertainly in the bushes. - Gum, din!

- Arcturus! – I called out in concern.

But at that moment something happened. Arcturus squealed, howled and noisily rushed into the depths of the bushes. His howl quickly turned into an excited bark, and from the trembling tops of the bushes I could see how he was pushing through there. Fearing for him, I rushed to intercept him, loudly calling out to him. But my scream, apparently, only gave him excitement. Stumbling, getting stuck in the density, gasping for breath, I ran across one clearing, then another, went down into a ravine, ran out to clean place and immediately saw Arcturus. He rolled out of the bushes and rushed straight towards me. He was unrecognizable, he ran funny, jumping high, not the way dogs usually run, but nevertheless he drove confidently, excitedly, barked incessantly, choking, breaking into a thin puppy voice.

- Arcturus! – I shouted.

He lost his way. I managed to jump up and grab him by the collar. He struggled, growled, almost bit me, his eyes were bloodshot, and it took me great effort to calm and distract him. It was badly dented and scratched, held left ear to the ground: apparently, he still hit himself several times somewhere, but his passion was so great, he was so excited, that he did not feel these bruises.

From that day on, his life took a different turn. In the morning he disappeared into the forest, ran away there alone and returned sometimes in the evening, sometimes the next day, each time completely exhausted, beaten, with bloodshot eyes. He grew a lot during this time, his chest expanded, his voice became stronger, his paws became dry and powerful, like steel springs.

How he drove there alone, how he didn’t crash, I couldn’t understand. He probably still felt that something was missing in his lonely hunts. Maybe he was waiting for approval, support from a person, which is so necessary for every hound dog.

I have never seen him return from the forest well-fed. His running, the running of a blind, clumsy dog, was, of course, slow and uncertain. No, he never caught up with his enemies and did not sink his teeth into them! The forest was a silent enemy to him, the forest lashed him in the face, in the eyes, the forest threw itself at his feet, the forest stopped him. Only the smell, a wild, ever-exciting, calling, unbearably beautiful and hostile smell, reached him, only one trail among a thousand others led him forward and forward.

How did he find his way home, waking up from his frantic running, from his great dreams? What a sense of space and topography, what a great instinct he needed in order to wake up, completely exhausted, broken, suffocated, losing his voice somewhere many miles away in a dense forest with the rustling of grass and the smell of damp ravines, to get home!

Every hound dog needs human approval. The dog chases the beast and forgets everything, but even at the moment of the highest passion, it knows that somewhere out there, ahead, seized by the same passion, its master-hunter is running across the manholes and that when the time comes, his shot will decide everything. At such moments, the owner’s voice runs wild and infects the dog; he also climbs the bushes, runs, snorts hoarsely, and helps the dog untangle the trail. And when it’s all over, the owner throws the dog a pair of boots, looks at it with drunken, happy eyes, and shouts with delight: “But, you! Sweetie!” - and pats his ears.

Arcturus was alone in this sense and suffered. Love for his master fought in him with hunting passion. Several times I saw how early in the morning Arcturus crawled out from under the terrace where he liked to sleep, ran around the garden, sat down under his master’s window and began to wait for his awakening. He had always done this before, and if the doctor, upon waking up, good mood, looked out the window and called: “Arcturus!” - what was this dog doing then! Solemnly he approached the window itself, lifted his head up with a twitching throat and swayed, moving from paw to paw. Then he entered the house, some kind of fuss began there, you could hear happy sounds, doctor's arias and stomping around the rooms.

He was now waiting for the doctor to wake up. But now something else was bothering him greatly. He trembled nervously, shook himself, scratched himself, looked up, stood up, sat down again and began to whine quietly. Then he began to run near the terrace, making ever larger circles, sat down again under the window, even barked briefly with impatience and, pricking up his ears and tilting his head alternately to one side or the other, listened for a long time. Finally he got up, stretched nervously, yawned, headed towards the fence and resolutely climbed out into the hole. A little later I saw him far away in the field, trotting at his even, somewhat tense and uncertain trot. He was heading towards the forest.

Once I was walking with a gun along the high shore of a narrow lake. The ducks that year became unusually fat, there were many of them, snipe were often found in the lowlands, and the hunt was easy and joyful.

Having chosen a more comfortable stump, I sat down to rest, and when the light breeze that had flown in before died down and a moment of pure, thoughtful silence began, I heard strange sounds very far away. It was as if someone was striking a silver bell evenly, and this warm crimson ringing, tangled in the spruce forests, intensifying in the pine forests, echoed throughout the forest, setting everything in a solemn mood. Gradually the sounds began to be identified, and, concentrating, I realized that a dog was barking somewhere. Barking coming from the opposite shore of the lake, from the wilderness pine forests, was pure, weak and distant; sometimes it disappeared completely, but then it stubbornly resumed again, a little closer and louder.

I sat on a stump, looked around at the yellow, already draughty birches, at the graying moss and the crimson aspen leaves visible far away on it, listened to the silver bark, and it seemed to me that hidden squirrels, black grouse, and birches, and cramped trees were listening to it with me. green trees, and the lake below, and the web woven by spiders trembles. Soon, in this beautiful musical bark, I felt something familiar, and I suddenly realized that it was Arcturus who was driving.

So that's when I had to hear it! A faint silver echo echoed from the pine trees, and it sounded like several dogs barking. Once Arcturus apparently lost track and fell silent. His silence lasted for long minutes, the forest immediately became empty and dead. I seemed to see the dog circling, blinking its white eyes, trusting only its instinct. Or maybe he hit a tree? Maybe he is now lying with a broken chest, unable to rise, bloodied and sad?

But the rut resumed with renewed vigor, much closer to the lake. This lake is so located that all the paths, all the holes lead to it, and not a single one will pass by. I saw a lot of interesting things near this lake. Now I too got ready and waited. Soon a fox jumped out onto a small meadow brown with horse sorrel on the other side. She was dirty gray, with a bushy, thin tail. She stopped for a moment with her front paw raised, her ears erect, and listened to the approaching rut. Then, leisurely running through the meadow, she went to the edge, dived into a ravine and disappeared into the small forest. Now Arcturus also flew out into the meadow. He walked a little away from the trail, incessantly and angrily raised his voice and, as always, jumped high and awkwardly as he ran. Following the fox, he flew into a ravine, plunged into the small forest, squealed and howled there, fell silent, getting out of some difficult place, then again barked low and evenly, as if he was ringing a silver bell.

As in a strange theater, the ever-warring dog and beast flashed before me, disappeared, and I was again left alone with silence and distant barking.

The glory of the extraordinary hound dog it soon spread throughout the city and throughout the surrounding area. He was seen on the distant Losva River, in the fields behind the forest hills, on the remotest forest roads. They talked about him in the villages, on the piers and at transport stations, and rafters and sawmill workers argued about him over glasses of beer.

Hunters began to visit our house. As a rule, they did not believe rumors - they themselves knew the value of hunting stories. They examined Arcturus, talked about his ears and paws, about his viscosity and other hunting characteristics; they looked for his shortcomings and persuaded the doctor to sell them the dog. They desperately wanted to feel Arcturus' muscles, to look at his paws and chest, but Arcturus sat at the doctor's feet so gloomy and wary that no one dared to reach out to him.

