A Night in the Cemetery

THE CONVERSATION OF A MAN WITH A DOG

It happened one winter, on a frosty night, with the sky lit by a full moon.

Alexander Ivanovich Singer plucked a little green devil from his sleeve, carefully opened the wicket-fence gate and entered his front yard.

“The man, as a human being,” he was philosophizing while trying to balance in mud and not to fall in a heap of garbage, “man is a bunch of dust, a hallucination, and ashes. For example, let us take my overseer Pavel Nikolayevich. He is the governor, so he is ashes as well, but his greatness is just a dream, a fog, an illusion—the wind will blow at it and it will disappear.”

“Grr-rrr-rrr!! Woof, woof!” The sounds of a dog interrupted the philosopher’s line of thought.

Mr. Singer looked to his side and saw a huge gray sheepdog, the size of a large wolf. It was sitting near the little house of the security guard, clinking with a chain. Mr. Singer thought about something, and his face took on a surprising expression. Then he shrugged his shoulders and smiled sadly.

“Grr-rrr-rrr! Woof!” the dog repeated.

“I do not understand.” Singer waved his hands at his sides. “You growl at a human being. I am here for the first time in my life. Don’t you understand that man is the crown of creation? Look at me, I am talking to you. Look! Am I human or not?”

“Grr-rrr! Woof!”

“Are you trying to make a point? Give me your paw.” Mr. Singer stretched his hand out towards the dog.

“You don’t want it? Then I will slap you, just lightly. I do this with affection!”

“Woof, woof! Grr-rrr!” The dog’s fur was raised as he snarled at the man.

“Aha, now I see your point. You want to bite me. I will take notice of this. So, you do not respect me, as a man, the crowning achievement of creation? This means that you can bite even Pavel Nikolayevich, doesn’t it? Do you really mean it? Everyone respects him, and you—you do not show any respect to him. Do I correctly understand your meaning? Does it mean that you are a socialist? Listen, you should tell me the truth—are you a socialist?”

“Grr-rrr! Woof! Woof!”

“What I was talking about? Do not bite! Wait! Yes, the ashes. The wind will blow, and the ashes will disappear. Puh! And what is the purpose of our existence, may I ask you kindly? We were born to our mothers, and then we eat, drink, and study science. Why? Why do we do this? This is all ashes. A man’s life does not cost anything! You are a dog and you cannot understand me, but if you could get into human … human psychology! If only you could understand me!”

Mr. Singer turned his head and spat on the ground.

“Dirt is on my lips! You think that I, Mr. Singer, an office worker, am the crown of creation and the king of all animals? You are mistaken! I am an idler, a bribe-taker, and a hypocrite. I am a bad man.”

Mr. Singer hit himself on the chest and began to weep.

“I am a gossiper as well. And I whisper in other people’s ears. Right now, I am reporting to the overseer on other people. Do you think that George Korney was fired without my help, hmm? Hmm? And what do you think—who was it, if not me, who stole the two thousand from the charity money and them blamed it all on Mr. Staples? Was it not me? Yes, I am a hypocrite, a Judas, a liar, a yes-man, an extortionist, and usurper. I really am a nasty, bad man.”

Mr. Singer wiped tears from his face with his sleeve, crying in earnest.

“Bite me! Eat me! Tear me to pieces! No one has said one sincere and kind word to me my entire life. They all say behind my back I am a mean person. When they talk to me and look me in the face, they smile and praise me. I really would prefer to be slapped across my face and scolded for all that I’ve done!

“Eat me, dog! Bite me! Tear me to pieces!”

Mr. Singer waved his hands in the air, trying to keep his balance, and then fell on top of the dog, “Yes, exactly like this, tear my face! I do not care. It is painful, but feel free to bite me, and my hands, too! Aha! Look, I am bleeding, this is what I deserve. Thank you, Buddy!

“You can tear my expensive fur coat as well. I received it as a bribe. I ratted on my neighbor, and for the money from that deal I bought this coat. And my hat as well, I do not care. What can I tell you? Time for me to go! Good-bye, dear dog! Good-bye, my friend!”

“Grr-rrr! Woof!”

Mr. Singer petted the dog one more time, let it bite his calf again, then covered himself with his torn overcoat and, wobbling heavily from side to side as a drunk man might, headed to his door.

When he woke up around midday the next day, Mr. Singer saw something very unusual. He noticed his head, his hands, and his legs were covered with bandages. Next to his bed, he spotted his wife, her face covered with tears, and the doctor with a concerned expression on his face.