The Good Dog Scowler

THE GOOD DOG SCOWLER

by
Marat Galiev
;

A Good Dog Called Scowler
Story

1.
The timid winter dawn was barely beginning to gleam over the tops of the firs and cedars when a light twinkled in the window of a lonely forest hut. Soon the door opened with a squeak, and out came a middle-aged man with a steaming cooking pot in his hands, He was already impatiently awaited. Giving voice to the darkness with his joyful barking, a large gray dog, wagging his tail like a propeller, rushed to his owner. Finding a hand with his wet nose, he tried to embrace the old man with his paws and lick his face.
“Stop it, Scowler!” said Miron with some irritation, pushing the loving hound away and putting the food under his nose. Knocking the ice out of the drinking bowl, he went back into the hut and brought out some warm water. Every time his owner moved, the dog accompanied him, and did not touch the food. Only when Miron disappeared through the door with a bundle of firewood did the dog eagerly start filling his belly.
In spite of his terrifying teeth and ruffled head with short ears, the hound had a lively and sociable nature. But he got his name Scowler more by chance.
Five years ago, during a hare hunt, wolves killed Miron’s beloved beagle  He only heard a pitiful yelp, then found clumps of fur and a few drop of blood. It was as if the dog had never been, To live alone in the forest without a four-footed friend was impossible. The old man grieved, then went down to the village. He decided to look for a new puppy and get the latest gossip at the same time.
In a roadside tavern which he entered for a quick one, he met an old acquaintance, Dmitri Sychov, the local drunk. They shared their problems over a glass.
“I can get you another dog right away!” declared Sychov. “Would you like a husky?”
“A husky?” Miron was pleased. “I wouldn’t say no to that! How much will I owe you?”
Sychov playfully dismissed the idea.
“Buy the next round and that’ll cover it!”
“What? No problem
The drunkard left immediately, and an hour later brought Miron a whimpering bundle of fur wrapped in a dirty rag. The puppy was no more than a month old.
The old man looked at Dmitri reproachfully.

“What sort of husky is that? It’s obviously a mongrel!”
“You want a husky, it’ll be three hundred bucks or a bearskin. No-one will give you one for less!” retorted Sychov indignantly.
The old hunter thought about it. He didn’t have that sort of money. Nor a bearskin. The drunk grumbled:
“Listen what difference does it make to you whether it’s a mongrel or not? I bet you a hundred the puppy is a pedigree crossbreed! And what am I asking for it? Damn all!” he whined, pulling the old man by the sleeve.
Miron, apparently not listening, stroked the shivering puppy and ruffled its ears.
“He’s small. Should he have been taken from his mom?”
Sychov waved this away impatiently.
Fill ‘em up, what are you waiting for. Let’s wet the puppy’s head!”
Miron ordered more vodka. Holding the puppy in his palm, he started attentively stroking it. The puppy shivered slightly and licked his hand. The mutt had a very amusing face. Short floppy ears and scared little black button eyes hiding behind folds above the eyebrows, making it look as if it was scowling.
“Why are you such a scowler, boy? Are you missing your mom?” Miron tenderly asked the puppy, who suddenly whined and scowled even more.
“OK, fine”, laughed his new owner. “From now on I’ll call you Scowler.”
For about a month, the old man gave the puppy milk and chopped hard-boiled eggs, and soon it was gobbling down hare and poultry giblets as fast as it could.

The old man had no family. His wife and young son had died thirty years ago, when the village bus had skidded on the ice and fallen into a ravine. Since then he had moved into the forest, twenty kilometers from the village. Otherwise he would have had to drown his sorrows when he looked at other people’s wives and children. With no help from anyone, he built a small hut and made simple furniture. Then he built on a bath-house and started keeping bees. In the summer, the old man extracted the honey and dried mushrooms to sell. He developed a passion for hunting. In a few years, he became reconciled. But he never returned to the village. He found harmony and spiritual calm in the forest life.
Miron loved his new dog from the start. The animal had such a joyful nature, and his understanding was almost human. His owner only had to lower his feet sleepily from the bed, and the dog would fetch him his shoes. If he decided to tidy up, the puppy would dash around the hut with a floor cloth. And if the old man became sad, the dog would do something to make him smile in spite of himself. And now he had someone to chat to in his life.
In the evenings, Miron would tell him stories. He didn’t have a son to amuse, but Scowler could at least listen. It was as if he was not only an animal, but a child as well. He looked at his owner with his clever eyes, rubbed his paws and whined in satisfaction. He understood everything. He obviously liked the stories, because he wagged his tail. And if he had been up to mischief, he would hide, the cunning animal, so that you couldn’t find him even with a flashlight in the daytime. Even though the hut was only a dozen square meters.
The puppy really did look something like a husky, but as he grew, became larger than a husky would have been. It seemed there was some pedigree in him after all, because Scowler soon came to love hunting. Miron built him a spacious kennel from new boards, draft-proofed it, and let the dog live free there, without a chain. But he did put a thick leather collar on him. This was essential for a hunting dog if it got into a fight with a wolf. And why would the faithful hound need a chain anyway? He was strongly bound by his love for his owner. The lonely house, surrounded by forest, was now reliably protected.

