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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 21 | volume IV | June-July, 2001



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 21June-July, 2001
Prose

The Hairless Dogs

excerpt from the novel


/5
p. 1
Liljana Jokić Kaspar

Doggy Bobby Becomes a Thief and Saves His Skin by Being Late for Dinner

    Mrs. Frida was striking as hard as she could a lump of sugar in her mortar using a brass little tool, while her neighbor Todor was standing at the doorway of her and Rita’s apartment. That wasn’t exactly an apartment, rather a huge room with six windows in it, all of them facing the street, divided by various, improvised partitions made of antique, bulky wardrobes, cupboards, curtains, and dusty, gray cloth. Right in the center of the room, which used to be a merchant Majn’s drawing room with the ceiling richly decorated with plaster ornaments, there were two beds separated by partitions, and next to one of the windows a massive, oldfashion ottoman with worn out bedspread over it, and on its back a couple of painted, big red roses, now hardly visible. All over the place, scattered around there were odd chairs and armchairs in different styles, dating from all possible epochs, and on each of them, at least two or three blouses, swaggering, with their sleeves turned inside out, dresses, dressing-gowns washed out and dark, ruffled sweaters. In the middle of the room there were a wardrobe and a white, round table with bent legs, holding on its gnawn, cracked lion’s paws a countless number of empty or half-empty plates, dishes, shallow round dishes, slices of bread, shells of sorted onions, and on one of the dessert-plates there was a dry and awry half-eaten white cake. Under the table, on the stripped, black floor, a few puddles were glimmering, evidently adding to the entire space a strong, terrible smell.
    Before going to bed, Mrs. Frida Petrovic had a shot of elder-brandy from her green, thimble-like glass, and right after she drank it up, she decided that one shot wasn’t enough for her.
    Why wouldn’t I have one more, I’m going to bed anyway. All I want is to fall asleep quickly, she was thinking and pouring herself another glass halfway down.
    After all, she suffered a lot from her sore throat during those winter days.
    I always get sick in winter, wouldn’t it be more comfortable to get sick in summer or spring? The pain became so bad that she wasn’t sure any more whether she’s going to make it to the market tomorrow or not.
    As many other people, she too was spending most of her life at the






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