Returning home drunk he sat down to supper, and gave his dog to eat from his own bowl.
He never beat her, never scolded, and never petted her.

After supper he flung the dishes from the table--if his wife was not quick enough to remove them in time--put a bottle of whisky before him, and leaning his back against the wall, began in a hoarse voice that spread anguish about him to bawl a song, his mouth wide open and his eyes closed.

The doleful sounds got entangled in his mustache, knocking off the crumbs of bread.

He smoothed down the hair of his beard and mustache with his thick fingers and sang--sang unintelligible words, long drawn out.

The melody recalled the wintry howl of wolves.