And the doctor, blushing and angry, assured for the tenth time that the dog was not for sale, that it was time for everyone to know about it. The hunters left upset, and others came to replace them.

One day, Arcturus, who had been badly crashed the day before, was lying under the terrace when an old man appeared in the garden. His left eye was leaking and closed, his Tatar beard was showing through, he had a crumpled three-coat on his head, and knocked-down hunting boots on his feet. Seeing me, the old man blinked, pulled his hat off his head, scratched his head and looked at the sky.

“The weather today, the weather...” he began vaguely and, grunting, fell silent.

I guessed and asked:

- Didn’t they come for the dog?

- Yes, and how! – he perked up and put on his hat. – After all, this is what happens, for example? What does a doctor need a dog for? He doesn’t need it, but I need a dog so badly! Hunting is coming soon and all that... Listen, I have a hound myself, but it’s bad: he’s a fool, he doesn’t keep track and has no voice. But what is this? Sloppy, huh? After all, it’s incomprehensible to the mind how it drives you out! The royal dog, that holy cross!

I advised him to talk to the owner. He sighed, blew his nose and went into the house, and five minutes later he appeared very red and confused. He stopped next to me, groaned, and lit a cigarette for a long time. Then he frowned.

- Well, they refused you? – I asked, knowing the answer in advance.

- And do not say! – he exclaimed sadly. - Well, what can you say! I’ve been a hunter since I was a child—hey, I lost an eye—and I have sons too, and all that. Listen, we need a dog for business, for business! No, he doesn’t... He promised five hundred rubles - what’s the price, eh? – and don’t come closer, he won’t let you! Almost started crying, huh? I need to cry! Hunting is coming - no dogs!

He looked around the garden and the fence in confusion, and suddenly something flashed on his face, something so cunning and smart. He immediately became calmer.

– Where does it fit with you? – he asked as if by chance and blinked his eye.

- Do you really want to steal the dog? – I asked.

The old man became embarrassed, took off his hat, wiped his face with the lining and looked at me inquisitively.

- Forgive me, Lord! - he said and laughed. - After all, with you you will end up in sin. What did you think? Well, what does he need a dog for? Tell me here!

He started to leave, but on the way he stopped and looked at me joyfully:

Then he returned, came up to me and whispered, winking and glancing at the windows of the house:

- Wait, the dog will be mine. What does he need a dog for? He is a mental man, not a hunter... He will sell it to me. Holy cross, will sell! It’s a long way to the Intercession, we’ll think of something. And you say... Eh!

As soon as the old man left, the doctor quickly came out into the garden.

– What did he tell you here? – he was worried. - Oh, what a nasty old man! What kind of eye does he have, have you noticed? Just a robber! And how did he know about the dog?

The doctor was rubbing his hands nervously, his neck was red, and a gray lock of hair had fallen onto his forehead. Arcturus, hearing the voice of his master, crawled out from under the terrace and, limping, approached us.

- Arcturus! - said the doctor. “You’ll never cheat on me, will you?”

Arcturus closed his eyes and nuzzled the doctor's knees. He could not stand from weakness and sat down. His head was pulled down, he was almost asleep. The doctor looked at me joyfully, laughed and patted Arcturus by the ears.

The history of his appearance in the city remained unknown. He came from somewhere in the spring and began to live. He did not bother anyone, did not impose himself on anyone and did not obey anyone - he was free.

They said that he was abandoned by gypsies passing through in the spring. Strange people, gypsies! In early spring they set off on their journey. Some travel by train, others on ships or rafts, others trudge along the roads in carts, looking with hostility at the cars rushing past. People with southern blood, they climb into the most remote northern corners. Suddenly they become a camp near the city, wander around the bazaar for several days, feel things, bargain, go from house to house, tell fortunes, swear, laugh - dark, beautiful, with earrings in their ears, in bright clothes. But then they leave the city, disappear as suddenly as they appeared, and you will never see them here again. Others will come, but these will not be there. The world is wide, and they do not like to come to places they have already been to.

So, many were convinced that the gypsies abandoned him in the spring.

Others said that he sailed on an ice floe during the spring flood. He stood, black, among the blue and white crumble, alone motionless among the general movement. And swans flew above and shouted: “klink-clank!”

People are always excited to see swans. And when they arrive, when at dawn they rise from the floods with their great cry “clink-clank!” - people follow them with their eyes, the blood begins to ring in their hearts, and then they know that spring has come.

The ice rustled and muffledly burst along the river, swans screamed, and he stood on the ice floe, tail between his legs, wary, uncertain, sniffing and listening attentively to what was happening around him. When the ice floe approached the shore, he became agitated, jumped awkwardly, fell into the water, but quickly climbed ashore and, shaking himself off, disappeared among the stacks of timber.

One way or another, but, having appeared in the spring, when the days are filled with the shine of the sun, the sound of streams and the smell of bark, he remained to live in the city.

One can only guess about his past. He was probably born somewhere under the porch, on the straw. His mother, a purebred bitch from the Kostroma hound breed, short, with a long body, with a swollen belly, when the time came, disappeared under the porch to accomplish her great deed in secret. They called her, she did not respond and did not eat anything, completely concentrated in herself, feeling that something was about to happen that was more important than anything in the world, more important even than hunting and people - her rulers and gods.

He was born, like all puppies, blind, was immediately licked by his mother and placed close to the warm belly, still tense from birth pangs. And while he lay there, getting used to breathing, more and more brothers and sisters were added to him. They moved, grunted and tried to whine - just like him, smoky puppies with bare bellies and short, trembling tails. Soon it was all over, everyone found a nipple and fell silent - only the sniffling, smacking and heavy breathing of the mother could be heard. This is how their life began.

At one time, all the puppies opened their eyes, and they learned with delight that there was an even greater world than the one in which they had lived until now. His eyes also opened, but he was never destined to see the light. He was blind, a thick gray film covering his pupils. It was a bitter and difficult life for him. It would even be terrible if he could realize his blindness. But he did not know that he was blind, it was not given to him to know. He accepted life as it came to him.

Somehow it happened that he was not drowned or killed, which would, of course, have been mercy towards a helpless puppy, unnecessary to people. He remained to live and endured great ordeals, which ahead of time hardened and hardened his body and soul.

He did not have an owner who would give him shelter, feed him and take care of him as his friend. He became a homeless stray dog, gloomy, awkward and distrustful - his mother, having fed him, soon lost all interest in him, as well as in his brothers. He learned to howl like a wolf, just as long, darkly and sadly. He was dirty, often sick, rummaged in landfills near canteens, received kicks and buckets of dirty water along with other homeless and hungry dogs.

He couldn't run fast; he didn't really need his legs, his strong legs. All the time it seemed to him that he was running towards something sharp and cruel. When he fought with other dogs - and he fought many times in his life - he did not see his enemies, he bit and rushed at the sound of breathing, at the growls and squeals, at the rustling of the earth under the paws of his enemies, and often rushed and bit in vain.