2.
The hound quickly finished his food and ran about the yard barking happily. He had realized some time ago that they were going hunting, and was waiting impatiently for his owner. Soon Miron came out fully equipped, with his gun on his shoulder. Going into the barn, he took his skis off the wall, and the friends set off deep into the forest.
“Calm down, calm down!” said the hunter to the overexcited dog.  “You’ve really got the wind up your tail!”
Scowler was beside himself with joy! He circled round Miron and looked him lovingly in the face.
There was a frost and occasional falls of sleet. The skis slid well on the crisp snow, and the hunters were soon deep into the sparse mixed forest, waist-high in birch and aspen scrub. The darkness was beginning to lighten. They soon went down into Badger Valley, and crossed several frozen marshes and pine coppices. They came out of the valley at the same height as they had gone in. Miron knew these parts very well, they were not all that far from home.
The forest became noticeably thicker. They often came on old tracks of hares, weasels and foxes. Scowler only sniffed, whimpered a little and led his owner further. The man grumbled reproachfully under his breath:
“Seek, Scowler! You’re a good dog but you’re lazy!”
From time to time, the dog became alert and dived into the undergrowth, disappearing for a few minutes. Miron stopped, hoping the dog would raise a hare and bark. But his four-footed friend returned each time, guiltily lowering his head, and then went off again, trying to work out where the animals were.
“Seek, damn you! Seek!” Miron cried, trying to encourage the dog, and clapped his hands. “Otherwise you’ll be eating boiled cabbage this evening!”
The old hunter was kidding. He had enough food in. In the barn there hung smoked boar hams, badger-meat jerky and smoked fish. There was an elk carcass in aluminum cans. And a few sacks of dried mushrooms, and salted pepper-mushrooms sealed in dozens of glass jars. By eating sparingly, he could get by for a month or two, no problem! But the forest demands provisions saved for future use. Just in case. That’s the taiga philosophy. But what does the dog care about stocking up? For him, it’s the thrill of the chase, and knowing he’s being useful to his owner – that’s what it’s all about!
It soon became more difficult going. More and more often they had to get round fallen trees and impassable fir-wood undergrowth. The old man cursed. The frozen snow crunched with every movement and frightened the game away. The dog carried on casting around, tirelessly searching.
Dawn broke. Miron stopped every now and again, took his binoculars in his hands and studied the trees in the hope of finding a capercaillie or a gray-hen. But they came across nothing apart from woodpeckers, squirrels and noisy magpies.
In a small meadow surrounded by a thick spruce wood, the old hunter noticed a fallen tree, and decided to take a break. He was about to make himself comfortable in this stopping place when Scowler suddenly stopped, then dashed into the undergrowth. The hunter took up his gun and listened carefully. He soon realized, from the particular excited barking, that the dog had raised a hare. The sounds became fainter till they almost disappeared. It seemed the hare had gone on one of its long circular runs. Well, Scowler wouldn’t let it go! He would bring it under the gun. In that respect he was like clockwork.
The hunter well recalled where the first bark had come from. That would be where the hare’s burrow was, that was the place to wait.
However many rounds the hare ran, however many tracks he came across, he would always return to his home. This was ancient wisdom, learned from suffering in the struggle for survival. Against a single predator it was very effective. But it could be the end of him. The tactic was virtually useless when the hunter was working with a clever dog.
Forcing his way through bushes and undergrowth, Miron followed the tracks to a burrow, lined with fur.
“OK, hare, come this way…” he whispered, removing his skis and taking position by a large pine tree.

