Eight days had passed since Anton Cheshin’s dog went missing.
And all that time, the man—with a cherry-colored face and a teenage mustache—sat slumped on an old, low sofa he’d inherited from his grandmother. From morning till late at night, his red eyes stared blankly at the screen of a brand-new television set he had bought the very day the dog disappeared.
Anton was fully aware how pitiful he looked—how disgracefully he was letting himself rot on that couch. But searching for Tisok in a city of a million people, even for someone with at least a high school education, was likely to end in nothing. So instead of searching, Anton bought a TV—and paid for an ad spot on the city’s evening news.
“Lost dog. Name’s Tisok,” he rasped into the phone, his fingers trembling. “A black mutt with a long snout and a white patch on his tail shaped like the letter C.”
The news editor jotted down the details, visibly annoyed, but couldn’t argue with Tamara Andreyevna from the sales department looming over his shoulder.
“Let’s add ‘reward offered’,” she said, her eyes gleaming. “Costs more—and you’ll have to fork over the reward yourself—but the dog’s worth it.”
A familiar anxiety twisted inside Anton’s chest. Hopefully, he had enough saved up.
“Of course,” he mumbled. “You know best.”
As she took the crumpled bills Anton had managed to save over the years, Tamara Andreyevna flashed a radiant smile—thirty white teeth and one gold one. She counted the cash with faint disgust, poured three mugs of tea, and finally sent Anton off with the promise that the ad would air that very evening.
TV ads were insanely expensive, but Tisok meant more to Anton than the motor cultivator he’d been dreaming of buying for his summer garden. Riding the number 53 bus home, he did his best not to dwell on the dream that had just slipped through his fingers.
After a week without sleep, consumed by a mix of fury at the editor and disgust with himself for not getting off that damn couch, Anton stormed toward his front door. The apartment reeked of pickled herring. He wrapped his scarf around his stiff neck, ready to burst into the newsroom and blow the whole place to hell.
But the moment he opened the door, all his resolve evaporated.
On the doorstep lay three stacks of newspapers. On the front page—an absurdly stretched photo of Tisok.
Anton sneezed as tears welled in his eyes. With a stiff back and awkward movements, he dragged the stacks inside. The bottom bundle, damp from the rain, was the heaviest.
Tucked under the twine was a tiny note: “To A. Cheshin, from the newsroom.”
Dear Antosha,
There’s been a little mix-up—but in my professional opinion, it worked out even better.
We had to run a chicken ad in the prime-time slot. But we gave you the front page instead.
We even printed 200 extra copies, still within your budget. The paper hits stands Thursday—get ready!
I gave them your phone number so they wouldn’t bug us.
Come by Monday to sign off on the paperwork.
—Tamara
Anton stared at the wet newspapers again.
“People read the paper more anyway,” he muttered, suddenly convinced. “They’re right. This is better.”
He stood frozen. Should he rush out to look for Tisok in the freezing drizzle? Or wait by the phone? The calls would start any minute now.
The green stool beside the landline made him shift uncomfortably. He glanced at himself in the wardrobe mirror: swollen red eyes, hunched shoulders. He looked at least ten years older.
Then the phone rang. A deafening, almost holy sound.
Anton jumped up, snatched the receiver.
“Yes?”
“Anton!” roared a voice. “You coming back to work, you son of a bitch?! I gave you a week, and now it’s what—ten days? I’ve got a line of guys ready to take your place, you lazy ass! Don’t show up tomorrow and I’ll rip your goddamn ears off!”
Anton instinctively covered his ears. Of course, Ivan wouldn’t actually rip anything off—but it wasn’t a joke either.
Ivan had run the car wash for twenty-three years. He’d threatened Anton with bodily harm for at least ten of them—but he’d also always talked him out of quitting.
“We’re like family,” Ivan would say, clapping him on the back.
“I just… it’s my dog...”
“Screw your dog!” Ivan bellowed. “There’s a pack of mutts behind the garage—pick one! Be at work tomorrow. You’re falling apart, you mess.”
“I’m sorry—” Anton began, but Ivan had already hung up.
Anton set the phone down. Looked himself dead in the eye.
“I’m finding Tisok. Today.”
Twenty minutes passed. The same stool. Another call.
“Hello?”
“I saw your dog down by the riverwalk,” said a velvety female voice. “What’s the reward?”
“Thousand rubles.”
“Ohh. Not worth it,” she yawned. “I’m not even stepping out for less than five.”
“Fine. Five.”
“I can show you on the map where I saw him,” she perked up. “You can go look. I’ll send the spot and my bank details. Got a phone?”
“Sure,” Anton said bravely. “But I’ll pay you after I find the dog.”
“Scammer,” she muttered. “You want me to trust you? That’s not how this works. You’re not serious.”
Click. She hung up.
And she wasn’t wrong. He hadn’t taken the search seriously.
He could’ve gone to the newsroom days ago.
Instead… that couch.
Another ring.
“Where are you?” barked a different woman, rougher, older. “I called five times.”
“Is this about the dog?”
“Yeah. My bitch had puppies. One looks like yours. Want him? Two thousand.”
