Heart of a Dog by Mikhail Bulgakov

They're just maids, but you'd
    think they were commissars. It's Zina - she's always bellyaching about me.'
        Philip Philipovich gave him a stern look.
        'Don't you dare talk about Zina in that tone of voice! Understand?'
        Silence.
        'I'm asking you - do you understand?'
        'Yes, I understand.'
        'Take that trash off your neck. Sha . . . if you saw yourself in a mirror you'd realise what a
    fright it makes you look. You look like a clown. For the hundredth time - don't throw cigarette ends on to the floor. And I don't want to hear any more swearing in this flat! And don't spit everywhere! The spittoon's over there. Kindly take better aim when you pee. Cease all further conversation with Zina. She complains that you lurk round her room at night. And don't be rude to my patients! Where do'you think you are - in some dive?'
        'Don't be so hard on me. Dad,' the man suddenly said in a tearful whine.
        Philip Philipovich turned red and his spectacles flashed.
        'Who are you calling "Dad"? What impertinent familiarity! I never want to hear that word
    again! You will address me by my name and patronymic!'
        The man flared up impudently: 'Oh, why can't you lay off? Don't spit . . . don't smoke . . . don't go there, don't do this, don't do that . . . sounds like the rules in a tram. Why don't you leave me alone, for God's sake? And why shouldn't I call you "Dad", anyway? I didn't ask you to do the operation, did I?' - the man barked indignantly - 'A nice business -you get an animal, slice his head open and now you're sick of him. Perhaps I wouldn't have given permission for the operation. Nor would . . . (the man stared up at the ceiling as though trying to remember a phrase he had been taught) . . . nor would my relatives. I bet I could sue you if I wanted to.'
        Philip Philipovich's eyes grew quite round and his cigar fell out of his fingers. 'Well, I'll be . . .' he thought to himself.
        'So you object to having been turned into a human being, do you?' he asked, frowning slightly. 'Perhaps you'd prefer to be sniffing around dustbins again? Or freezing in doorways? Well, if I'd known that I wouldn't . . .'
        'So what if I had to eat out of dustbins? At least it was an honest living. And supposing I'd died on your operating table? What d'you say to that, comrade?'
        'My name is Philip Philipovich!' exclaimed the professor irritably. 'I'm not your comrade! This is monstrous!' ('I can't stand it much longer,' he thought to himself.)
        'Oh, yes!' said the man sarcastically, triumphantly uncrossing his legs. 'I know! Of course we're not comrades! How could we be? I didn't go to college, I don't own a flat with fifteen rooms and a bathroom. Only all that's changed now - now everybody has the right to . . .'
        Growing rapidly paler, Philip Philipovich listened to the man's argument. Then the creature stopped and swaggered demonstratively over to an ashtray with a chewed butt-end in his fingers. He spent a long time stubbing it out, with a look on his face which clearly said: 'Drop dead!' Having put out his cigarette he suddenly clicked his teeth and poked his nose under his armpit.
        'You're supposed to catch fleas with your fingersV shouted Philip Philipovich in fury. 'Anyhow, how is it that you still have any fleas?'
        'You don't think I breed them on purpose, do you?' said the man, offended. 'I suppose fleas just like me, that's all.' With this he poked his fingers through the lining of his jacket, scratched around and produced a tuft of downy red hair.
        Philip Philipovich turned his gaze upwards to the plaster rosette on the ceiling and started drumming his fingers on the desk. Having caught his flea, the man sat down in a chair, sticking his thumbs behind the lapels of his jacket. Squinting down at the parquet, he inspected his boots, which gave him great pleasure. Philip Philipovich also looked down at