It is unknown what name his mother gave him at birth, because a mother, even a dog, always knows her children by name. For people, he had no name... It is also unknown whether he would have stayed to live in the city, left, or died somewhere in a ravine, praying in anguish to his dog god. But a man intervened in his fate, and everything changed.

That summer I lived in a small northern town. The city stood on the banks of the river. White steamships, dirty brown barges, long rafts, wide-chine carbas with sides stained with black tar floated along the river. There was a pier near the shore that smelled of matting, rope, damp rot and roach. Rarely did anyone go to this pier, except suburban collective farmers on market day and sad business travelers in gray raincoats who came from the region to the timber mill.

Around the city, along low, gentle hills, forests stretched, mighty, untouched: the wood for rafting was cut down in the upper reaches of the river. In the forests there were large meadows and remote lakes with huge old pine trees along the banks. The pines made a quiet noise all the time. When a cool, damp wind blew from the Arctic Ocean, driving up the clouds, the pines hummed menacingly and dropped their cones, which hit the ground.

I rented a room on the outskirts, on top of an old house. My master, the doctor, was an always busy, silent man. He used to live with a large family. But his two sons were killed at the front, his wife died, his daughter went to Moscow, the doctor now lived alone and treated children. He had one strange thing: he loved to sing. With the finest falsetto, he pulled out all kinds of arias, sweetly fading on high notes. He had three rooms downstairs, but he rarely went there; he dined and slept on the terrace, and the rooms were gloomy, smelling of dust, a pharmacy and old wallpaper.

The window of my room looked out onto a wild garden, overgrown with currants, raspberries, burdock and nettles along the fence. In the mornings, sparrows fussed outside the window, blackbirds came in clouds to peck currants, the doctor did not chase them away and did not pick berries. The neighbor's chickens and roosters sometimes flew up onto the fence. The rooster sang loudly, stretched his neck upward, shook his tail and looked curiously into the garden. Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore, he flew down, and the chickens flew after him and hastily began to rummage around the currant bushes. Cats also wandered into the garden and, hiding near the burdock trees, watched the sparrows.

I had been living in the city for two weeks already, but I still could not get used to the quiet streets with wooden sidewalks, with grass growing between the boards, to the creaky steps of the stairs, to the rare whistles of steamships at night.

It was an unusual city. There were white nights there almost all summer. The embankment and its streets were quiet and thoughtful. At night, a distinct knocking sound could be heard near the houses - it was rare workers coming from the night shift. The steps and laughter of the lovers were heard by the sleeping people all night. It seemed that the houses had sensitive walls and that the city, hiding, listened to the steps of its inhabitants.

At night our garden smelled of currants and dew, and the quiet snoring of the doctor could be heard from the terrace. And on the river a boat hummed with its engine and sang in a nasal voice: doo-doo...

One day another inhabitant appeared in the house. Here's how it happened. Returning from duty one day, the doctor saw a blind dog. With a piece of rope around his neck, he sat huddled between the logs and trembled. The doctor had seen him several times before. Now he stopped, examined him in all details, smacked his lips, whistled, then took the rope and dragged the blind man to his home.

At home, the doctor washed him with warm water and soap and fed him. Out of habit, the dog shuddered and twitched while eating. He ate greedily, was in a hurry and choked. His forehead and ears were covered with whitened scars.

- Well, now go! - said the doctor when the dog had eaten, and pushed him from the terrace.

The dog resisted and trembled.

“Hm…” said the doctor and sat down in the rocking chair. Evening came, the sky darkened, but did not go out completely.

The biggest stars lit up. The hound dog lay down on the terrace and dozed off. He was thin, his ribs protruded, his back was sharp and his shoulder blades stood out straight up. Sometimes he opened his dead eyes, pricked his ears and moved his head, sniffing. Then he put his muzzle back on his paws and closed his eyes.

And the doctor looked at him in confusion, fidgeted in the rocking chair and came up with a name for him. What should I call it? Or is it better to get rid of it before it's too late? What does he need a dog for? The doctor looked up thoughtfully: low above the horizon, a large star shimmered with a blue shine.

The next day after my arrival, I went to the deadlift. There was a golden fog in the forest, there was dripping, ringing and gurgling all around. The earth was bare, there was a strong and pungent smell, and there were so many other smells - aspen bark, rotting wood, damp leaves - all of them were overwhelmed by the strong and pungent smell of earth.

It was a beautiful evening with a fiery sea of ​​sunset, and the woodcocks were flying thickly. I killed four and barely found them in the dark layer of foliage. When the sky turned green and went dark and the first stars poured out, I quietly walked home along the familiar untrodden road, avoiding wide floods in which the sky, bare birches, and stars were reflected.

Walking around one of these floods along a small mane, I suddenly noticed something light ahead and thought at first that it was the last patch of snow, but, coming closer, I saw a few dog bones lying scattered. My heart began to pound dully, I began to peer closely, and saw a collar with a green copper buckle... Yes, these were the remains of Arcturus.

Having carefully looked into everything, I already in complete twilight guessed how it was. The tree, which was not yet old but dry, had a separate lower branch. It, like the rest of the tree, dried out, crumbled and broke off, until finally it turned into a bare sharp stick. Arcturus stumbled upon this stick when he was rushing along the hot, odorous trail, and no longer remembered, knew nothing except this trail, calling ever forward, ever forward.

Hunters have a strange love for sonorous names. There are so many names you won’t find among hunting dogs! There are Dianas and Antheas, Phoebus and Nero, Venus and Romulus... But, probably, no dog was so worthy big name, named after the unfading blue star!

Once in my childhood I came across an inconspicuous old book-brochure, the kind that was published as a supplement to the Ogonyok magazine. It was a story about a blind dog with an amazing “star” name “Arcturus”. Although the story was “about a dog,” I felt that there was something completely “unchildish” about it. The story made such an unforgettable impression on me that, already as an adult, I wanted to find and re-read this book. But I didn’t come across it anywhere, I didn’t remember the author, only the title. One day I heard the name of the book in a TV program about the writer Yuri Kazakov, and also learned that this story belongs to literary masterpieces. If anyone has not read this story yet, be sure to read it.

“I have seen many loyal dogs, submissive, capricious, proud, stoic, sneaky, indifferent, crafty and empty dogs. Arcturus was not like any of them. His feeling for his owner was extraordinary and sublime... But if he could not see anything, then not a single dog could compare with him in instinct... And he also had one peculiarity: he never squealed or whined, asking for pity, although life was cruel to him.” The sudden awakening, like an epiphany, of an extraordinary flair and passion for hunting gave his life a “sublime and heroic meaning.”

Arcturus - the hound dog

The history of his appearance in the city remained unknown. He came from somewhere in the spring and began to live.

They said that he sailed on an ice floe during the spring flood. He stood, black, among the blue and white crumble, alone motionless among the general movement. And swans flew above and shouted: “Clink-clank!”

This video includes excerpts from Yuri Kazakov's story "Arcturus - the hound dog"".

The ice rustled and dully burst along the river, the swans screamed, and he stood on the ice floe, tail between his legs, wary, uncertain, sniffing and listening attentively to what was happening around him. When the ice floe approached the shore, he became agitated, jumped awkwardly, fell into the water, but quickly climbed ashore and, shaking himself off, disappeared among the stacks of timber.