3.
All at once the white curtain of the nearby undergrowth rustled. From somewhere quite nearby came the crackle of brushwood and a low dull sound like a growl. The snow suddenly fell off, and a huge bear appeared from behind the green wall. At first, in surprise, the hunter took it for a stray cow from the village. But he realized immediately that only a few paces from him, nervously moving its protruding lower lip and with clouds of steam issuing from its mouth, the real lord of the taiga stood looking at him sullenly.
“Bear!” exclaimed Miron, feeling the roots of his hair stirring on his head. He was suddenly horrified to remember that he only had smallshot in his barrels – OK for hares but hardly enough to tickle a bear.
The wild beast stood for a second, showing its impressive height. Then it bared its teeth, and growling threateningly, moved towards the hunter at increasing speed. Its flattened ears and fur standing on end did not presage anything good. Shouts and handclaps did not stop the brute. It was advancing in huge bounds, not for an instant taking its bloodshot eyes off its prey. Feeling his blood run cold, the hunter broke open his shotgun. He had only just managed to eject the useless cartridges and replace them with the right ones, explosive shells, when the animal was in front of him, only three jumps away. He pushed the shells home just as the enormous shaggy head with bloody eyes and wide open jaws with big yellow teeth was ready to bite him.
“Sco-o-o-owler!” cried Miron in despair. At the last instant, he instinctively put his arms in front of him, holding the gun, and suffered a terrible blow, by which he was thrown several meters as if he weighed no more than a feather, his back scraping against bushes and undergrowth. His eyes clouded over from the acute pain in his back and neck. Meanwhile the bear, coming across the hunter’s cap which had flown off his head, stopped and sniffed it nervously.

Lying in the snow, the old man thought feverishly about the situation and tapped the handle of the knife on his belt. The dog was no help to him right now, he was somewhere far off. Away after a hare, honorably doing his duty, having no idea there was a bear about, or he would have been here by this time. He would have to get out of this on his own somehow.
If he stabbed the bear in the belly with his knife, he would certainly rip it open, but that wouldn’t save him. A wounded bear would be even more dangerous. It would only die of the knife wounds later. And that wouldn’t make it any easier for Miron. The bear would reduce him to mincemeat and broken bones.  The lord of the taiga could break the spine of an elk, let along that of a man, that weak flimsy monkey-like creature. Better to let the bear kill him at once. Fewer problems. It would be worse if he were crippled and tried to continue as normal. Then his end would come slowly and sadly. Who would come looking for him, a lonely old man in a God-forsaken remote copse in the taiga? Maybe they would happen upon his remains next summer. If he played dead, would the beast fall for it and go away? The old hunter raised his head with difficulty and stared at the bear again.
“He’d more likely eat me”, concluded Miron sadly, seeing the wild beast looking at him hungrily. This one was obviously hungry and angry. He needed to fill his belly right now, no matter what. Human meat would do fine. Even if it wasn’t young meat.
Sure his death was near, Miron silently said goodbye to the white world. His brain, to his surprise, was working rapidly. His whole life flashed before him like a movie at high speed. He remembered his childhood, his parents, and his wife and son who had perished thirty years earlier. He even wondered what he would say to them in the next world about his latest adventure. The boy would certainly listen eagerly to such a story.
At the same time, he was watching the bear as if bewitched. He noticed that its snout had bald patches and old healed wounds. He even observed that it had a torn nostril. It seemed it hadn’t got on well with its fellow bears.
The predator lost interest in the cap and gave a muffled roar. Wheezing and shaking its huge head, it nervously tossed the cap aside. Then, breathing heavily, it coughed like a sufferer from tuberculosis, and again rushed roaring at the man lying flat in the snow.
“This is surely the end, then...” thought the old man, and took out his knife.

Suddenly, quite near, he heard the crackle of bushes and the angry bark of a dog. Miron quivered in surprise. The dog leapt towards him – the old man even managed to see his white belly and hind paws, with pieces of ice stuck to the fur – and threw himself directly at the mighty polar bear. The hunter felt hot, his temples were throbbing: “He made it! So quick!”
For Miron, who had not expected such a turn of events, it all seemed like a dream.
The enraged bear and the wildly barking dog were fighting to the death. The hunter had never heard such extreme anger in the voice of his four-footed friend before. Scowler dug his teeth into the enemy’s muzzle and he hung on the bear, which with a furious roar scrabbled at the dog with his front paws, trying to tear him off. Rising with difficulty, Miron, was delighted to see, through the dark mist in front of his eyes, the stock of his gun sticking out of the snow a few paces away. Overcoming his pain, he crawled towards it.
At that moment, the bear was crushing the dog, bearing down on him with all his weight. Suddenly Scowler howled in a way that made his owner go cold. He realized that the end had come for his only defender. He also realized that he would be next. The bear spent a few more seconds maliciously mauling the immobile dog, and then turned to the man. Now only an instant separated life from death. As soon as he had the gun in his grasp, Miron turned and fired everything in the barrels directly into the open maw of the wild beast. In that instant, he himself was pressed to the ground by its huge body.

