Suddenly, a drawn-out howl, full of longing, tore through the silence.
"Was that wolves?" Mikhailych shuddered, startled from his brooding.
"Last time, remember, the wolves howled just like that when you took Marta's pups to drown," his wife grumbled.
Marta was the old mongrel who lived with them.
"What's that got to do with anything?" the old man protested feignedly, hiding his sudden fear.
"You keep drowning her pups... it's not right somehow..."
"Enough nagging! Think it's easy for me? But if I don't drown 'em, they'll overrun the place. Don't you get it, woman? They're already running around in packs as it is."
Earlier, that same morning.
Marta usually lived under the porch, but she'd just whelped and was sleeping in the barn. In the hay, on an old sheepskin coat, tiny little bundles squirmed beside her. The pups were a few days old, still blind, clumsily poking in all directions, searching for their mother. If they couldn't find her for long, they'd start squeaking funny. Marta would gently lick them, letting them know she was there. Finding her, they'd latch onto her teats and quiet down for a while.
Marta looked at her pups, and images floated before her eyes. This one, gray with white markings, he'll be quick, she thought. He'll go with Mikhailych to the forest, help him out, since Mikhailych is getting old. And this one, all gray, the stockiest of the lot, a real little chunk. He doesn't crawl far from Marta – he'll grow into a good guard dog for the house. The smallest one, almost white with small gray spots... she'll probably have lots of pups herself someday. The fourth pup hadn't shown much of anything yet, he was the quietest. "Well, that's okay, the master will find something for him too," Marta thought happily. The fact that she had never actually seen any of her pups grow up never crossed her mind.
She heard a noise. Marta had sensed him long before, but she only came out of the barn when the master was already in the yard. Tail wagging joyfully, she ran up to him. She desperately wanted Mikhailych to come into the barn and see the pups. The master was a bit tipsy; on his way from the market, he never missed a chance to stop by the tavern for a drink or two. And now, the usual smell of him was mixed with the scent of alcohol. To Marta's delight, the master did come into the barn and walked over to the corner with the pups.
Marta got there just ahead of him. She was bursting with pride, spinning around near the pups, whimpering happily. The master stopped by them and sighed heavily, unexpectedly.
"Now, now, settle down," he said, giving Marta a quick pat on the scruff. "Ah, what a damn mess."
He shuffled his feet for a moment, then turned and left the barn. Marta settled back down next to her pups, carefully nuzzling the quickest one closer to her. The pups, who had been squeaking restlessly, now started snoring contentedly again. Marta, looking at them, drifted back into her dreams, happy that the master had come to see them.
In the evening, Mikhailych came into the barn carrying a bowl with a big bone showing white inside. He called out to Marta and headed towards the far end of the barn. Marta left the pups and ran after the old man. He set the bowl on the floor and stroked the dog. Purring with pleasure, she started in on the bone. Mikhailych stood for a bit, then moved over to the corner with the pups. The pups must have crawled around enough for one day; they were lying in a row now, snoring in unison. He quickly transferred them into a sack he'd prepared earlier and left the barn, locking the door behind him.
Marta, sensing something was wrong, forgot about the bone and dashed after him, only to slam into the closed door. Whining, occasionally letting out a yelp, she started scratching at the door and the floor, trying to get it open. She thrashed by the door as long as she could still smell the master and her pups. But gradually, their scents began to fade, and she remembered the small gap in the corner of the barn. Running over, she tried to squeeze through, using her paws to help. After half an hour of trying, the board finally gave way, and Marta squeezed through the hole she'd made.
Meanwhile, Mikhailych was already at the river. He picked up a stone lying on the bank and, ignoring the protesting whimpers of the pups, dropped it into the sack. He glanced around furtively, but there was no one in sight, and it was pitch black. The old man grunted slightly and heaved the sack into the middle of the river. Drowning them at home in a bucket, like some do, he just didn't have the heart for. This way, it was done all at once – out of sight, out of mind. Besides, he figured, the pups were tiny; the river fish would pick them clean by morning anyway. He stood there a little longer to calm his racing heart, crossed himself, and headed back towards the tavern.
At the tavern, he ordered a full shot and downed it in one gulp without a chaser, just wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
"Mikhailych, something happen?" the tavern keeper asked. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
The old man just waved his hand dismissively and walked out. Outside, he looked up at the black sky, shivered, and trudged heavily homewards.
Meanwhile, Marta had already reached the river. She could smell the spot on the bank where her pups' scent ended, while Mikhailych's trail led back towards the village. She ran around the area, unable to understand where they had gone. Among all the surrounding smells, Marta could clearly sense each of her pups. There was the quick one with the white markings. There was the tiny one. There was another... She sensed them all together and each one individually. She tried running where the scent was strongest, but no matter which way Marta ran, the smell grew fainter. Not understanding what was happening, she whimpered and ran in circles.
The moon rose, gazing indifferently as the dog raced back and forth along the bank, searching for her pups. Moonlight flooded the area, starkly outlining the black river. The same black hopelessness began to envelop the now completely exhausted Marta. She lay down on the spot where she could still just barely detect the scent of her pups and froze, motionless, afraid of losing even that fleeting trace...
A cold autumn wind rustled through, somewhere a well chain creaked. Marta lifted her muzzle and howled mournfully at the moon.