One way or another, but, having appeared in the spring, when the days are filled with the shine of the sun, the sound of streams and the smell of bark, he remained to live in the city.

One can only guess about his past. He was probably born somewhere under the porch, on the straw.

He was born, like all puppies, blind, was immediately licked by his mother and placed close to the warm belly, still tense from birth pains. And while he lay there, getting used to breathing, his brothers and sisters kept growing. They moved, grunted and tried to whine - just like him, smoky puppies with bare bellies and short, trembling tails.

At one time, all the puppies opened their eyes, and they learned with delight that there was a world even greater than the one in which they had lived until now. His eyes were also opened, but he was never destined to see the light. He was blind, a thick gray film covering his pupils. For him, a blind man, a bitter and difficult life began. It would even be terrible if he could realize his blindness. But he did not know that he was blind, it was not given to him to know. He accepted life as it came to him.

He did not have an owner who would give him shelter, feed him and take care of him as his friend. He became a homeless stray dog, sullen, awkward and distrustful. His mother, having fed him, soon lost all interest in him, as in his brothers. He learned to howl like a wolf, just as long, darkly and sadly. He was dirty, often sick, rummaged in landfills near canteens, received kicks and buckets of dirty water along with the same homeless and hungry dogs.

He couldn't run fast; he didn't really need his legs, his strong legs. All the time it seemed to him that he was running towards something sharp and tough. When he fought with other dogs - and he fought many times in his life - he did not see his enemies, he bit and rushed, focusing on the sound of breathing, growls and squeals, the rustling of the ground under the paws of his enemies, and often rushed and bit wasted. It is not known what name his mother gave him at birth - for people he had no name. It is also unknown whether he would have stayed in the city, left, or died somewhere in a ravine, but a person intervened in his fate, and everything changed.

That summer I lived in a small northern town. The city stood on the banks of the river. White steamships, dirty brown barges, long rafts, wide-cheeked carbas with sides stained with black tar floated along the river. There was a pier near the shore that smelled of matting, rope, damp rot and roach. Rarely did anyone go to this pier, except suburban collective farmers on market day and business travelers in gray raincoats who came from the region to the timber mill.

Around the city, along low, gentle hills, forests stretched, mighty, untouched: the wood for rafting was cut down in the upper reaches of the river. In the forests there were large meadows and remote lakes with huge old pine trees along the banks. The pines made a quiet noise all the time. When a cool, damp wind blew from the Arctic Ocean, driving up clouds, the pines hummed menacingly and dropped their cones, which hit the ground hard.

I rented a room on the outskirts, on top of an old house. My master, the doctor, was an always busy, silent man. He used to live with a large family, but his two sons were killed at the front, his wife died, his daughter went to Moscow, and the doctor now lived alone and treated children.

The window of my room looked out onto a wild garden, overgrown with currants, raspberries, burdock and nettles along the fence. In the mornings, sparrows fussed outside the window, blackbirds came in clouds to peck currants - the doctor did not chase them away and did not pick berries. The neighbor's chickens and roosters sometimes flew up onto the fence. The rooster sang loudly, stretched his neck upward, shook his tail and looked curiously into the garden. Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore, he flew down, and the chickens flew after him and hastily began to rummage around the currant bushes. Cats also wandered into the garden and, hiding near the burdock trees, watched the sparrows.

I had been living in the city for two weeks already, but I still couldn’t get used to the quiet streets with wooden sidewalks, with grass growing between the boards, to the creaky steps of the stairs, to the rare whistles of steamships at night.

At night our garden smelled of currants and dew, and the quiet snoring of the doctor could be heard from the terrace. And on the river a boat hummed with its engine and sang in a nasal voice: “Doo-doo-doo...”

One day another inhabitant appeared in the house. Here's how it happened. Returning from duty one day, the doctor saw a blind dog. With a piece of rope around his neck, he sat huddled between the logs and trembled. The doctor had seen him several times before. Now he stopped, examined him in all details, smacked his lips, whistled, then took the rope and dragged the blind man to his home.

At home, the doctor washed him with warm water and soap and fed him. Out of habit, the dog shuddered and cowered while eating. He ate greedily, was in a hurry and choked. His forehead and ears were covered with whitened scars. - Well, now go! - said the doctor when the dog had eaten, and pushed him from the terrace.

The dog resisted and trembled.

Hm!.. - said the doctor and sat down in the rocking chair.

Evening came, the sky darkened, but did not go out completely.

The biggest stars lit up. The hound dog lay down on the terrace and dozed off. He was thin, his ribs protruded, his back was sharp, and his shoulder blades stood out straight up. Sometimes he opened his dead eyes, pricked his ears and moved his head, sniffing. Then he put his muzzle back on his paws and closed his eyes.

And the doctor looked at him in confusion and fidgeted in the rocking chair, coming up with a name for him. What should I call it? Or is it better to get rid of it before it's too late? What does he need a dog for? The doctor looked up thoughtfully: low above the horizon, a large star shimmered with a blue shine.

Arcturus... - the doctor muttered.

The dog moved his ears and opened his eyes.

Arcturus! - the doctor said again with a pounding heart.

The dog raised his head and shook his tail uncertainly.

Arcturus! Come here, Arcturus! - the doctor called with authority and joy.

The dog stood up, walked over and carefully nuzzled his owner’s knees. The doctor laughed and put his hand on his head.

Dogs are different, just like people. There are beggar dogs, beggars, there are free and gloomy tramps, there are stupidly enthusiastic liars. There are groveling, begging for handouts, crawling up to anyone who whistles at them. Wriggling, tail wagging, slavishly affectionate, they rush away with a panicked squeal if you hit them or even just swing them.

I have seen many loyal dogs, submissive, capricious, proud, stoic, sneaky, indifferent, crafty and empty dogs. Arcturus was not like any of them. His feeling for his master was extraordinary and sublime. He loved him passionately and poetically, perhaps more than life itself. But he was chaste and rarely allowed himself to open up to the end.

The owner was sometimes in a bad mood, sometimes he was indifferent, and often he smelled irritatingly of cologne - a smell never found in nature. But most often he was kind, and then Arcturus languished with love, his fur became fluffy, and his body pricked as if with needles. He wanted to jump up and rush, choking on joyful barks. But he held back. His ears unfurled, his tail stopped, his body went limp and motionless, only his heart beat loudly and rapidly. When the owner began to push him, tickle him, stroke him and laugh with intermittent, cooing laughter, what a pleasure it was! The sounds of the owner’s voice were then drawn-out and short, gurgling and whispering, they were immediately similar to the ringing of water and the rustling of trees and were unlike anything else. Each sound gave rise to some sparks and vague smells, just as a drop gives rise to tremors of water, and it seemed to Arcturus that all this had already happened to him, it had been so long ago that he could not remember where and when.

