The Heart of a Dog was written by Mikhail Bulgakov in 1925, only to be published in Soviet Russia sixty-two years later due to censorship. Centred on a stray dog who is rescued and subsequently subjected to a surgical procedure by a Moscow professor, this science fiction novella has long been interpreted as a biting satire of the Russian revolution and emergence of communism in the Soviet Union. However, to read as an allegory ignores the literal transformation of the dog into a person which illuminates the fluidity of the human-animal boundary. This permeability in turn unlocks discussion about the way our perspective is grounded in dichotomies of ‘us’ and ‘them’ – including that of human and animal – resulting in the former’s exertion of power over the latter, or the ‘Other’. Bulgakov presented this power play in his novella and challenged its notion.
While evidently politically influenced, it is worth examining the sociocultural and scientific factors that shaped Bulgakov’s vision for The Heart of a Dog. The procedure of transplanting a dead alcoholic criminal’s testicles and hypophysis into Sharik the dog – under the hands of the surgeon Preobrazhensky and his assistant Bormenthal – may border on the absurd, rising into nonsensical once Sharik consequently transforms into a human. However, as Nikolai Krementsov argues, the novella presents ‘a snapshot of the major projects of visionary biology’ (128). Experimental biomedicine in the early 1920s was dominated by research in endocrinology, eugenics, neurology and organ transplantation. Bulgakov himself was a physician, graduating in 1916, but eventually gave up medicine in favour of developing his writing career (Britannica n.p.). Thus, his medical background would have informed his criticism on the growing ‘visionary biology.’
Prior to the ground-breaking experiment Preobrazhensky performs on Sharik, he carries out ‘rejuvenations’ on humans via monkey sex gonads. This sort of xenotransplantation was not a mere fantastical product of Bulgakov’s imagination; it was grounded in science that had already emerged in the late nineteenth century. The principles of endocrinology at the time dictated that implanted glands could replenish the body with hormones for heightened vitality and sexual potency. Serge Voronoff, a French surgeon of Russian descent, rose to prominence in 1920 for grafting monkey testicles into humans. An eruption of publications about rejuvenation occurred in Russia so Bulgakov was likely aware of Voronoff and presumably used him as a model for Preobrazhensky.
In his book Life, Voronoff cites the similar biological features that humans and monkeys share, including serology and anatomy (91). Thus, justifying that ‘grafting of a simian organ on a man may be compared to that of a graft from man to man.’ This would compensate for the lack of supply in the human equivalent and would also be less ethically problematic, as he wrote: ‘Fortunately we have a near relation in the animal world from whom we may borrow what we need with less scruple’ (87). The same indifference is displayed in his description of an ape’s death from tetanus due to the mistaken removal of the whole thyroid apparatus for grafting into a child with thyroid deficiencies (100). This flippant sense of entitlement to animals as commodities is gleaned from Preobrazhensky’s attitude, when he says before the operation has even begun ‘If we have a haemorrhage then we shall lose time and lose the dog. In any case, he hasn’t a chance…’ (53). His apathy extends until the end of the procedure, expressing surprise that the dog is not ‘dead yet’ and concluding with a dismissive ‘Still, he’ll die’ (57). Throughout the novella, Bulgakov challenges these stances, questioning where the line should be drawn in treating animals – who are so similar to us – as if at our disposal purely for the sake of human gain and curiosity and expanding human limits.
One way in which The Heart of a Dog gives rise to criticism of our treatment of the animal ‘Other’ for our own benefit is through the complex narrative structure. Diana Burgin remarks that the multiple perspectives ‘reveal the complexity, ambiguity, and greatness of [Bulgakov’s] hero’s personality and scientific quest’ (496). However, I am inclined to focus on how the narrative affects Sharik, the innocent party, whose suffering would be ignored if we only consider Preobrazhensky’s grapple with morality as the main arc of the story.
