In the end, we stuck an onion stem into one of Arsylang’s nostrils and dripped milk into it. I took milk from the pail and into my mouth, and released it into the stem. Father warned me not to get too close to the dog because he had heard that poison can cause rabies.

The milk we cleverly trickled into one nostril soon came out the other one, but what came out was foaming like water and curd.

A racking cramp shot through Arsylang’s body. Then he cried, more softly than before. At that moment I noticed Mother. All of a sudden she was standing next to me. Although my grudge against her had not died down, I felt a flash of gratitude. It was the kind of gratitude you feel toward people who have stood by you through some great disaster. I knew then that Arsylang was dying. Still, I was astonished when Father said it was over with the dog—astonished not so much because the death that was already inside Arsylang had now completed itself, but rather because anybody could simply say, “It’s over with the dog,” as if he were saying, “The milk has gone sour,” or “The wooden pail leaks,” or “The horseshoe is worn through.”

The gratitude I had felt toward Father for staying with me and the dead Arsylang and for not going after one of his countless other jobs clouded over, disappeared, and finally became anger. When I tried to find reasons to blame him, I did not have to look far. Arsylang wasn’t just any old dog. There were many dogs around, but Arsylang was the best among them. He was entirely unique, and yet Father had poisoned him! And then another thought flashed through my mind, some dark inkling. Soon a puppy would arrive, get raised, and take Arsylang’s place. I held Father responsible for this untimely thought as well, even though it had been me who had thought it. I simply assumed, without a moment’s doubt, that he would have had the same idea.

Right then I heard Mother say, “I was so worried about you.” To my ears it sounded like, “Lucky it was just the dog!” Instantly my gratitude toward Mother died as well. Something dark and bitter crept over it and spread and hardened into rock.

The world was beyond understanding. I began to feel deathly ill. I had to do something, I had to rear up and shatter the rock inside me and spit it out so it would not kill me the way the poison had killed Arsylang. And so I did. I wrenched myself up, stepped over beside the dead Arsylang, raised my fists to the sky, and screamed, “I-ih-iiij, Gök-Deeri!”

It must have shocked my parents terribly, for everything went quiet around me.

“I-ih-iiij, what sort are you if you are so powerless against a pinch of measly powder?”