The bear’s blood, seeping under his clothes, felt warm. The animal shook in convulsions for a minute and then lay quiet. Crawling out from under the body with some effort, the hunter hastened to crawl further away. Bent over and breathing heavily, he managed to get onto his feet and reloaded the gun. He was about to fire again to make sure the bear was dead, when he suddenly remembered the conversation with Sychov about the husky puppy.
Even in death, the lord of the taiga induced fear. Miron carefully went round his fallen enemy, pushing the gun muzzle into him a few times. The bear did not move. Only his huge claws were still quivering. The hunter breathed a sigh of relief and then heard the voice of his faithful dog. He rushed over to him. When he saw what was left of Scowler, he sat down next to him, tore his hair and burst into tears.
The dog was lying in snow soaked in blood on his right side with his tongue half out. His head was a shapeless mess. His bloody skull could be seen through where he had been scalped. His right ear was almost all missing. The bear had also bitten through part of his lip, laying his teeth bare. Torn bleeding wounds could be seen on his body, the ribs showing white through the biggest one. He was shaking, his paws were quivering convulsively. But his eyes! The dog’s eyes were alive! Without a trace of reproach, they were looking lovingly at his owner!
“Hey, what a poor old thing you are! My dear, good dog! Why were we fated to meet that vicious bear?”, muttered the old man, swallowing his tears. Why didn’t we spot him?”
Miron straightened out a flap of fur on the dog’s head and stroked him gently. Scowler closed his eyes. Only his slightly shivering sides showed that he was still breathing.
“He won’t survive”, thought his owner with pain. “He’s not long for this world…”

4.
Miron glared with hatred at the enormous fallen predator.
“You monster, to kill off my good faithful hound…” went round and round in his head, and tears flowed in dark rivulets down his unshaven sunken cheeks.
He decided to skin the bear. He would have to hurry if he were to reach home in the light.
The huge shaggy carcass was spread out on its stomach. The hunter had to admit that in spite of its size, the animal was not the weight it should have been. It appeared to weigh a little over 200 kilograms, whereas bears hereabouts usually weighed up to half a ton. “You didn’t get fattened up, damn you, or heal your wounds soon enough…” the hunter thought to himself, while struggling to turn the carcass on its back and wedging it with bits of tree trunk to stop it rolling on its side. He opened up the skin from the anal aperture to the lower lip. Then he made a cut from inside the forelegs to the chest. The hind legs didn’t take long,  but the forelegs and particularly the head gave him a lot of trouble. Nevertheless, working skillfully with his knife, Miron managed to carefully remove the head with its great fangs. When he had finished, he made the effort to pull off the bearskin. Then he threw it on the snow and spread it out like a carpet. Then he went for the hocks and cut off several good-sized slices, Neatly cutting out the gall bladder, he put it in a sack and hid it in his rucksack. He cast a critical eye over his trophies. All this stuff came to not far short of fifty kilograms; he couldn’t carry it. Miron looked for his skis.
At that moment, the dog made a noise. Miron rushed over to him, Amazingly, Scowler was still alive. A few snowflakes fell on his side, melted and ran off in tiny streams. He bent over the dog and laid his palm on him, trying not to touch the wounds. His hand could still feel warmth, but life was ebbing away. The red pool under him had doubled in size, and he was hardly breathing.
“Still alive, poor thing…” said Miron croakily, looking anywhere but directly at Scowler.
The dog suddenly whined pitifully, but faintly and helplessly, like a young puppy. Miron recalled taking the shivering wooly ball from Sychov’s hands five years earlier. He thought for a while, then tried to move the dog. But Scowler did not react. His front paws quivered slightly, his sides heaved feverishly, and there was a thin flow of blood from his mouth. The bear had probably broken the dog’s spine. His owner was agonized to see his pain. Something inside him tightened and turned to stone.

Wiping the tears from his dirty cheeks, Miron set about making a sledge from the skis. When he had finished, he pulled the bearskin, with edges folded in, onto it. He glanced at the sky. Instead of sleet in intricate zigzags, snow was falling heavily. Only now did the hunter realize how tired he was. He pulled the load over to where Scowler was lying. Bending down, he lifted the dog and carefully placed him on top, covering him tenderly with the shaggy edges. The dog made no sound, but his sides were still heaving slightly.
The snow fell still more heavily and a wind started blowing. Miron could see that visibility was getting worse. For the first time, he became seriously worried. It would be dark in an hour. If the wind grew stronger, this might turn into a real snowstorm. He suddenly realized that delay might cost him his life. He would have to walk without skis, pulling a heavy load. By hook or by crook he must cross Badger Valley before nightfall. From there on there was some semblance of a road, and less danger of meeting predators.

