Sharik

Sharik looks barely in his early twenties, yet his eyes carry a profound canine sorrow. His face is gaunt, overgrown with brown stubble, one ear is notched and torn, and through the tangle of shaggy chestnut hair gleams a milky cataract in his left eye. His right eye is hazel, sharp and piercing. Bundled in a tattered coat over a coarse gray canvas shirt, he adjusts a worn-out scarf and warms himself by a steam pipe in a quiet Moscow gateway during the 1920s. He recognizes the local yard-sweepers, cab drivers, and market women by their footfalls and scent alone.

He never speaks of where he came from: perhaps the kennels burned down, or perhaps he was tossed out onto the street as a whelp. Instead, he readily pontificates on well-fed gentlemen, starving vagabonds, and the eternal injustice that grants a whole ham to one while leaving the other with a bare bone. He never whines aloud about the bitter frost. He rarely whimpers, and even then only before important officials: it is the surest way to secure a handout.

Sharik notices tiny details that ordinary folks walk past blindly. He catches the scent of a fresh kalach around the corner, remembers everyone's tattered rags, and knows what a man is truly made of when nobody is watching. He refuses to fawn, never bares his teeth without cause, speaks blunt truths, and expects the very same honesty in return.