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perhaps stirred by a light snow falling ever so sorrowfully; you’ll discover your 
legs   carrying   you   of   their   own   accord   toward   one   of   your   favorite 
promontories。 
This  was  how  I  happened  to  leave  the  Farrier’s  Market  and  ended  up 
watching  the  snow  as  it  fell  into  the  Golden  Horn  from  a  spot  beside  the 
Süleymaniye Mosque: Snow had already begun to accumulate on the rooftops 
facing north and on sections of the dome exposed to the northeasterly breeze。 
An  approaching  ship;  whose  sails  were  being  lowered;  greeted  me  with  a 
flutter of canvas。 The color of its sails matched the leaden and foggy hue of the 
surface  of  the  Golden  Horn。  The  cypress  and  plane  trees;  the  rooftops;  the 
heartache of dusk; the sounds ing from the neighborhood below; the calls 
of hawkers and the cries of children playing in mosque courtyards mingled in 
my  head  and  announced  emphatically  that;  hereafter;  I  wouldn’t  be  able  to 
live  anywhere  but  in  their  city。  I  had  the  sensation  that  my  beloved’s  face; 
which had escaped me for years; might suddenly appear to me。 
I  began  to  walk  down  the  hill  and  melded  into  the  crowds。  After  the 
evening  prayer  was  called;  I  filled  my  stomach  at  a  liver  shop。  In  the  empty 
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shop; I listened carefully to the owner; who fondly watched me eat each bite as 
if  he  were  feeding  a  cat。  Taking  his  cue  and  following  his  directions;  I  found 
myself turning down one of the narrow alleys behind the slave market—well 
after the streets had bee dark—and located the coffeehouse。 
Inside; it was crowded and warm。 The storyteller; the likes of whom I had 
seen  in  Tabriz  and  in  Persian  cities  and  who  was  known  thereabouts  as  a 
“curtain…caller;”  was  perched  on  a  raised  platform  beside  the  wood…burning 
stove。 He had unfolded and hung before the crowd a picture; the figure of a 
dog drawn on rough paper hastily but with a certain elegance。 He was giving 
voice to the dog; and pointing; from time to time; at the drawing。 
 
 
   