The wind was gusty, and the gusts were sometimes quite strong. The hunter panicked. He hurriedly slipped his rucksack on, slung the gun on his shoulder  and started to haul the load. After a mere fifty meters, it became clear that pulling the sledge would not be easy. The huge damp bearskin with the added weight of the dog made it catch on every unevenness. His legs kept giving way in the snow. After another hundred meters, the old man stopped again, helpless. It was too hard, he’d never make it...
Miron began thinking feverishly. If it were not for the dog, it would be quite possible to drag the makeshift sledge. Scowler weighed a little over twenty kilograms. But together with the bearskin and other trophies, it came to around seventy. OK, he thought – to hell with what we don’t need! He had no regrets about the slices of ham. That made the burden about ten kilograms less. He rummaged in the rucksack and threw out a thermos flask, a bottle of water and a few other odds and ends. Another three kilograms. He got back into the harness and pulled again. A few minutes later the old man stopped, gasping for breath. He bent over the dog and touched him carefully. The animal was still breathing...
“Well, how about it, boy? Can you hang on? Don’t worry, you’ll get over it!” said Miron reassuringly, but he suddenly realized that he was already regretting that the dog was still alive. He was surprised at himself.

Suddenly his conversation with his friend came to mind again. Three hundred bucks or a bearskin... He couldn’t save that much in a hundred years! Look for another bear? Not on your life! The very thought made him sick. Miron had agonizing thoughts, but in the end, hardening his heart, he came to a decision.
Somehow, limping painfully like a very old man, he went up to the sledge, shuffling guiltily. “Should I shoot him, to end his suffering?” he suddenly thought. He lay down and put his ear against the dog, and heard only a barely audible wheeze. He took his gun off his shoulder. “I can’t do it!” he muttered, turning away, and again could not stop the tears from flowing.
He harnessed himself back to the sledge with its valuable bearskin, and made a  redoubled effort to pull. But he soon had to give up, and went back to the dog. He fell on his knees and put his hands together in prayer.
“Scowler, forgive me, boy! But you can’t survive! and I can’t pull you any further. Forgive me, my dear faithful friend!”
Stroking the dying hound tenderly for the last time, Miron unloaded him from the sledge. He bit his lips till they bled and  rushed off.
Luckily for him, he did not see how the dog managed to open his eyes, and look sadly after his master for as long as he could see him…

5.
The old hunter reached home towards midnight. He was lucky, he did not go astray in the twilight, and crossed Badger Valley just as the wolves were starting to howl. He dragged the bearskin into his cold barn, fearing that the martens or carcajous might spoil the valuable trophy. He only had enough strength left to pour coarse salt over it. He decided to leave curing it properly till morning.
At home, he discovered he had a huge bleeding lump on the back of his neck. A little later, as he warmed up, his spine began to ache terribly. And he could hardly move his arms, They were sprained. The old man treated the wound as best he could, and rubbed a balsam he had made himself from celandine and propolis into his joints. And threw himself down on the bed.
Next day, he stretched the bearskin out on the wall, carefully dug out the meat and fat with a blunt knife, and washed away the blood. He did not forget to clean the thorns from the fur or to brush it with a special metal comb. He left it to dry, then heated the bath house.
After thoroughly warming himself in the steam room, the old man spent two successive days sleeping it off in the bed. He only got up occasionally to cast a glance out of the window at the untenanted dog kennel.
“How could I have left him there?” he reproached himself angrily, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists till the joints cracked.
It seemed to Miron that an acid was eating him away from inside. He felt so cold it made his teeth chatter, and then he was in a raging fever. His hands shook like those of an alcoholic, something that had never happened to him before.
He tried to calm himself with the thought that Scowler could not have lived more than half an hour after he had left. Of course he couldn’t. With wounds like that, a torn scalp and ribs sticking out? He had seen for himself what the bear’s terrible claws had done to the dog! And he would never have got home himself if he hadn’t left the dying dog in the forest! He would have frozen to death, and that would have been the end of it. Of course, if it hadn’t been for the bearskin, he could have dragged the dog home, but after all, the poor thing would not have lived. Obviously not. And even if Scowler had come out of it alive, what use was a crippled dog in the forest?
This mean thought came to mind more than once. Miron got furious, He tried to force it out of his head, hating himself at such times. But it kept coming back…
At the age of over sixty, on skis he still had the edge over a young man. But for the first time in all these years, he felt that he had aged considerably. He kept having disturbing nightmares, troubling his soul. At times, after waking up in the middle of the night, the old man could not manage to get to sleep again. He only had to doze off to see visions in which Scowler was always present, sometimes still a small puppy, sometimes half-grown, sometimes a lively adult dog. Some of the dreams were really terrible. Suddenly he would plainly see the door being broken down under heavy blows, and a huge enraged bear would rush into the house.
“Sco-o-o-owler!” shouted the old man, waking up in a cold sweat. And as if in a continuation of this frightful delusion, a dog’s bark  would clearly be heard from outside. In despair, the old man would cover his ears with his hands and gnash his teeth. It seemed to him as if his head would burst.