Anton blinked.
“Fifteen hundred, then. Out of sympathy.”
“What grief?” he asked, confused.
“Well, if you ain’t found him yet, he’s probably dead. Got run over. Or ripped apart. Boys were throwing sticks at strays last week. Maybe yours caught one.”
A lump blocked his throat. He couldn’t speak.
“Come next week. Baumanskaya 4. Ask for Maria. Bring small bills.”
She hung up.
More calls. At least twenty. Some saw a dog near the church. Others by a sofa shop. One old friend just called to say hi. Kids called to bark into the phone.
Anton was about to give up when a deep bass voice came through:
“I found your dog. Where do I bring it?”
He shouted out his address like a child on Christmas morning.
“Half an hour,” the man said. “I’m on my way. Add five hundred for gas.”
Anton didn't care about the money anymore.
He cleaned up, changed sweaters, freshened up Tisok’s bed.
The intercom buzzed.
Heavy steps climbed the stairs.
A sweaty man in baggy sweatpants appeared, panting.
“You looking for a dog?”
Anton nodded.
“Here,” the man said, handing over a dog’s tail. Then he squeezed past Anton and plopped onto the stool.
Anton stared.
It was a black, fluffy stump with a white C—but it was at least three times bigger than Tisok’s.
“That’s not him,” Anton said.
“Sure it is,” the man grinned. “Perfect match.”
“Tisok is smaller.”
“It’s not a shepherd’s tail,” the man retorted.
“I know my dog,” Anton whispered.
“Here—look.”
He slapped the tail onto the newspaper.
It matched the photo. Too perfectly.
“They enlarged the photo,” Anton muttered. “Made it bigger.”
“Not my problem.” The man stood up. He loomed large now.
“I found your dog, didn’t I? Crossed the whole city. Parked by the pond. Ten-minute walk. Don’t cheat me.”
“I’ll show you a photo,” Anton offered. “Give me a second.”
“No time.” The man shoved the tail into Anton’s hands. “Give me the money. Don’t make me angry. My heart’s already acting up.”
Anton hesitated.
Then gave him five thousand rubles. Plus five hundred for gas.
“Condolences,” the man said as he lumbered away.
Anton sat in silence.
He placed the tail on the dresser.
And wished, more than anything, that it would come to life. That it would bark. Chase ghosts around the room. Shake the walls.
Everyone in this building had someone waiting at home.
Anton had Tisok—who used to wait every day after work.
Now all that remained was a tail—and a heaviness in his chest.
Tisok had loved him no matter what sweater he wore. No matter how little money he brought. He licked Anton’s ears when he yelled. Or when he stayed silent. He asked nothing. Demanded nothing. Always ready to walk, eat, nap.
Tisok had never made him be anyone else.
And then something broke inside Anton.
“That’s not Tisok!” he screamed, bolting outside.
“That’s not Tisok!” he cried, tail in hand, running to the pond.
“That’s not Tisok!” he shouted into the empty parking lot.
The man was gone.
It was dark now. God knew how long he’d sat with that tail.
Anton dragged himself home, shivering.
He couldn’t throw it away.
Passersby watched him—this poor man clutching a dog’s tail—half with pity, half with curiosity.
“Excuse me,” a voice said near the entrance.
Anton turned.
A woman in a red raincoat, glasses fogged, around his age.
“You wouldn’t happen to be looking for a dog?” she asked.
Anton couldn’t speak. He simply held out the soggy tail.
“Oh—it is you!” she said, brightening. “I found your dog.”
He was about to rant. About grief. About decency. But then—a tiny familiar snout poked out from under the coat.
“Woof!” Tisok wriggled with excitement.
“Tisok…” Anton stepped forward, stopped short. “Tisoooook...”
“I just saw the paper today,” the woman said softly. “He’s been with me a week. I live alone. It was... nice, actually. If I’d known, I’d have brought him sooner.”
Anton couldn’t look away.
“I’ll carry him up for you,” she offered.
“No, I can—”
“No, really,” she smiled and blushed. “Let me.”
“Oh! The reward!” Anton suddenly remembered.
“No, no,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t want anything. It’s raining. He’s tiny. You’re soaked.”
“No, I insist. Please. Come in. Let me take Tisok.”
“Maybe just into the building? Out of the rain?”
“Yes, yes. Come.”
“My name’s Galya,” she said.
“I’m Anton,” he smiled—for the first time in over a week. “And this is Tisok.”
“Oh, I know.” She pulled the pup from under her coat. “Here.”
Tisok leapt into his arms, squeaking with joy.
“I should go,” she said. “But… can I visit him? Sometimes?”
“Oh—the reward!” Anton dashed upstairs again.
“No need,” she called after him. “I had such a lovely time. I would’ve kept him, you know. If no one claimed him. But since you did… I could walk him. If you’d like.”
“Walk him? Sure.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Even tonight,” Anton said after a beat. “Once the rain stops. But for now… maybe some tea?”
She glanced outside and nodded.
“Wouldn’t mind,” she said. “In weather like this… a good owner doesn’t even send a dog out.”
The end.