The first chapter opens with Sharik as the homodiegetic narrator, giving his internal monologue as a stray dog. The narration is internally focalised, revealing Sharik’s subjective perception. This is interweaved with the voice of a heterodiegetic narrator who provides external focalisation on Sharik. The significance here is that the focus lies mostly on Sharik, the stream of consciousness detailing his thoughts, feelings and motivations. The internal focalisation allows deeper exploration of him as a being endowed with a greater sense of importance. In portraying him as an immoveable presence in society, we are able to view him as a character with a valid opinion and thus, empathise with his predicament.
However, the second chapter sees the erasure of Sharik’s homodiegetic narration and internal focalisation. It commences with Sharik outside the door of Preobrazhensky’s ‘luxurious flat’, where the nightmare of the story begins and ends (16). His impending downfall, wherein recognition of him as an individual diminishes, is hinted at just as his own voice is dampened in the narration. Eric Laursen also notes that by entering Preobrazhensky’s apartment, Sharik’s ‘control of narration is completely relinquished’ (497). The heterodiegetic narrator claims dominance but the focalisation still remains on Sharik, albeit externally. This narration distances us from him, with phrases like ‘said firmly to himself’ and ‘thought the dog’ (16, 17). As the ‘“I” becomes a “he”’ (Laursen 497), the intimacy that came with direct exposure to his inner world fails to be elicited.
This type of narration continues into the third chapter before reaching a jarring turning point. The external focalisation of Sharik delves deeper into his mind than what was seen in the preceding chapter, for example, his contemplation of whether he had ‘dreamed it all’ and he’d wake up and ‘there’ll be nothing here’ (42). His emotions heighten when the humans lock him in the bathroom so they can prepare for surgery. He ‘[hurls] himself at the door’ in his ‘half resentful, half depressed’ (51, 50) state. More panic ensues in the frenetic process of having Sharik sedated, as he dodges from their advances. Eventually the ‘bones in his legs gave way and collapsed’ (52) and the narrator ominously says ‘then the whole world turned upside down…. Then – nothing’ (53). The continued denial of Sharik’s homodiegetic narration robs him of agency but the amplification of the external focalisation highlights his confusion and stress at the hands of these humans. This accentuates the complete shift in narration that follows. Once sedated, his voice evaporates, as does the focalisation on him alone and the omniscient narrator takes over with zero focalisation, detailing the transplantation operation in a panoramic view. The perception of Sharik as a being has been destroyed and he becomes objectified, merely a vessel for Preobrazhensky’s zealous experiment.
Furthermore, Chapter Four consists solely of Bormenthal’s medical notes, spanning Sharik’s ‘total humanisation’ (64). Its clinical form, from the recording of vital signs to the detailed, enthused accounts of Sharik’s transformation, further enhances the detachment and objectification of the dog. Sharik’s subjective experience has no relevancy here, usurped by science and human fascination at observing a scientific breakthrough. From this point onwards, the heterodiegetic narrator returns, shifting focalisation away from Sharik and onto Preobrazhensky. The narration emphasises the human experience, as Preobrazhensky’s household are forced to accommodate the inconvenient ‘human/dog hybrid’ they have created. As Ivan Schneider remarks, Sharik – now Sharikov – has a physical voice but is portrayed only through ‘his words and actions’ in ‘back-and-forth’ dialogue (n.p.). His subjective experience has no place either; there are only rare glimpses, for example when he exclaims in an argument with Preobrazhensky: ‘“I didn’t ask you to do the operation, did I?”’ (74). However, the human perspective that deems him an insufferable ‘hooligan’ (106) with whom one must exercise ‘iron self-control’ (77) predominates, drowning out his voice and the suffering imposed on him.