Soon I had the opportunity to become more closely acquainted with the life of Arcturus and learned a lot of interesting things. It seems to me now that he somehow felt inferior. In appearance, he was a completely adult dog, with strong legs, a black back and red markings on his stomach and face. He was strong and big for his age, but all his movements showed uncertainty and tension. And yet, his face and whole body were characterized by a confused questioning quality. He knew perfectly well that all living beings around him were freer and more swift than he. They ran quickly and confidently, walked easily and firmly, without stumbling or bumping into anything. Their steps sounded different from his steps. He himself always moved carefully, slowly and somewhat sideways - numerous objects blocked his path. Meanwhile, chickens, pigeons, dogs and sparrows, cats and people and many other animals boldly ran up stairs, jumped over ditches, turned into alleys, flew away, disappeared into places that he had no idea about. His lot was uncertainty and wariness. I have never seen him walking or running freely, calmly and quickly. Perhaps only along a wide road, along a meadow and on the terrace of our house... But if animals and people were still understandable to him and he probably somehow identified himself with them, then cars, tractors, motorcycles and bicycles were completely incomprehensible and scary to him . Steamboats and boats aroused great curiosity in him at first. And only after realizing that he would never solve this mystery, he stopped paying attention to them. In the same way, he was never interested in airplanes.

But if he could not see anything, then not a single dog could compare with him in sense of smell. Gradually he learned all the smells of the city and found his way around it perfectly. There was never a time when he got lost and didn’t find his way home. Every thing smelled! There were many smells, and they all sounded like music, they all loudly declared themselves. Each object smelled differently: some were unpleasant, others were impersonal, others were sweet. As soon as Arcturus raised his head and sniffed, he immediately felt landfills and garbage dumps, houses, stone and wooden, fences and barns, people, horses and birds as clearly as if he had seen it all. There was on the river bank, behind the warehouses, a large gray stone, almost rooted in the ground, which Arcturus especially loved to sniff. The most amazing and unexpected smells lingered in its cracks and pores. They sometimes lasted for weeks; only a strong wind could blow them out. Each time, running past this stone, Arcturus turned towards it and spent a long time examining it. He would snort, get excited, leave and come back again to find out more details for himself.

And he also heard the subtlest sounds that we will never hear. He woke up at night, opened his eyes, raised his ears and listened. He heard all the rustling, many miles around. He heard mosquitoes singing and itching in a wasp's nest in the attic. He heard a mouse rustling in the garden and a cat walking quietly on the roof of the barn. And the house for him was not silent and lifeless, as it was for us. The house also lived: it creaked, rustled, crackled, shuddered slightly noticeably from the cold. Dew flowed down the drainpipe and, accumulating below, fell onto the flat stone in rare drops. From below came the indistinct splash of water in the river. A thick layer of logs was moving in the pit near the sawmill. The rowlocks creaked quietly - someone was crossing the river in a boat. And very far away, in the village, roosters crowed faintly in the courtyards. It was a life completely unknown and inaudible to us, but familiar and understandable to him.

And he also had one peculiarity: he never squealed or whined, asking for pity, although life was cruel to him.

One day I was walking along the road out of town. It was getting dark. It was warm and quiet, as it only happens here on calm summer evenings. In the distance, dust rose on the road, mooing, thin, drawn-out cries, and the cracking of whips were heard: the herd was being driven from the meadows. Suddenly I noticed a dog running with a businesslike look along the road towards the herd. I immediately recognized Arcturus by his special, tense and uncertain run. He had never ventured outside the city before. “Where is he running?” - I thought and suddenly noticed an extraordinary excitement in the already approaching herd.

Cows don't like dogs. Fear and hatred of wolf-dogs became innate in cows. And so, seeing a dark dog running towards them, the first rows immediately stopped. Now a squat fawn bull with a ring in his nose squeezed forward. He spread his legs, bent his horns to the ground and roared, hiccupping, twitching his skin, rolling out blood proteins.

Grishka! - someone shouted from behind. - Run forward quickly, the cows are gone!

Arcturus, not suspecting anything, moved along the road at an awkward trot and was already very close to the herd. Frightened, I called him. Taking a running start, he ran a few more steps and sank down abruptly, turning to me. At that same second, the bull wheezed, rushed at Arcturus with extraordinary speed and caught him with its horns. The black silhouette of a dog flashed against the background of the dawn and plopped down into the thick of the cows. His fall gave the impression of a bomb exploding. The cows rushed to the sides, wheezing and knocking their horns together. Those in the rear pressed forward, everything was mixed up, dust rose in a column. With tension and pain, I expected to hear a dying squeal, but there was none.

Meanwhile, the shepherds ran up, clapped their whips, shouted in different voices, the road cleared, and I saw Arcturus. He was lying in the dust and looked like a heap of dust or an old rag thrown on the road. Then he stirred, stood up and, staggering, hobbled to the side of the road. The senior shepherd noticed him.

Ah, dog! - he shouted maliciously, swore and very strongly and deftly lashed Arcturus with his whip.

Arcturus did not yelp, he only shuddered, turning his blind eyes to the shepherd for a moment, reached the ditch, stumbled and fell.

The bull stood across the road, tore up the ground and roared. The shepherd lashed him just as hard and deftly, after which the bull immediately calmed down. The cows also calmed down, and the herd slowly moved on, raising dust that smelled of milk and leaving cakes on the road.

I approached Arcturus. He was dirty and breathing heavily, his tongue hanging out, his ribs moving under his skin. There were some wet stripes on his sides. The hind paw, crushed, trembled. I put my hand on his head and spoke to him. He didn't respond. His entire being expressed pain, bewilderment and resentment. He did not understand why he was trampled and whipped. Usually dogs whine a lot in such cases. Arcturus didn't whine.

And yet, Arcturus would have remained a domestic dog and, perhaps, would have grown fat and lazy, if not for a happy accident, which gave his entire subsequent life a sublime and heroic meaning.

It happened like this. In the morning I went into the forest to look at the farewell flashes of summer, after which, I already knew, a quick withering would begin. Arcturus followed me. I chased him away several times. He sat down at a distance, waited a little and ran after me again. I soon got tired of his incomprehensible persistence, and I stopped paying attention to him.

The forest stunned Arcturus. There, in the city, everything was familiar to him. There were wooden sidewalks, wide pavements, boards on the river bank, smooth paths. Here, unfamiliar objects suddenly approached him from all sides: tall, rather harsh grass, thorny bushes, rotten stumps, fallen trees, elastic young fir trees, rustling fallen leaves. From all sides something was touching him, stabbing him, touching him, as if they were conspiring to drive him out of the forest. And then - smells, smells! How many of them, unfamiliar, terrible, weak and strong, the meaning of which he did not know! And Arcturus, bumping into all these odorous, rustling, crackling, prickly objects, shuddered, blew his nose and huddled at my feet. He was confused and scared.

Ah, Arcturus! - I quietly told him. - You poor dog! You don’t know that there is a bright sun in the world, you don’t know how green the trees and bushes are in the morning and how much the dew glistens on the grass; you don’t know that around us there are a lot of flowers - white, yellow, blue and red - and that among the gray spruce trees and yellowing foliage, bunches of rowan berries and rose hips are so tenderly red. If you saw the moon and stars at night, you might bark at them with pleasure. How do you know that horses, and dogs, and cats are all different colors, that fences are brown, and green, and just gray, and how much the glass of the windows shines at sunset, what a fiery sea the river then floods! If you were a normal, healthy dog, then your owner would be a hunter. Then in the morning you would listen to the mighty song of the horn and wild voices, such as ordinary people never shout. You would then chase the beast, choking on barking, not remembering yourself, and with this frantic running in hot pursuit you would serve your master.

