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The Stray Dog by Sadeq Hedayat

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 An Anthology of Modern Persian Literature

Sadeq Hedayat (1903-1951)

He was born to an aristocratic family and was educated

at Dar al-Funun (1914–1916) and the Lycée Français
(French high school) in Tehran. In 1925, he was among a
select few students who travelled to Europe to continue
their studies. There, he initially pursued dentistry before
giving this up for engineering. After four years in France and
Belgium, where he befriended Sartre, who was to remain a
lifelong friend, Hedayat returned to Iran where he held
various jobs for short periods, before returning to Paris.
Hedayat subsequently devoted his whole life to studying
Western literature and to learning and investigating Iranian
history and folklore. The works of Guy de Maupassant,
Anton Chekhov, Rainer Maria Rilke, Edgar Allan Poe and
Franz Kafka intrigued him the most. During his short literary
life span, Hedayat published a substantial number of short
stories and novelettes, two historical dramas, a play, a
travelogue, and a collection of satirical parodies and
sketches. His writings also include numerous literary
criticisms, studies in Persian folklore, and many translations
from Middle Persian and French. He is credited with having
brought Persian language and literature into the mainstream
of international contemporary writing. There is no doubt
that Hedayat was the most modern of all modern writers in
Iran. Yet, for Hedayat, modernity was not just a question of
scientific rationality or a pure imitation of European values.
In his later years, feeling the socio-political problems of
the time, Hedayat started attacking the two major causes of
Iran's decimation, the monarchy and the clergy, and through
his stories he tried to impute the deafness and blindness of
the nation to the abuses of these two major powers. Feeling
alienated by everyone around him, especially by his peers,
Hedayat's last published work, The Message of Kafka (1948),
bespeaks melancholy, desperation and a sense of doom
experienced only by those subjected to discrimination and
 An Anthology of Modern Persian Literature
repression. Hedayat's most enduring work is the short novel
The Blind Owl (1937).
He committed suicide by gassing himself in his kitchen
and is buried in the Père Lachaise in Paris.

The Stray Dog

A bakery, a butcher's shop, a grocery, a barber's
shop and two tea- houses all of which were conducive
to satisfy the very basic human needs constituted the
Varamin Square. The square and its inhabitants were
half-baked and half-grilled in the heat of the tyrannical
sun and passionately longed for the first breeze of
evening and the shades of night. The people, the shops,
the trees and the animals were dead still. An intense
heat heavily hung over their heads and a pall of dust
waved in the sky, which grew thicker due to the traffic
of cars.
On one side of the square stood an old plane-tree
whose trunk had withered and dried up but which had
spread its awry gouty branches with an indomitable
perseverance. Beneath the shade of its dusty leaves was
a huge massive platform on which two street-urchins
were vending rice pudding and desiccated pumpkin
seeds. A turbid stream of water flowed lazily through
the gutter in front of the tea-house.
The only building that might catch your sight was
the famous Varamin Tower with its cracked cylindrical
trunk and its conical top. In the chinks of its fallen
bricks, the sparrows had built their nests. Silent, they
had dropped off in shelter of the fiery heat. Only the
whimpering of a dog broke the silence in succession.
He was a Scotch terrier. He had a sooty muzzle and
black spots on his pasterns as if he had run in the mire.
He had drooping ears, a pointed tail, dirty fuzzy hair
 An Anthology of Modern Persian Literature

and a pair of human-like clever eyes in the depths of

which could be seen a human soul. In the night that
had enshrouded his entire life, an eternal thing
undulated in his eyes, carrying a message which could
not be fathomed as if stuck in the back of his pupils. It
was neither light nor color but something incredible
just like what can be seen in the eyes of a wounded
gazelle. Not only was there some sort of similarity
between his eyes and those of a man but some kind of
equality between them. Those were two hazel eyes
fraught with the pangs of agony and waiting which
could only be found in the muzzle of a stray dog. But it
seemed as though nobody could observe or understand
his eyes which were charged with pain and
supplication.
In front of the grocery, blows rained down on him
by the errand boy and the butcher's errand boy pelted
stones at him in front of the butcher's shop. Had he
taken shelter under a car, he would have been
welcomed by the heavy kicks of the driver's spiked
shoes. When everybody ceased to torment him, it was
the urchin's turn to derive a fantastic delight in
torturing him. For every moan he let out, a piece of
rock descended on his back at which the urchin uttered
a boisterous laugh and cried out: “Dirty filthy cur!”
Shortly afterwards, the rest of others burst into a
hearty laugh as if they had joined him in sympathy and
insidiously encouraged him. Everybody kicked him to
please their Lord. It seemed completely natural to them
to beleaguer a dirty cur which had seven lives and on
which religion had put a curse.
Harassed by the urchin, the miserable animal
eventually ran away towards an alley leading to the
Tower. In fact, he limped off on a hungry stomach,
taking shelter in a gutter. There, he rested his head on
 An Anthology of Modern Persian Literature

