NOTES FROM UNDERGROUND & THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD. Fyodor Dostoyevsky
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motionless, looked at me with a pleased expression, and gently wagged his tail.
That evening, not having seen me the whole day-me, the first person who in so many years had thought of stroking him-he ran towards me, leaping and barking. I was so deeply moved that I could not help embracing him. I laid his head against my body; he placed his paws on my shoulders and looked me in the face.
‘Here is a heavensent friend,’ I told myself, and during those first unhappy weeks my first act on returning from work was to hurry with Bull to the back of the barrack, where he leaped around me with joy. I took his head in my hands and kissed it. At the same time a troubled, bitter feeling pressed my heart. I well remember thinking (and taking pleasure in the thought) that this was my one, my only friend in the world-my faithful dog, Bull.
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