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dog drawn on rough paper hastily but with a certain elegance。 He was giving
voice to the dog; and pointing; from time to time; at the drawing。
12
I AM A DOG
As you can doubtless tell; dear friends; my canines are so long and pointed
they barely fit into my mouth。 I know this gives me a menacing appearance;
but it pleases me。 Noticing the size of my teeth; a butcher once had the gall to
say; “My God; that’s no dog at all; it’s a wild boar!”
I bit him so hard on the leg that my canines sank right through his fatty
flesh to the hardness of his thighbone。 For a dog; you see; nothing is as
satisfying as sinking his teeth into his miserable enemy in a fit of instinctual
wrath。 When such an opportunity presents itself; that is; when my victim; who
deserves to be bitten; stupidly and unknowingly passes by; my teeth twinge
and ache in anticipation; my head spins with longing and without even
meaning to; I emit a hair…raising growl。
I’m a dog; and because you humans are less rational beasts than I; you’re
telling yourselves; “Dogs don’t talk。” Nevertheless; you seem to believe a story
in which corpses speak and characters use words they couldn’t possibly know。
Dogs do speak; but only to those who know how to listen。
Once upon a time; long; long ago; in a faraway land; a brash cleric from a
provincial town arrived at one of the largest mosques in a capital city; all right;
let’s call it the Bayazid Mosque。 It’d be appropriate to withhold his name; so
let’s refer to him as “Husret Hoja。” But why should I cover up anything more:
This man was one boneheaded cleric。 He made up for the modesty of his
intellect with the power of his tongue; God bless it。 Each Friday; he so
animated his congregation; so moved them to tears that some would cry until
they fainted or dried up and withered away。 Don’t get me wrong; unlike other
clerics with the gift of preaching; he himself didn’t weep。 On the contrary;
while everyone else cried; he intensified his oration without a blink as if to
chastise the congregation。 In all probability; the gardeners; royal pages; halva
makers; riffraff and clerics like himself became his lackeys because they
enjoyed the tongue lashing。 Well; this man was no dog after all; no sir; he was
a human being—to be human is to err—and before those enthralled crowds;
he lost himself when he saw that intimidating throngs of people was as
pleasurable as bringing them to tears。 When he understood that there was
much more bread to be made in this new venture; he went over the top and
had the nerve to say the following:
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