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I AM A DOG 
 
As  you  can  doubtless  tell;  dear  friends;  my  canines  are  so  long  and  pointed 
they barely fit into my mouth。 I know this gives me a menacing appearance; 
but it pleases me。 Noticing the size of my teeth; a butcher once had the gall to 
say; “My God; that’s no dog at all; it’s a wild boar!” 
I  bit  him  so  hard  on  the  leg  that  my  canines  sank  right  through  his  fatty 
flesh  to  the  hardness  of  his  thighbone。  For  a  dog;  you  see;  nothing  is  as 
satisfying as sinking his teeth into his miserable enemy in a fit of instinctual 
wrath。 When such an opportunity presents itself; that is; when my victim; who 
deserves  to  be  bitten;  stupidly  and  unknowingly  passes  by;  my  teeth  twinge 
and  ache  in  anticipation;  my  head  spins  with  longing  and  without  even 
meaning to; I emit a hair…raising growl。 
I’m a dog; and because you humans are less rational beasts than I; you’re 
telling yourselves; “Dogs don’t talk。” Nevertheless; you seem to believe a story 
in which corpses speak and characters use words they couldn’t possibly know。 
Dogs do speak; but only to those who know how to listen。 
Once upon a time; long; long ago; in a faraway land; a brash cleric from a 
provincial town arrived at one of the largest mosques in a capital city; all right; 
let’s call it the Bayazid Mosque。 It’d be appropriate to withhold his name; so 
let’s refer to him as “Husret Hoja。” But why should I cover up anything more: 
This  man  was  one  boneheaded  cleric。  He  made  up  for  the  modesty  of  his 
intellect  with  the  power  of  his  tongue;  God  bless  it。  Each  Friday;  he  so 
animated his congregation; so moved them to tears that some would cry until 
they fainted or dried up and withered away。 Don’t get me wrong; unlike other 
clerics  with  the  gift  of  preaching;  he  himself  didn’t  weep。  On  the  contrary; 
while  everyone  else  cried;  he  intensified  his  oration  without  a  blink  as  if  to 
chastise  the  congregation。  In  all  probability;  the  gardeners;  royal  pages;  halva 
makers;  riffraff  and  clerics  like  himself  became  his  lackeys  because  they 
enjoyed the tongue lashing。 Well; this man was no dog after all; no sir; he was 
a human being—to be human is to err—and before those enthralled crowds; 
he  lost  himself  when  he  saw  that  intimidating  throngs  of  people  was  as 
pleasurable  as  bringing  them  to  tears。  When  he  understood  that  there  was 
much more bread to be made in this new venture; he went over the top and 
had the nerve to say the following: 
“The  sole  reason  for  rising  prices;  plague  and  military  defeat  lies  in  our 
forgetting  the  Islam  of  the  time  of  our  Glorious  Prophet  and  falling  sway  to 
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falsehoods。  Was  the  Prophet’s  birth  epic  read  in  memory  of  the  dead  back 
then? Was the fortieth…day ceremony performed; where sweets like halva and 
fried dough are offered to honor the dead? When Muhammad lived; was the 
Glorious  Koran  recited  melodically;  like  a  song?  Were  the  prayers  called 
haughtily and pompously to show how close one’s Arabic was to an Arab’s? 
Was there such a thing as reciting the call to prayer coyly; with the flourish of 
a man imitating a woman? Today; people plead before gravesites; begging for 
amends。 They hope for the intervention of the dead on their behalf。 They visit 
the tombs of saints and worship at graves like pagans before pieces of stone。 
They  tie  votive  pieces  of  cloth  everywhere;  and  make  promises  of  sacrifice  in 
return for atonement。 Were there dervish sectarians who spread such beliefs in 
Muhammad’s  time?  Ibn  Arabi;  the  intellectual  mentor  of  these  sectarians; 
became  a  sinner  by  swearing  that  the  infidel  Pharaoh  had  died  a  believer。 
These dervishes; the Mevlevis; the Halvetis; the Kalenderis and those who sing 
the  Koran  to  musical  acpaniment  or  justify  dancing  with  children  and 
juveniles by saying ”we pray together anyway; why not?“ are all kaffirs。 Dervish 
lodges ought to be destroyed; their foundations excavated to a depth of seven 
ells and the collected earth cast into the sea。 Only then might ritual prayers be 
performed there again。” 
I heard tell that this Husret Hoja; taking matters even further; declared with 
spittle  flying  from  his  mouth;  “Ah;  my  devoted  believers!  The  drinking  of 
coffee  is  an  absolute  sin!  Our  Glorious  Prophet  did  not  partake  of  coffee 
because he knew it dulled the intellect; caused ulcers; hernia and sterility; he 
understood  that  coffee  was  nothing  but  the  Devil’s  ruse。  Coffeehouses  are 
places   where   pleasure…seekers   and   wealthy   gadabouts   sit   knee…to…knee; 
involving  themselves  in  all  sorts  of  vulgar  behavior;  in  fact;  even  before  the 
dervish houses are closed; coffeehouses ought to be banned。 Do the poor have 
enough money to drink coffee? Men frequent these places; bee besotted 
with  coffee  and  lose  control  of  their  mental  faculties  to  the  point  that  they 
actually listen to and believe what dogs and mongrels have to say。 But those 
who curse me and our religion; it is they who are the true mongrels。” 
With  your  permission;  I’d  like  to  respond  to  this  last  ment  by  the 
esteemed cleric。 Of course; it is mon knowledge that hajis; hojas; clerics; 
and preachers despise us dogs。 In my opinion; the whole matter concerns our 
revered Prophet Muhammad; peace and blessings be upon him; who cut off a 
piece of his robe upon which a cat lay sleeping rather than wake the beast。 By 
pointing  out  this  affection  shown  to  the  cat;  which  has  incidentally  been 
denied to us dogs; and due to our eternal feud with this feline beast; which 
even  the  stupidest  of  men  recognizes  as  an  ingrate;  people  have  tried  to 
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intimate that the Prophet himself disliked dogs。 They’re convinced that we’ll 
defile  those  who  have  performed  ritual  ablutions;  and  the  result  of  this 
erroneous and slanderous belief is that we’ve been barred from mosques for 
centuries  and  have  suffered  beatings  in  their  courtyards  from  broomstick…
wielding caretakers。 
Allow me to remind you of “The Cave;” the most beautiful of the Koran’s 
chapters。  I’m  reminding  you  not  because  I  suspect  there  may  be  those  who 
never read the Koran among us in this good coffeehouse; but because I want 
to refresh your memories: This chapter recounts the story of the seven youths 
who grow tired of living among pagans and take refuge in a cave where they 
enter a deep sleep。 Allah then seals their ears and causes them to doze off for 
exactly three hundred and nine years。 When they awake; they learn just how 
many years have passed only after one of them enters the society of men and 
tries to spend an outdated silver coin。 All of them are stunned to learn what 
has  happened。  This  chapter  subtly  describes  man’s  attachment  to  Allah;  His 
miracles;  the  transitory  nature  of  time  and  the  pleasure  of  deep  sleep;  and 
though  it’s  not  my  place;  allow  me  to  remind  you  of  the  eighteenth  verse; 
which  makes  mention  of  a  dog  resting  at  the  mouth  of  this  cave  where  the 
seven youths have fallen asleep。 Obviously; anyone would be proud to appear 
in the Koran。 As a dog; I take pride in this chapter; and through it I intend to 
bring  the  Erzurumis;  who  refer  to  their  enemies  as  dirty  mongrels;  to  their 
senses。 
So then; what’s the actual reason for this animosity toward dogs? Why do 
you  persist  in  saying  that  dogs  are  impure;  and  cleaning  and  purifying  your 
homes from top to bottom if a dog happens to enter? Why do you believe that 
those who touch us spoil their ablutions? If your caftan brushes against our 
damp fur; why do you insist on washing that caftan seven times like a frenzied 
woman? Only tinsmiths could be responsible for the slander that a pot

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