years. The spaniel has a skin disease-mange, I think-which makes almost all its

hair fall out and leaves it covered with brown sores and scabs. After living

together for so long, the two of them alone in one tiny room, they've ended up

looking like each other. Old Salamano has reddish scabs on his face and wispy

yellow hair. As for the dog, he's sort of taken on his master's stooped look,

muzzle down, neck straining. They look as if they belong to the same species,

and yet they hate each other. Twice a day, at eleven and six, the old man takes

the dog out for a walk. They haven't changed their route in eight years. You can

see them in the rue de Lyon, the dog pulling the man along until old Salamano

stumbles. Then he beats the dog and swears at it. The dog cowers and trails

behind. Then it's the old man who pulls the dog. Once the dog has forgotten, it

starts dragging its master along again, and again gets beaten and sworn at. Then

they both stand there on the sidewalk and stare at each other, the dog in

terror, the man in hatred. It's the same thing every day. When the dog wants to

urinate, the old man won't give him enough time and yanks at him, so that the

spaniel leaves behind a trail of little drops. If the dog has an accident in the

room, it gets beaten again. This has been going on for eight years. Celeste is

always saying, "It's pitiful," but really, who's to say? When I ran into him on

the stairs, Salamano was swearing away at the dog. He was saying, "Filthy,

stink­ ing bastard!" and the dog was whimpering. I said "Good evening," but the

old man just went on cursing. So I asked him what the dog had done. He didn't

answer. All he said was "Filthy, stinking bastard!" I could barely see him

leaning over his dog, trying to fix something on its collar. I spoke louder.

Then, without turning around, he answered with a kind of suppressed rage, "He's

alwaysthere." Then he left, yanking at the animal, which was letting itself be