Botsik dog

New story of Mikhail Zhvanetsky

Zhvanetsky is always Zhvanetsky
He selflessly calls himself “author”, partly in order to refute him, because he constantly puts himself under his doubt and stands there in his shadow, observing wary: “Did you understand, did not understand?”

They realized, Mikhal Mikhalych, leave it! What is the author? You are a big Russian writer. At the age of 85, you surprise with surprise and freshness over the years. Let you! We are glad. And in order for our readers to be glad, we print a new story of Zhvanetsky about a dog, which will continue the theme of Russian literature: “Mumu”, “Kashtanka”, now - “Batsik”.

Our congratulations!

Everything ... all ... everything ...

Botsik dog.

Cur. Independent, smart, independent, small and crooked -legged.

Very sexy, but seeing the bone, jumped off the girl and fled to the bowl.

He knew that the main thing is that life taught.

He lived with us.

But I often met him in trams.

He was traveling to the city, from the city.

He jumped at the right stop, ran home.

Did not bark.

He guarded his territory.

Ours - no.

He ate it to the dump, but an hour later I met him in a cafe.

He asked for alms:

- Madame, three days without food ...

I whispered:

- Botsik! You just gobbled up yesterday's pot of borscht ...

- Madame! I am an officer ... I served in the organs. Fired. Slander. Disgraced by children. Because of the lady, Madame. She was transported here, and I on foot from Alma-Ata, through Astrakhan-to the Crimea, to Yalta. We have a meeting on the embankment. Love, madame ... Only love can drive an officer from organs to this wilderness ... three days without food, madam ... If there were that bone with a cutlet and there with that side dish, I would have spent you, madam. There is a lot of hooligan, flocks of homeless people, madam. And in contractions I am indispensable, here he will confirm.

I nodded.

- It's not about growth. I know techniques. Against the knife, against the pistol. I would tell you, Madame, what do you feel when you go against the three ... I see, you went to the sweet ... Waiter, do not remove the meat ... There is that bone, Madame, and I will tell you about myself. I was transferred to the Kremlin to protect the first person. You understand: content, form, vitamins ... three dog handlers and me. We all go out and go along Red Square ... We made a film about me ... "Botsik-2." I have an honor abbreviated from Bronislav Kugenheim - Madame - I don’t wear spurs, although I don’t wear spurs, although it would have turned out on a horse ... Everything would have turned out if not for cats ... These bastards are so convincing ... Even if you twisted it, he has a claw or fang in every place. I am a supporter of negotiations, Madame, but there is no one to talk to. And these bullying, insults. They pester only when you are behind bars. These bastards are always free. Why don't they put them on a chain? How did they get so? And in those rare moments when I am behind bars, he begins: faces, insults, and a challenge to battle, and to it on a tree. And he knows when I am hungry. And I am always hungry, Madame, such a job ... Here he begins. It sits down literally there ... where the chain ends. He hopes, bastard, mathematically. And he eats, Madame, that which is harmful to him - the brain bone with pieces of meat ... chokes, a bastard, coughs, lies on meat and rests. Scum - on meat, on boiled, in front of my eyes. You can touch the mind, madam. And, having gotten a bite, getting wound up, rolls the bone ... I would have got it one night ... And he guessed ... And when I break out, he is not ... I give dozens of circles with alleys-nowhere is there anywhere. Dissolved. How to put in a booth - he sits opposite. But, Madame, not a word about enemies. I can spend, madam ... I go on all modes of transport, except for a taxi ... Oh! You are so generous ... Oh! You ordered specifically for me ... pancakes with meat ... Oh! Madame! .. How do you serve?! How you serve, a boob! Down! Downs, put on the floor ... This is for me! Sorry, madam. For love! You are a glass, I am this bone. For the feeling. For a distance. For the image of the beloved ... beyond the Crimea, for this hairy chest, under which the heart of the KGB officer. For you, madam!

Botsik died in a fight with a flock of dogs.

He was buried in my dacha at the fence with a view of the Crimea.