It isn’t until the epilogue, when it is revealed that Preobrazhensky has performed surgery to reverse Sharikov back into a dog, that Sharik’s voice is thrust into the narrative again. Thereby, reaffirming his validity as an individual, independent being. Situating his voice in the opening and closing of the novella suggests the narrative should have belonged to him but he was instead deprived of this by the looming human presence. Interestingly, as Erica Fudge proposes, it is not only the humans in the story who silence him as the ‘suffering centre. As readers, we are also capable of doing so we if think of the dog ‘as always symbolising something’ (3). Dismantling the narrative structure, thus, avoids this, upholding Sharik as a being who deserves ethical consideration in his own right.
However, there are hints that this is not the end as the heterodiegetic narrator takes over: ‘That evening the dog saw terrible things. He saw the great man… fish out a brain; then relentlessly, persistently the great man pursued his search’ (128). The contradictory element between ‘great’ and ‘terrible’ reinforces the essence that boundaries are rarely fixed. It is this notion that categorisation is never stable that permeates the novella.
Bulgakov deconstructs the human/animal boundary, drawing us closer to the ‘Other’. Qualities usually perceived as ‘human’ or ‘animal’ possess a certain fluidity, blurring the boundary between ‘us’ and ‘them’, and are illustrated through figures of speech and characterisation. Most obviously suspended in a ‘space in-between’ (Mortensen 231) is Sharik/Sharikov. The opening narration, with its overlap of homodiegetic and heterodiegetic narrators, gives Sharik ‘sophisticated medical knowledge’, ‘sharp class consciousness’ and ‘surprising worldliness’ which, Yvonne Howell argues, produces a ‘comic effect’ (551). On the contrary, the exaggeration is congruent with the novella as a whole, which presents serious ideas in an absurd way. Therefore, it can be proposed that the anthropomorphism serves to illuminate the dog’s intelligence, sentience and capacity to feel pain and suffering in the way we do.
It is also interesting to note that prior to commencement of the procedure, Preobrazhensky is twice labelled a ‘priest’ (51, 54), overlooking the ‘unfortunate Sharik’s sacrificial venture’ (53). It begs the question as to what purpose this sacrifice entails. Scientific advancement? Human curiosity? Fundamentally, it demonstrates another means for assertion of human dominion: a scientist cutting and shaping a body as he desires. He is elevated to a position that brings him closer to a deity and his experiment can be recognised as an effort to reinforce the human/animal boundary. However, the scene of transplantation surgery is prominent in terms of destabilising this border. Not only does it mark the transformation of Sharik, the surgeons themselves are imbued with animalistic behaviours. Preobrazhensky ‘growls’ and ‘roars’ (56), flashing his assistant with ‘savage look[s]’. As Mortensen suggests, the professor also acts ‘on the basis of his intuition’, just as Sharikov remains ‘governed by animal instincts’ (224) when he is transformed. He falls from ‘high priest’ (51) to ‘satisfied vampire (57) by the end of the chapter, tainting the surgical procedure – which is otherwise detailed rather realistically – with a sense of brutality. This is furthered in the way Bormenthal swoops ‘like a vulture’ (54) and pounces ‘like a tiger’ (55). The comparison to predatory creatures evokes an image of the two men butchering the body of the dog, driven by bloodlust as opposed to rationality. It creates a peculiar juxtaposition of a sense of gore with the polished clinical setting, interrogating the scientific basis of Preobrazhensky’s intentions.
Once Sharik has been ‘humanised,’ becoming Sharikov, the events that follow pit Preobrazhensky and his household against him and further deconstruct the human/animal boundary. The realisation of what he has created quickly dawns on Preobrazhensky, as he laments that he has ‘suffered more these last fourteen days than in the past fourteen years!’ (81). In conversation with Bormenthal, he ponders the consequences of his experiment and they debate over the best course of action in dealing with Sharikov. Bormenthal states that Sharikov is ‘a man with the heart of a dog’ (110), thereby implying that their creation’s monstrous, intolerable qualities are due to the ‘animal’ inside him. However, Preobrazhensky is quick to rebut, contending that Bormenthal’s claim is an ‘insult’ to the dog and that the ‘whole horror of the situation is that [Sharikov] now has a human heart, not a dog’s heart. And about the rottenest heart in all creation!’ (110). What rings true in this is that the novella continues to demonstrate that it is Sharikov’s ‘human’ qualities, and not his ‘animal’ ones, that are more abhorrent.
