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however, a dog is considered a bad omen. I don’t want to burden you with my own problems, my dear friends who have come to hear a story and ponder its moral-to be honest, my anger arises out of the esteemed cleric’s attacks upon our coffeehouses.
    What would you think if I said that this Husret of Erzurum was of dubious birth? But they’ve also said of me, “What kind of dog do you think you are? You’re attacking the venerable cleric because your master is a picture-hanging storyteller who tells tales at a coffeehouse and you want to protect him. Go on, scat!” God forbid, I’m not denigrating anyone. But I’m a great admirer of our coffeehouses. You know, I have no problem with the fact that my portrait was drawn on such cheap paper or that I’m a four-legged beast, but I do regret that I can’t sit down like a man and have a cup of coffee with you. We’d die for our coffee and our coffeehouses-what’s this? See, my master is pouring coffee for me from a small coffeepot. A picture can’t drink coffee, you say? Please! See for yourselves, this dog is happily lapping away.
    Ah, yes, that hit the spot, it’s warmed me up, sharpened my sight and quickened my thoughts. Now listen to what I have to tell you: Besides bolts of Chinese silks and Chinese pottery adorned with blue flowers, what did the Venetian Doge send to Nurhayat Sultan, the esteemed daughter of our respected Sultan? A soft and cuddly Venetian she-dog with a coat of silk and sable. I heard that this bitch is so spoiled she has a red silk dress as well. One of our friends actually fucked her, that’s how I know, and she can’t even engage in the act without her dress. In that Frankish land of hers, all dogs wear outfits like that anyway. I’ve heard tell that over there a so-called elegant and well-bred Venetian woman saw a naked dog-or maybe she saw its thing, I’m not sure-anyway, she screamed, “My dear God, the dog is naked!” and fainted dead away.
    In the lands of the infidel Franks, the so-called Europeans, every dog has an owner. These poor animals are paraded on the streets with chains around their necks, they’re fettered like the most miserable of slaves and dragged around in isolation. These Franks force the poor beasts into their homes and even into their beds. Dogs aren’t permitted to walk with one another, let alone sniff and frolic together. In that despicable state, in chains, they can do nothing but gaze forlornly at each other from a distance when they pass on the street. Dogs who roam the streets of Istanbul freely in packs and communities, the way we do, dogs who threaten people if necessary, who can curl up in a warm corner or stretch out in the shade and sleep peacefully, and who can shit wherever they want and bite whomever they want, such dogs are beyond the infidels’ conception. It’s not that I haven’t thought that this might be why the followers of the Erzurumi oppose praying for dogs and feeding them meat on the streets of Istanbul in exchange for divine favors and even why they oppose the establishment of charities that perform such services. If they intend both to treat us as enemies and make infidels of us, let me remind them that being an enemy to dogs and being an infidel are one and the same. At the, I hope, not too distant executions of these disgraceful men, I pray our executioner friends invite us to take a bite, as they sometimes do to set a deterring example.
    Before I finish, let me say this: My previous master was a very just man. When we set out at night to thieve, we’d cooperate: I’d begin to bark, and he’d cut the throat of our victim whose screams would be drowned out by my barking. In return for my help, he’d cut up the guilty men that he’d punished, boil them and feed them to me. I don’t like raw meat. God willing, the would-be executioner of that cleric from Erzurum will take this into account so I won’t upset my stomach with that scoundrel’s raw flesh.

I WILL BE CALLED A