In two days, Miron, who hardly ever drank, poured as much booze into himself as would formerly have lasted him for six months. The comforting alcohol helped him forget. On the third day, he clearly recognized that he was going out of his mind. He must get out of the forest! The next morning, putting the folded bearskin on a proper sledge, the old man put his skis on and set off for the village.
Dmitri Sychov was hanging around the tavern as usual. Miron dashed up to him as if to a relative, to pour out his spiritual pain.
“All that doesn’t matter a damn!” exclaimed Dmitri impatiently, his eyes bulging covetously. “So you’ve been born again, it seems. We must mark it right away!”
The old man frowned and hesitated.
“Wait, there will be time for vodka. We have to get something for the bearskin. I need a husky puppy. Do you happen to know anyone who would do a swap?”
With a toothless grin, Dmitri waved his arms theatrically.
“You’re losing it out there in the forest, Miron! You’re forgetting! If I, Sychov, don’t know who has what in the village, who does? Listen here: Makarov, the dentist, is a serious breeder, he’s listed in the register. When he has a bitch with puppies, people come to him from all over the province.”
“But will he give me one for the bearskin? As a bearskin, it isn’t up to much...” said Miron doubtfully.
“Why wouldn’t he? We’ll talk him round! Do you want me to take you there?” Sychov looked at him cunningly while smoking a cigarette with shaking hands.
“I’d be very grateful if you would, Dmitri”, said Miron agitatedly.
“The drinks will be on you!”. Sychov winked merrily, and waved to Miron to come with him.
“No hurry, no worry. You’ll get your drinks. But business first”, said the elderly hunter with animation, following the drunkard and feeling warmer in spirit.

Sychov had not lied. The dentist proudly showed them his well-tended dog enclosure. Miron at once noticed a fine-looking bitch with her young in a large box strewn with fresh sawdust. Makarov caught his glance. He explained to him that all this litter had been spoken for. He pointed to another bitch in the fourth week of pregnancy. It would be about a month before the puppies were born, and then another three weeks or so before they could leave their mother. Miron did a mental calculation. Almost two months altogether. There was no getting away from it.
“I’d prefer a bitch”, he said, handing the bearskin in a sack to the breeder, who unwrapped it and scrutinized it thoroughly. He found the bullet hole, tutted and shook his head.
“The head is spoiled. The fur is coarse. The animal was obviously sick. It might get by as a carpet…”
The dentist thought it over, scratching his head. The old man nervously sucked a spoon.
They came to an agreement. Makarov accepted the bearskin as a down payment on the future puppy. Miron felt relieved. Glad that the business had gone so well, Miron relaxed and drank quite a lot with Sychov and his mate, a hearty unshaven farm worker who introduced himself as Timofey Petrovich. Sychov treated his drinking companion with respect, and always addressed him by both names. Miron, glad to have someone to tell his tale to, told everything, without exaggeration. He did not forget to mention how he had left the dying dog in the forest, and how he regretted it, beating his chest. Sychov drank with an unusually serious face. Timofey Petrovich wiped away the tears running down his unshaven cheeks with a dirty fist, and sniffled noisily. Mironov was on the verge of doing the same. When the tale was repeated, even the stern landlady of the tavern, with much experience of life, burst into tears. But anyway, that didn’t stop her hurriedly chasing them out to make room for new customers.

Drunk, muttering something under his breath, Miron staggered along the path in complete darkness, waving his flashlight from side to side with a shaky hand. Approaching the door, he opened the lock and was about to go in when he suddenly went cold! Had he imagined it? Sobering up on the spot, he turned again and directed the beam onto the kennel. There was a dog lying in it! It turned its head towards the light, and its eyes reflected it like red-hot coals.
“Scowler! Is that you?” Miron shouted. He was about to dash over to the kennel, but then stopped dead and wiped his eyes with his hands.
The dog looked at him but did not react. Suddenly a thought came to his mind. The old man sharply turned, and with a cry of horror, ran into the house. Taking the gun from its nail on the wall, he jumped out into the yard and aimed the barrels at the dog kennel.
“Scowler! Is that you? Or – who’s there? Come out or I shoot!” shouted Miron, not recognizing his own voice. But there was no longer anything there.
The old man sat at the window with his gun all night, and dozed off towards morning. But as soon as he opened his eyes, he dashed over to the kennel. It was empty. Everything in it was as it had been, only its former occupant was absent. Miron carefully studied the tracks, but apart from old ones, found nothing. If there’d been fresh snow, it occurred to him, everything would become clear.