his pasterns, stuck his tongue out and watched the

grand fields waving before him in a state of sleep and
wakefulness.
His body was exhausted and his nerves all frazzled.
In the damp air of the gutter, a singular sensation of
solace enveloped his entire being.
Various smells of half-dead verdure, a moist old
shoe and living and non-living objects revived in his
muzzle distant confused memories. His instinctive
desire aroused and his past memories awakened afresh
in his mind when he kept his attention riveted upon the
field. This time, however, this feeling was so
overmastering that it prompted him to bounce up and
down. He felt an intense urge to frisk in the field. It
was a hereditary sense for all his ancestors had been
freely bred amidst the green fields.
He was so exhausted that he couldn't budge. A
painful feeling of helplessness pervaded him. And a
handful of forgotten and lost feelings arose within him.
In the past, he had diverse bounds and needs. He felt
bound to be at his master's beck and call, to turn a
stranger or an outsider dog out of his master's house
and frolic with his master's son. He had learned how to
behave toward known and unknown people. He had
learned to eat on time and expect caressing at a certain
time. But now these bounds had been lifted from his
neck. All his attention was focused on rummaging
through the garbage in search of a mouthful of food.
He got beaten all day long and whined-it was his
sole defense. He used to be plucky, neat and sprightly.
But now he was cowardly and oppressed. At every
sound, he trembled all over.
Even his own voice frightened him. Basically, he
had got used to dirt and rubbish. His body itched but he
 An Anthology of Modern Persian Literature

did not feel like hunting his lice or licking himself. He

felt he had become part of the garbage.
He felt that something had died within him, faded
away. Two winters had elapsed ever since he had
wound up in this hellhole. Since then, he had not had a
square meal. He had not had a comfortable slumber.
His passions and feelings had been smothered. No one
had stroked a caressing hand on him. No one had
looked into his eyes. Although the people resembled
his master, it appeared that his feelings and demeanors
were as different as chalk and cheese from theirs. It
seemed as if those who were associated with him were
closer to his world, understood his agonies and needs
better and protected him more. Amidst the smells that
reached his nostrils and stupefied him most of all was
the smell of the rice pudding in front of the urchin-the
white liquid which was much so similar to his mother's
milk and summoned up memories of his puppyhood.
Suddenly, a feeling of lethargy seized him. When
he was a cub, he sucked this nutritious liquid from his
mother's beasts and her soft firm tongue licked his
body clean. The heavy pungent smell of his mother and
her milk was revived in his muzzle. As soon as he got
milk-inebriated, his body would go warm and relaxed
and a fluid warmth would run into his veins and
sinews. His head being heavy, he would drop loose
from his mother's breasts. Then, he would fall into a
profound slumber and feel delicious tremors come over
his entire body. It would really be a great joy for him to
press his mother's breasts involuntarily and gain milk
with complete ease. The fuzzy body of his brother and
the voice of his mother were charged with caress and
delight. He remembered his wooden kennel and his
romping about with his brother in that green gardenlet.
He would bite his drooping ears. They would fall and
 An Anthology of Modern Persian Literature