So, slowly talking to him so that he wouldn’t be so scared, I went further and further into the forest. Arcturus gradually calmed down and began to explore the bushes and stumps more boldly. How many new and unusual things he found, what delight overwhelmed him! Now he, carried away by his important business, no longer pressed against me. From time to time he stopped, looked in my direction with his dead white eyes, listened, wanting to make sure whether he was doing the right thing, whether I was following him, then again he began circling through the forest.

Soon we went out into the meadow and walked small. Arcturus was gripped by terrible excitement. Biting the grass, stumbling on hummocks, he flashed among the bushes. He breathed loudly, climbed ahead, no longer paying attention to me or the thorny branches. Finally, he couldn’t stand it, he closed his eyes, popped into the bushes with a crash, disappeared there, fumbled around, made a fuss... “He smelled someone!” - I thought and stopped.

“Gum! - rang loudly and uncertainly in the bushes. - Gum, din!”

Arcturus! - I called out in concern.

But at that moment something happened. Arcturus squealed, howled and noisily rushed into the depths of the bushes. His howl quickly turned into an excited bark, and from the trembling tops of the bushes I could see how he was pushing through there. Fearing for him, I rushed to intercept him, loudly calling out to him. But my scream, apparently, only gave him excitement. Stumbling, getting stuck in the density, gasping for breath, I ran across one clearing, then another, went down into the ravine, ran out to a clear place and immediately saw Arcturus. He rolled out of the bushes and rushed straight towards me. He was unrecognizable, he ran funny, jumping high, not the way dogs usually run, but nevertheless he drove confidently, excitedly, barked incessantly, choking, breaking into a thin puppy voice.

Arcturus! - I shouted. He lost his way. I managed to jump up and grab him by the collar. He struggled, growled, almost bit me, his eyes were bloodshot, and it took me great effort to calm and distract him. He was badly bruised and scratched, holding his left ear to the ground: apparently, he still hit himself several times somewhere, but his passion was so great, he was so excited, that he did not feel these bruises.

From that day on, his life took a different turn. In the morning he disappeared into the forest, ran away there alone and returned sometimes in the evening, sometimes the next day, each time completely exhausted, beaten, with bloodshot eyes. He grew a lot during this time, his chest expanded, his voice became stronger, his paws became dry and powerful, like steel springs.

How he drove there alone, how he didn’t crash, I couldn’t understand. He probably still felt that something was missing in his lonely hunts. Maybe he was waiting for approval, support from a person, which is so necessary for every hound dog.

I have never seen him return from the forest well-fed. His running, the running of a blind, clumsy dog, was, of course, slow and uncertain. No, he never caught up with his enemies and did not sink his teeth into them! The forest was a silent enemy to him, the forest lashed him in the face, in the eyes, the forest threw itself at his feet, the forest stopped him. Only the smell, a wild, ever-exciting, calling, unbearably beautiful and hostile smell, reached him, only one trail among a thousand others led him forward and forward.

How did he find his way home, waking up from his frantic running, from his great dreams? What a sense of space and topography, what a great instinct he needed in order to wake up, completely exhausted, broken, suffocated, losing his voice somewhere many miles away in a dense forest with the rustling of grass and the smell of damp ravines, to get home!

Every hound dog needs human approval. The dog chases the beast and forgets everything, but even at the moment of the highest passion, it knows that somewhere out there, ahead, seized by the same passion, its master-hunter is running across the manholes and that when the time comes, his shot will decide everything. At such moments, the owner’s voice runs wild and infects the dog; he also climbs the bushes, runs, snorts hoarsely, and helps the dog untangle the trail. And when it’s all over, the owner throws the dog a pair of boots, looks at it with drunken, happy eyes, and shouts with delight: “But, you! Sweetie!” - and pats the ears.

Arcturus was alone in this sense and suffered. Love for his master fought in him with hunting passion. Several times I saw how early in the morning Arcturus crawled out from under the terrace where he liked to sleep, ran around the garden, sat down under his master’s window and began to wait for his awakening. He always did this before, and if the doctor, waking up, in a good mood, looked out the window and called: “Arcturus!” - what was this dog doing then! Solemnly he approached the window itself, lifted his head up with a twitching throat and swayed, moving from paw to paw. Then he entered the house, some kind of fuss began there, happy sounds were heard, the doctor’s arias and stomping around the rooms.

He was now waiting for the doctor to wake up. But now something else was bothering him greatly. He trembled nervously, shook himself, scratched himself, looked up, stood up, sat down again and began to whine quietly. Then he began to run near the terrace, making ever larger circles, sat down again under the window, even barked briefly with impatience and, pricking up his ears and tilting his head alternately to one side or the other, listened for a long time. Finally he got up, stretched nervously, yawned, headed towards the fence and resolutely climbed out into the hole. A little later I saw him far away in the field, trotting at his even, somewhat tense and uncertain trot. He was heading towards the forest.

Once I was walking with a gun along the high shore of a narrow lake. The ducks that year became unusually fat, there were many of them, snipe were often found in the lowlands, and the hunt was easy and joyful.

Having chosen a more comfortable stump, I sat down to rest, and when the light breeze that had flown in before died down and a moment of pure, thoughtful silence began, I heard strange sounds very far away. It was as if someone was striking a silver bell evenly, and this warm crimson ringing, tangled in the spruce forests, intensifying in the pine forests, echoed throughout the forest, setting everything in a solemn mood. Gradually the sounds began to be identified, and, concentrating, I realized that a dog was barking somewhere. The barking coming from the opposite shore of the lake, from the depths of the pine forests, was clear, weak and distant; sometimes it disappeared completely, but then it stubbornly resumed again, a little closer and louder.

I sat on a stump, looked around at the yellow, already draughty birches, at the graying moss and the crimson aspen leaves visible far away on it, listened to the silver bark, and it seemed to me that hidden squirrels, black grouse, and birches, and cramped trees were listening to it with me. green fir trees, and a lake below, and the web woven by spiders trembles. Soon, in this beautiful musical bark, I felt something familiar, and I suddenly realized that it was Arcturus who was driving.

So that's when I had to hear it! A faint silver echo echoed from the pine trees, and it sounded like several dogs barking. Once Arcturus apparently lost track and fell silent. His silence lasted for long minutes, the forest immediately became empty and dead. I seemed to see the dog circling, blinking its white eyes, trusting only its instinct. Or maybe he hit a tree? Maybe he is now lying with a broken chest, unable to rise, bloodied and sad?