6.
He spent the whole day mending the fence. Lots of wild beasts about, who knew what might wander in? Previously, while he had Scowler, Miron somehow didn’t worry about the fence. Obviously it was safer with a good dog. When he was busy about the house, he didn’t think much about the matter, but every time he went by the kennel, he looked towards it.
“Damnation, that surely couldn’t have been Scowler? No, of course not, the dog died, he couldn’t have survived! Then what dog did I see?” the old man worried. Towards evening, after a glass of hooch, Miron realized the truth: last night he had seen a stray dog in the kennel. There were a few of them wandering round the village, weren’t there? Of course, it was a different dog. and that was all there was to it! Huh! Miron cheered up a bit. Why didn’t he think of that straight away? Nobody returns from the next world, everyone knew that!

The alcohol did its work. Miron fell into a heavy but disturbed sleep. Suddenly the sharp sound of breaking glass made him jump up in bed! He grabbed his gun, which was standing by the bed, and started looking around. A home-made slow-burning candle on the table was giving off smoke, and everything in the house was shimmering in its unreliable dim light. The windows and doors appeared undamaged. He’d imagined it again… When was all this going to end? Miron swore angrily. He got up awkwardly from the bed, and rather fearfully looked through the window into the yard. Nobody there. He felt relieved. He decided to go out for a bit of fresh air. He took his flashlight and opened the door, then froze! Shaking his head, he blinked. He shone the flashlight again. No doubt about it. Again there was a dog lying in the kennel with its two glowing eyes attentively watching him.
In complete silence, Miron dashed into the house and out again with his gun.
“Now I’ll get you!” he roared, with the gun held out in front of him as if in a bayonet charge. He ran towards the kennel, then stopped and took aim. The dead dog’s dwelling was empty. The hunter stood immobile, like a stone idol, and for a good five minute, stupidly shot at nothing. Then he ran back into the house and dashed back with a bag of flour. With sweeping motions, he walked back from the kennel towards the house, scattering the flour over all the space in front of the kennel. Thinking sad thoughts, he went back in.
His home-made hooch did not help this time. It was dawn when he dozed off, only to have an awful dream. Miron dreamt that when out hunting, Scowler was surrounded by a heard of revolting black carcajous. He tried to chase the predators away with gunshots, but without result. It was one misfire after another. The dog was expecting help, whirling round and round like a spinning top, whining in pain, but the black beasts, growling greedily, were eating him alive. Unable to stand this torture, the old man woke up.
With a heavy head, he sat on the bed for a long time. The clock showed midday, but the windows were shrouded by some sort of gloomy mist. Throwing on his sheepskin coat. Miron made his way to the dog kennel. He could find no tracks in the flour except those of a marten.
He waited a few more nights. The eyes like hot coals were the worst delusion. He saw them everywhere. Mostly in the kitchen doorway, when he happened to wake up. He sometimes saw them under the bed. Occasionally they were looking out from bales of straw hanging from the ceiling. He even dropped a bundle of firewood when he heard a rustling behind his back in the barn. Now and then they seemed to be looking in through the window, and he could barely prevent himself from throwing the first thing that came to hand at them. “I could shoot at my beloved dog…” thought Miron, sighing as he endured the approach of agonizing sleeplessness. He began to be seriously worried that he might shoot someone wandering past by chance.
On the ninth morning, the old man woke up with a clear head. He had had another dream. This time a happier one. He had seen himself sitting on a bank with a fishing rod, and Scowler dragging a live fish out of the water and laying it at his feet. He kept trying to stroke the dog, he stretched out his hands, but the dog would not let him. He dashed around in a lively way, barking, and rolled in the grass. Miron sat on the bed a long time under the impression of this dream.
”You may be a dog, Scowler, but you behaved in a very human way. But me, Scowler, I’m a son of a bitch, yes, a real son of a bitch”, said Miron hoarsely.
The decision somehow came of its own accord.

7.
An hour later, the old hunter put on skis and went off into the forest. But they were not the wide hunting skis, they were the fast ones. And this was the first time he had been out there alone, without his faithful friend. Miron realized he would have to go back to where he had left the dog. This was the only way out of the torture chamber he had gotten himself into.
The sky was oppressive. Dark clouds hung over the tops of the firs and pines. A dank cold was felt through the forest. The old man pressed on like a locomotive – looking only in front of him and working his legs and arms in mighty sweeps. He quickly reached the valley, and crossed it at full speed. The mist became denser. In less than two hours, he was approaching his destination. Here in front was the forest edge with the fallen tree, the location of the last stopping place. Beyond it began the thick fir grove. Going on a little further, he recognized the snow-powdered remains of the bear, partly eaten by wild animals. But where was the dog? He had left him by a slim pine tree a hundred paces from here. Ah, there was the young pine!
Miron took off his skis and began looking around. Everything hereabouts was covered in snow, everywhere were clumps of gray hair, dog bones... There was the gnawed skull and spine. A few meters away was a piece of tail. Scowler’s well-bitten collar lay there too. The old man silently set about putting the remains in a bag he had brought with him for the purpose. Carefully gathering up everything that remained of the dog, his owner pushed the bag into his rucksack. He looked at the sky and set off back home without delay.