rise and run. Then, he found another playmate who was

his master's son. IN the bottom of the gardenlet, he
would run after him, bark and bite his clothes. He
could never forget his master's caresses and the sugar
cubes he grabbed out of his hand. But he loved his
master's son more for he was his playmate and never
beat him. Afterwards, he lost his mother and brother.
There were only his master, his wife, his son and an
old servant left for him. He knew their smells so well
and recognized their footfalls from afar. At lunch or
dinner, he would circle round the table, sniffing at the
eatables. At times, his master's wife, despite her
husband's desire gave him a morsel out of kindness.
Then the old servant would come and call him: “Pat ...
Pat...” And he would put his food in a special pot
beside his wooden kennel. Pat's calamities commenced
when his rut came on him because his master did not
allow him to go out and chase the bitches.
Incidentally, one day in autumn, his master together
with two other men who frequented their house and
whom he knew got into his car and called Pat. They
seated him beside them. Pat had traveled by car with
his master several times. But this time, he was in the
heat. And there was a special excitement and anxiety in
him. After some hours, they got off in the same square.
His master and the other two men passed the alley
beside the tower. But incidentally, the scent of a bitch,
the peculiar smell that Pat always sought maddened
him at once. In different successions, he sniffed until at
last he entered a garden through the gutter. When the
evening was drawing to its close, the sound of his
master's voice fell upon his ears twice. “Pat.... Pat ...
“Was it really his voice? Or just an echo of it?
Although his master's voice had a singular impression
on him, for it reminded him of his bounds and duties, a
 An Anthology of Modern Persian Literature

certain power transcending all other external powers

goaded him into going after the bitch. He felt that his
ears were deaf and heavy to other external sounds.
Powerful feelings had awakened in him.
The scent of the bitch was so strong that made him
experience a vertigo. All his muscles, body and senses
were disobedient to him. He had no power over his
actions. But it was not long before he was assailed by
clubs and spade handles and driven out through the
gutter. Pat was exhausted and stupefied but light and
calm. When he came to realities, he went to seek his
master. In several alleys, there was a faint smell left of
him. He investigated them all, leaving behind him in
certain distances traces of himself.
He went as far as the ruins outside the village. He
came back because he discovered that his master had
returned to the square. Yet the faint smell of his master
was lost in other smells. Had his master left him
behind? A delicious feeling of fear and anxiety took
possession of him. How could Pat possibly live
without his master? His God? His master was his God.
At all events, he was sure that his master would come
after him. Horrified, he started running in some alleys.
His attempts were futile, though. At last, he, weary and
helpless, returned to the square at night. But there was
no sign of his master. He made a few other turns in the
village. Finally, he made his way towards the gutter
where he had seen the bitch.
However, the gutter was blocked by rocks. With
peculiar vehemence, Pat began digging the earth in the
vain hopes of forcing his way into the garden but it
proved fruitless. Desperate, he dropped off there.
When the night was far advanced, he woke up with a
start from his own moans. Alarmed, he rose up and
roamed in the alleys, sniffing at the walls. For a while,
 An Anthology of Modern Persian Literature

he wandered in the alleys. At last, an extreme feeling

of hunger filled him. As he returned to the square, the
smell of diverse eatables reached his nostrils; the smell
of left-over meat, of fresh bread and yoghurt mingled
together.
Yet, he felt he had trespassed a territory. He felt he
had to beg these people who resembled his master. If
he did not find a rival to scare him away, he would
gain ownership right. He might be even kept by one of
those people who had eatables in their hands. In fear
and trembling, he approached the grocery which had
just opened. The pungent odor of baked dough had
filled the air. Someone who had a loaf of bread under
his arm said: “Come! Come!”
His voice seemed so foreign to him. He threw a
piece of bread to him. After slight hesitation, he ate the
bread and wagged his tail. The man put the bread on
the grocery platform and fearfully and cautiously
stroked Pat's head. Then, he opened his collar
cautiously with his hands. How happy he felt! It was as
if all responsibilities and duties had been lifted from
his neck. But as soon as he wagged his tail again and
approached the grocery shop, a firm kick landed on his
flank. Whining, he fled away. The shopkeeper piously
washed his hands in the stream to eliminate the unclean
effects of the dog. Pat still knew his collar which was
dangling from a peg in front of the grocery shop. Ever
since that day, Pat received but kicks, clubs and rocks.
It appeared that they were his sworn enemies and
derived a wondrous delight in torturing him. Pat felt he
had stepped into a world which did not belong to him
and in which nobody could understand his feelings and
desires. The first days went on uneasily but soon he got
accustomed to his situation. Besides, at the turn of the
alley, he had found a spot where they deposited their
 An Anthology of Modern Persian Literature