But the rut resumed with renewed vigor, much closer to the lake. This lake is so located that all the paths, all the holes lead to it, and not a single one will pass by. I saw a lot of interesting things near this lake. Now I too got ready and waited. Soon a fox jumped out onto a small meadow brown with horse sorrel on the other side. She was dirty gray, with a bushy, thin tail. She stopped for a moment with her front paw raised, her ears erect, and listened to the approaching rut. Then, leisurely running through the meadow, she went to the edge, dived into a ravine and disappeared into the small forest. Now Arcturus also flew out into the meadow. He walked a little away from the trail, incessantly and angrily raised his voice and, as always, jumped high and awkwardly as he ran. Following the fox, he flew into a ravine, plunged into the small forest, squealed and howled there, fell silent, getting out of some difficult place, then again barked low and evenly, as if he was ringing a silver bell. As in a strange theater, the ever-warring dog and beast flashed before me, disappeared, and I was again left alone with silence and distant barking.

The fame of the extraordinary hound dog soon spread throughout the city and throughout the area. He was seen on the distant Losva River, in the fields behind the forest hills, on the remotest forest roads. They talked about him in the villages, on the piers and at transport stations, and rafters and sawmill workers argued about him over glasses of beer. Hunters began to visit our house. As a rule, they did not believe rumors - they themselves knew the value of hunting stories. They examined Arcturus, talked about his ears and paws, about his viscosity and other hunting characteristics; they looked for his shortcomings and persuaded the doctor to sell them the dog. They desperately wanted to feel Arcturus' muscles, to look at his paws and chest, but Arcturus sat at the doctor's feet so gloomy and wary that no one dared to reach out to him.

And the doctor, blushing and angry, assured for the tenth time that the dog was not for sale, that it was time for everyone to know about it. The hunters left upset, and others came to replace them.

One day, Arcturus, who had been badly crashed the day before, was lying under the terrace when an old man appeared in the garden. His left eye was leaking and closed, his Tatar beard was showing through, he had a crumpled three-piece hat on his head, and knocked-down hunting boots on his feet. Seeing me, the old man blinked, pulled his hat off his head, scratched his head and looked at the sky.

The weather today, the weather... - he began vaguely and, grunting, fell silent.

I guessed and asked:

Didn't they come for the dog?

Yes and how! - he perked up and put on his hat. - After all, this is what happens, for example? What does a doctor need a dog for? He doesn’t need it, but I need a dog so badly! Hunting is coming soon and all that... Listen, I have a hound myself, but it’s bad: he’s a fool, he doesn’t keep track and has no voice. But what is this? Sloppy, huh? After all, it’s incomprehensible to the mind how it drives you out! The royal dog, that holy cross!

I advised him to talk to the owner. He sighed, blew his nose and went into the house, and five minutes later he appeared very red and confused. He stopped next to me, groaned, and lit a cigarette for a long time. Then he frowned.

Well, did you get rejected? - I asked, knowing the answer in advance.

And do not say! - he exclaimed sadly. - Well, what can you say! I’ve been a hunter since I was a child - see, I lost an eye - and I have sons too, and all that. Listen, we need a dog for business, for business! No, he doesn’t... He promised five hundred rubles - what’s the price, eh? - and don’t come closer, he won’t let you! Almost started crying, huh? I need to cry! Hunting is coming - no dogs!

He looked around the garden and the fence in confusion, and suddenly something flashed on his face, something so cunning and smart. He immediately became calmer.

Where does it fit with you? - he asked as if by chance and blinked his eye.

Do you really want to steal the dog? - I asked.

The old man became embarrassed, took off his hat, wiped his face with the lining and looked at me inquisitively.

Forgive me, Lord! - he said and laughed. - After all, this way you will end up in sin. What did you think? Well, what does he need a dog for? Tell me here!

He started to leave, but on the way he stopped and looked at me joyfully:

Then he returned, came up to me and whispered, winking and glancing at the windows of the house:

Wait, the dog will be mine. What does he need a dog for? He is a mental man, not a hunter... He will sell it to me. Holy cross, will sell! It’s a long way to the Intercession, we’ll think of something. And you say... Eh!

As soon as the old man left, the doctor quickly came out into the garden.

What did he tell you here? - he was worried. - Oh, what a nasty old man! What kind of eye does he have, have you noticed? Just a robber! And how did he know about the dog?

The doctor was rubbing his hands nervously, his neck was red, and a gray lock of hair had fallen onto his forehead. Arcturus, hearing the voice of his master, crawled out from under the terrace and, limping, approached us.

Arcturus! - said the doctor. - You will never cheat on me, will you?

Arcturus closed his eyes and nuzzled the doctor's knees. He could not stand from weakness and sat down. His head was pulled down, he was almost asleep. The doctor looked at me joyfully, laughed and patted Arcturus by the ears.

August came to an end, the weather turned bad, and I was about to leave when Arcturus disappeared. In the morning he went into the forest and did not return in the evening, nor the next day, nor the day after.

When a friend who lived with you, whom you saw every day and to whom you often did not even pay attention, when this friend leaves and never returns, you are left with only memories.

And I remembered all the days spent with Arcturus, his uncertainty, embarrassment, his awkward, somewhat sideways running, his voice, habits, cute little things, his love for his owner, even the smell of a clean, healthy dog... I remembered all this and regretted that it was not my dog, that it was not I who gave him his name, that he did not love me and did not return to my house in the dark, waking up from a chase many miles away.

The doctor has become haggard these days. He immediately suspected the old man, and we looked for him for a long time until we finally found him. But the old man swore and swore that he had never seen Arcturus. Moreover, he volunteered to look for him with us.

The news of Arcturus's disappearance instantly spread throughout the city. It turned out that many people knew and loved him and that everyone was ready to help the doctor in his search. Everyone was busy with the most contradictory talk and rumors. Someone saw a dog similar to Arcturus, another heard his barking in the forest...

The guys, those whom the doctor treated, and those whom he did not know at all, walked through the forest, shouted, examined all the forest guardhouses, shot and visited the doctor ten times a day to find out if the wonderful hound dog had come and found .

I wasn't looking for Arcturus. I couldn’t believe that he could get lost - he had too good a sense for that. And he loved his master too much to pester any hunter. He, of course, died... But how? Where? I didn't know this. You never know where you can find your death!

And a few days later the doctor realized this too. He somehow immediately became bored, stopped singing and did not sleep for a long time in the evenings. The house without Arcturus became empty and quiet, the cats were no longer afraid of anyone and walked freely in the garden, no one sniffed the stone near the river anymore. Useless, it sadly stuck out above the ground and turned black from the rains; no one needed its smells.

On the day of my departure, the doctor and I talked for a long time about various differences. We tried not to remember Arcturus. Only once did the doctor regret that he had not become a hunter from a young age.

Two years later I again found myself in those places and again settled with the doctor. He still lived alone. No one clapped their claws on the floor, snorted, or thrashed their tails against the wicker furniture. The house was silent, and the rooms also smelled of dust, pharmacy and old wallpaper.

But it was spring, and the empty house did not make a painful impression. Buds were bursting in the garden, sparrows were screaming, rooks were making noise in the grove of the city garden, the doctor was singing his arias in the finest falsetto. In the mornings there was blue steam over the city, the river overflowed as far as the eye could see, swans rested on the floods and rose in the morning with their eternal “clank-clank”, nimble boats honked nasally and persistent tugboats hummed a long horn. It was fun!