Suddenly, heavy snow started falling. Miron increased his speed, and was glad he had finished everything before the snowfall. A cold gusty wind was blowing, the snow was swirling, being carried in all directions. He had covered less than a kilometer when it suddenly became dark all around, and the wind whipped up fiercely. The old hunter kept going on his skis like a regular sportsman, hoping to cross the valley before the snowstorm really set in. By his reckoning it was about one kilometer away, and his house was only a stone’s throw from there. He was still moving by inertia towards the valley when he suddenly noticed that all directions had turned into a single white whirl, and he had become the axis of a gigantic snowy spindle. Visibility was down to a few meters.  The stinging snow beat into his eyes and ears. It was difficult to breathe.
Miron thought sadly that he might not make it home alive. But the thought did not frighten him. Everything was coming together, in the way he had thought it would. God’s retribution is inescapable! Afraid to stop, he decided to press on no matter what. Another hour passed like this. Suddenly he clearly sensed a downward slope and knew he had entered the valley. But after that, things went really badly. He went up again, and then the road was downward once more. He lost his sense of direction, ran into a heap of fallen branches and fell, breaking the end off one ski. Staggering about in different directions, he kept running against things – a windbreak, a tree – and got lost in the bushes. Finally he fell one more time and could not get up, he was too tired. During the half-hour he rested lying in the snow, total darkness descended on the forest, The trees creaked, the snowstorm got worse. Through it he heard a wolf howling. He jumped to his feet, but realized at once that he would never find his way home in this white hell. His strength and will to live began to diminish. The thought that wolves have to eat something too seemed a wise one, and didn’t even scare him. At that moment, as if in confirmation, the voices of the predators sounded even more clearly.

So suddenly that Miron did not at first believe his ears, a dog barked very close to him. He became alert. Could there be a dwelling nearby?  Where had the sound come from? Damn it, he kept getting lost!  Stretching his neck and turning his head around, the old man tried to work out from which direction his salvation might come. Thinking it might be some hunter out late, he took his gun off his shoulder and fired in the air. But the shot was lost in the heavy snow. It sounded no louder than a handclap. Suddenly the shadow of a dog flashed past a few paces in front of him. Miron even managed to see its tail wag.
“Stop, doggie! Wait!” yelled Miron, and dashed after the animal. He stumbled as he ran, and kept calling it by every dog’s name he could think of. The dog did not respond, and moved in a direction known only to itself. At a comparatively quiet moment, Miron caught his nameless guide in the flashlight beam, and stood transfixed! It suddenly seemed to him that the animal was a wolf!
Standing rooted to the spot, he grabbed his gun and fired at the predator. He reloaded and fired again. The animal disappeared. Holding onto the gun and looking around in all directions, Miron decided to stay on the defensive
“Here! This way!” he shouted to the invisible enemies surrounding him, hoping he could kill at least two of them.
Again he heard a bark quite near.
“Is this a ghost leading me?” thought Miron in dismay, still unable to move, and remembering prayers he had forgotten since he was a child. The sound was repeated clearly. Having no other option, he dashed after it.

The old man decided to rely completely on his mysterious guide. although he felt in the depths of his soul that the dog was no more than the fruit of his sick imagination. “I’m going off my rocker, no mistake!” thought Miron sadly, as he stubbornly continued to fight his way through the snowy chaos. Several times he switched on the flashlight to try to see the animal more clearly, but the beam only illuminated the wildly whirling snowflakes. He felt that it was running somewhere in front. He heard the bark so clearly that his doubts were silenced. It was a dog guiding him. Then a familiar silhouette flashed briefly into view. Miron got his flashlight out of his pocket as quickly as he could, but the shadow dissolved into the gloom of the night.
Suddenly the beam lit up an unknown house, its wall obscured by the snow. Miron’s heart beat wildly. He was saved! He rushed to the house, gasping and coughing, and drummed on the window. Nobody answered. He directed the flashlight beam into it, hoping to be able to see at least something through it. What he saw made him tremble. The old man realized that it was the window of his own home.