garbage in which he could find delicious pieces such as

bone, fat, skin, fish head, and many other eatables he
was not even able to distinguish. He spent the rest of
the day in front of the butcher's and the bakery. His
eyes were on the butcher's hands but he received blows
instead of delicious pieces. But he was used to his new
way of living. From his past life, only a handful of
vague feelings and some smells had been left to him.
Every time he felt exceedingly miserable, he found a
sort of consolation in his lost paradise and the
memories of those days were awakened in his mind.
What excruciated Pat most of all was his need for
fondling.
He was like a child who always got beaten and
insulted but his delicate feelings had not yet died
within him. In his new wretched life, he had a peculiar
need for fondling. His eyes begged for it. He would be
ready to die if someone stroked a loving hand on his
head. He needed to express his kindness to someone, to
make sacrifices for him, to show his sense of adoration
and fidelity. But it seemed as though no one needed
him to express his feelings. There was no one to
protect him. In every eye, there was but wickedness
and maliciousness. Every movement he made to attract
their notice incurred on him their wrath. While Pat was
dozing in the gutter, he let out several moans and woke
up as if some nightmares were passing before his eyes.
At this point, he felt infernally hungry.
The smell of Kebab forced itself to his nostrils. A
feeling of hunger tortured his innards so oppressively
that he forgot his helplessness and agonies. With great
difficulty, he rose up and cautiously made for the
square. At this time, an automobile entered the square
noisily, raising a pall of dust. A man got out of the car,
stepped up towards Pat, stroking a loving hand on him.
 An Anthology of Modern Persian Literature

The man was not his master. Pat was not deceived for
he knew his master's smell so well. But how could
another person pat him? Pat wagged his tail and looked
at the man dubiously. Was he not deceived? He no
longer had the collar round his neck so that others
might fondle him. Again, the man stroked a caressing
hand on him. Pat went after him. His surprise increased
when the man entered a room which he knew well and
out of which came diverse smells of eatables. On the
bench near the wall, he lay on his haunches.
Warm bread, yoghurt and eggs and other eatables
were brought to him. The man dipped pieces of bread
in yoghurt and threw them to him. At first, Pat
devoured them quickly but then he slowed down. Pat
fixed his painful pretty hazel eyes on him in token of
gratitude and wagged his tail. Was he asleep or awake?
Pat had a square meal without being interrupted by
beating. Was it possible that he might have found a
new master? The man rose up went into the alley
leading to the tower. He paused awhile. Then, he
passed the winding alleys. Pat followed him until he
was out of the village. He went towards the ruins
which had several walls where his master had gone.
Did these people seek the scent of their females? Pat
waited for him beside the wall. Then, they returned to
the square through another route.
Again, the man stroked a fondling hand on him.
Then after a little turn round the square, he got into the
car he knew well. He sat on his haunches beside the
car, looking at the man. All of a sudden, the car stared
running in the pall of dust. Without the slightest
hesitation, Pat started running after the car. No, he did
not want to lose him. He was panting heavily. He was
running after the car with all his might despite the
sharp pain he felt within his body.
 An Anthology of Modern Persian Literature

The car got away from the village and passed

through a desert. Pat caught up with it several times but
lagged behind again. He had summoned all his
strength, taking desperate bounces. But the car ran
faster than he. He was mistaken. He could not catch up
with the car. He felt helpless. He felt an aching pain in
the pit of his stomach.
All at once, he felt his limbs were not obedient to
him. He was not capable of the slightest movement. All
his efforts were useless. He did not know why he had
run or where he was going. He could go neither
forwards nor backwards. He stopped. He panted, his
tongue hanging out. His eyes grew dark. With bending
head, he waddled along the road towards a stream in
vicinity of a farm. He put his stomach on hot moist
sands. With his instinctive desire that never deceived
him, he felt he was incapable of moving on. His head
swam.
His thoughts and feelings had grown obscure and
obliterated. He felt an aching feeling in the pit of his
stomach. A sickly light gleamed in his eyes. In his
death throes, his hands and feet went numb. His body
was drenched with cold sweat. It was mild and
delectable.
Near evening, three crows were flying above Pat's
head for they had picked his smell. Cautiously, one of
the crows alighted near him, gazed at him intently and
flew away as it realized that he was not yet dead.
These three crows had come to gauge out Pat's
hazel eyes.

(Translated by Ali Salami)

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