For example, the commotion with a cat, whereby Sharikov is sent into a frenzy in pursuit of the creature and accidentally causes a flood within Preobrazhensky’s apartment, sees the emergence of Sharikov’s canine instincts. And yet, it can be argued that Bulgakov remains sympathetic. In the aftermath, out of anger, Preobrazhensky brands him an ‘impudent creature’ and Bormenthal calls him a ‘savage’ (87). The scolding follows Sharikov’s pitiful cry of ‘Will you beat me, Dad’ (85), a momentary flash of shame highlighting his helplessness as his animal instincts battle with his human sense. Preobrazhensky later acknowledges that it was a ‘[trace] of canine behaviour’ and that chasing cats the ‘least objectionable things he does’ (110). This violence escalates when he is employed by the ‘Moscow Cleansing Department’ and spends his days strangling cats. However, the job is arranged by Shvonder, the housing committee who has his own agenda against Preobrazhensky. Thus, he uses Sharikov as a pawn in his vendetta, illustrating again the exploitation of animals by humans for their own means.
The situation comes to a boiling point when the narrator gravely notes: ‘It was Sharikov himself who invited his own death’ (122). While the ‘human’ behaviours he had previously displayed – his alcoholism, thieving tendencies and harassment of women among others – were repulsive, they were able to be somewhat tolerated or controlled by Preobrazhensky. No doubt he proved to be a nuisance, but he becomes a real danger when he betrays his creator to the authorities, accusing him of making death threats and ‘counter-revolutionary speeches’ (120). Confronting him, Preobrazhensky orders him to leave his apartment, to which Sharikov proclaims he has his ‘rights’ (122). However, the last straw comes when Sharikov draws a revolver on Bormenthal, catalysing his own reversal back into Sharik the dog.
The reversal is shrouded in a menacing tone, as the omniscient narrator describes the ‘twilight [creeping] in, dank and sinister and gloomy’ (123). This arouses a sense that the failures of Preobrazhensky’s morality have caught up to him, a backdrop of obliteration that stands in stark contrast with the elation that accompanied creation. Burgin argues that there is ‘moral tragedy in the benevolent Professor being forced to commit violence to restore peace’ (504). While I agree with this argument to an extent, I would like to offer a perspective that returns to the suffering of the animal. While we can sympathise with Preobrazhensky for indicating remorse for his doings, he actively chose to carry out the experiment and therefore should be held liable for the consequences, even if they were unforeseen. Furthermore, it is crucial to remember that once he regains power at the end, he resumes his relentless research. Human curiosity seemingly has no bounds but must be regulated to prevent unnecessary harm to other beings.
Therefore, an anthropocentric reading that is able to blame but also bestow Preobrazhensky with the statuses of ‘hero’ and ‘victim’ (Burgin 505) dilutes the real tragedy that lies with Sharik, stripped of identity and under constant subjugation by humans. He is thrust into a world, as a hybrid that is neither fully human or animal, unable to conform to societal norms or meet the expectations imposed on his existence. Yet, his existence shakes the foundations of the human/animal boundary. The novella, as a whole, undermines the notion of an impenetrable ‘human’ category, revealing that humans are capable of possessing characteristics they deem to be animalistic. And so, although Preobrazhensky may be ‘[creating] new frontiers of knowledge’ (Howell 561), we are reminded that this can come at the expense of beings we exert our power over. Therefore, while we have the moral duty to improve humanity, we should not forget that our moral obligations should also encompass our animal ‘others’ and the creatures we create.