The next day upon arrival, I went to the deadlift. There was a golden fog in the forest, there was dripping, ringing and gurgling all around. The earth was bare, there was a strong and pungent smell, and there were so many other smells - aspen bark, rotting wood, damp leaves - all of them were overwhelmed by the strong and pungent smell of earth. It was a beautiful evening with a fiery sea of ​​sunset, and the woodcocks were flying thickly. I killed four and barely found them on the dark layer of foliage. When the sky turned green and went dark and the first stars poured out, I quietly walked home along the familiar well-worn road, avoiding wide floods that reflected the sky, bare birches, and stars.

Walking around one of these floods along a small mane, I suddenly noticed something light ahead and thought at first that it was the last patch of snow, but, coming closer, I saw a few dog bones lying scattered. My heart began to pound dully, I began to peer closely, and saw a collar with a green copper buckle... Yes, these were the remains of Arcturus. Having carefully looked into everything, I already in complete twilight guessed how it was. The tree, which was not yet old but dry, had a separate lower branch. It, like the rest of the tree, dried out, crumbled and broke off, until it finally turned into a bare sharp stick. Arcturus stumbled upon this stick when he was rushing along the hot, odorous trail and no longer remembered, and did not know anything except this trail, calling everything forward, everything forward.

Hunters have a strange love for sonorous names. There are so many names you won’t find among hunting dogs! There are Dianas and Antheas, Phoebus and Nero, Venus and Romulus... But probably no dog was so worthy of a big name, the name of an unfading blue star!

Kazakov Yuri Pavlovich

Arcturus - the hound dog

Yuri Pavlovich Kazakov

ARCTURUS - HOUND DOG

The history of his appearance in the city remained unknown. He came from somewhere in the spring and began to live.

They said that he was abandoned by passing gypsies.

Strange people - gypsies. In early spring they set off on their journey. Some travel by train, others on ships or rafts, others trudge along the roads in carts, looking with hostility at the cars rushing past. People with southern blood, they climb into the most remote northern corners. Suddenly they become a camp near the city, wander around the bazaar for several days, feel things, bargain, go from house to house, tell fortunes, swear, laugh - dark, beautiful, with earrings in their ears, in bright clothes. But then they leave the city, disappear as suddenly as they appeared, and you will never see them here. Others will come, but these will not be there. The world is wide, and they do not like to come to places they have already been to.

So, many were convinced that the gypsies abandoned him in the spring.

Others said that he sailed on an ice floe during the spring flood. He stood, black, among the blue and white crumble, alone motionless among the general movement. And swans flew above and shouted: “Clink-clank!”

People are always excited to see swans. And when they arrive, when at dawn they rise from the floods with their great spring cry “clink-clank,” people follow them with their eyes, the blood begins to ring in their hearts, and they know then that spring has come.

The ice rustled and muffledly burst along the river, swans screamed, and he stood on the ice floe, tail between his legs, wary, uncertain, sniffing and listening attentively to what was happening around him. When the ice floe approached the shore, he became agitated, jumped awkwardly, fell into the water, but quickly climbed ashore and, shaking himself off, disappeared among the stacks of timber.

One way or another, but, having appeared in the spring, when the days are filled with the shine of the sun, the sound of streams and the smell of bark, he remained to live in the city.

One can only guess about his past. He was probably born somewhere under the porch, on the straw. His mother, a purebred bitch from the Kostroma hound breed, short, with a long body, when the time came, disappeared under the porch to accomplish her great deed in secret. They called her, she did not respond and did not eat anything, completely concentrated in herself, feeling that something was about to happen that was more important than anything in the world, more important even than hunting and people...

He was born, like all puppies, blind, was immediately licked by his mother and placed close to the warm belly, still tense from birth pains. And while he lay there, getting used to breathing, more and more brothers and sisters were added to him. They moved, grunted and tried to whine - just like him, smoky puppies with bare bellies and short, trembling tails. Soon it was all over, everyone found a nipple and fell silent; All that could be heard was the mother's sniffling, smacking and heavy breathing. This is how their life began.

At one time, all the puppies opened their eyes, and they learned with delight that there was a world even greater than the one in which they had lived until now. His eyes were also opened, but he was never destined to see the light. He was blind, a thick gray film covering his pupils. For him, a blind man, a bitter and difficult life began. It would even be terrible if he could realize his blindness. But he did not know that he was blind, it was not given to him to know. He accepted life as it came to him.

Somehow it happened that he was not drowned or killed, which would, of course, have been mercy towards a helpless puppy, unnecessary to people. He remained alive and endured great ordeals, which hardened and hardened him ahead of time.

He did not have an owner who would give him shelter, feed him and take care of him as his friend. He became a homeless stray dog, sullen, awkward and distrustful. His mother, having fed him, soon lost all interest in him, as in his brothers. He learned to howl like a wolf, just as long, darkly and sadly. He was dirty, often sick, rummaged in landfills near canteens, received kicks and buckets of dirty water along with the same homeless and hungry dogs.

He couldn't run fast; he didn't really need his legs, his strong legs. All the time it seemed to him that he was running towards something sharp and tough. When he fought with other dogs - and he fought many times in his life - he did not see his enemies, he bit and rushed, focusing on the sound of breathing, on growls and squeals, on the rustling of the earth under the paws of his enemies, and often rushed and bit in vain.

It is not known what name his mother gave him at birth - for people he had no name. It is also unknown whether he would have stayed in the city, left, or died somewhere in a ravine, but a man intervened in his fate, and everything changed.

That summer I lived in a small northern town. The city stood on the banks of the river. White steamships, dirty brown barges, long rafts, wide-chine carbas with sides stained with black tar floated along the river. There was a pier near the shore that smelled of matting, rope, damp rot and roach. Rarely did anyone go to this pier, except suburban collective farmers on market day and business travelers in gray raincoats who came from the region to the timber mill.

Around the city, along low, gentle hills, forests stretched, mighty, untouched: the wood for rafting was cut down in the upper reaches of the river. In the forests there were large meadows and remote lakes with huge old pine trees along the banks. The pines made a quiet noise all the time. When a cool, damp wind blew from the Arctic Ocean, driving up clouds, the pines hummed menacingly and dropped their cones, which hit the ground hard.

I rented a room on the outskirts, on top of an old house. My master, the doctor, was an always busy, silent man. He used to live with a large family, but his two sons were killed at the front, his wife died, his daughter went to Moscow, and the doctor now lived alone and treated children. He had one strange thing: he loved to sing. With the thinnest fistula, he pulled out all kinds of arias, sweetly fading on the high notes. He had three rooms downstairs, but he rarely went there, dined and slept on the terrace, and the rooms were gloomy, smelling of dust, a pharmacy and old wallpaper.

The window of my room looked out onto a wild garden, overgrown with currants, raspberries, burdock and nettles along the fence. In the mornings, sparrows fussed outside the window, blackbirds came in clouds to peck currants - the doctor did not chase them away and did not pick berries. The neighbor's chickens and roosters sometimes flew up onto the fence. The rooster sang loudly, stretched his neck upward, shook his tail and looked curiously into the garden. Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore, he flew down, and the chickens flew after him and hastily began to rummage around the currant bushes. Cats also wandered into the garden and, hiding near the burdock trees, watched the sparrows.