SOLITUDE

Man and Loneliness

Man hardly ever left his apartment. There was no need. If he hadn't forgotten to eat his meager provisions, he had to go to the neighborhood shop and replenish the extremely meager supplies in the spacious pantry, which was completely covered in cobwebs and a layer of dust except for the only corner that was used. The shopkeeper was already familiar with this customer, who made the same dull purchases over and over again: a quarter of a loaf of bread, a stick of margarine, a few eggs, some cheese, and milk. He always wore the same clothes, threadbare at the elbows and slightly frayed sleeves, and far too baggy. These were his wedding clothes, which he had worn on the day of his late wife's funeral and had either forgotten or refused to change. He stopped going to work. What was the point of returning from work when no one was waiting for him, no one to greet him with a kind word and a warm meal? The modest pension was more than enough for a meager existence. Unused money, like worthless scraps of paper, lay here

and there on an old-fashioned sideboard, mixed with yellowed old electricity and gas receipts and other junk. The man lived closed in on himself and his apartment, and his Solitude lived with him. They were neither happy nor unhappy about it. For that was how it had to be. Only Solitude could fill the empty space left by the One who had departed. From his life and from this apartment.

The man, Solitude, and the Dog.

The man didn't know where the Dog had suddenly appeared in the apartment. A very small Dog. Real, alive. He even whined a little. The man didn't look at the Dog, didn't see him, didn't want to see him. But he wasn't some degenerate who would throw a wet puppy out into the rain.

You don't really exist, because I deny you. You don't exist—for me. There's no place for you here, only my Solitude and I. I don't acknowledge you.

The man turned off the light and went to bed. A small, wet Dog sat curled up on the threshold. He gazed into the room with beady black eyes. But he didn't see the Man. He saw his Loneliness.

Sleep descended upon the Man and the Dog. Loneliness had no part in it. It was a good dream. Before the Dog, a bowl full of warm milk steamed. The beady black eyes looked moistly at the hand holding the bowl. A warm pink tongue dutifully licked the bowl clean, and then the hand holding it. The Man poured the warm milk back into the bowl, steaming. The Dog licked the bowl clean again, and with a warm pink tongue, licked the hand holding the bowl. The little Dog's beady black eyes were as moist as his black nose. Healthy dogs, of course, have wet noses. He was a good, healthy Dog.

So the day and night passed. When the Man awoke, he saw the little Dog curled up in a fluffy ball on his blanket at his feet. He was no longer a wet, poor Dog. It was a good, healthy dog ​​with dry, shiny fur and a wet nose.

And there was the Man, who looked at the Dog and didn't deny it any more. He carefully stood up, warmed the milk, poured it into a bowl, and handed it to the Dog. The Dog drank, licked the bowl and the hand holding it. When the Man felt the warmth of the lick, he noticed that someone was missing from the room. The loneliness vanished,

and the Man and the Dog remained in the apartment

. Everyone in the neighborhood noticed the changes that had taken place in the Man. They also knew that the Dog had done it. The Man stopped forgetting to shop. He entered the store with a spring in his step and excitedly examined the goods on display. The Man now bought more milk, cheese, and eggs, more bread. He began buying meat, cereal, and even vegetables. The stove in the Man's house was now full. Delicious smells wafted throughout the house. The black, threadbare clothes no longer hung on the Man as if on a hanger. One day, they were spotted in the garbage, and the Man was walking his Dog on a new leash, himself dressed in soft, herringbone flannel sportswear.

The Dog was getting bigger and making more and more noise. He still couldn't shake the habit of crying loudly during the Man's brief absence. He made more and more noise when the Man greeted him abruptly.

That's right – now there was someone at home to greet the Man's returning home, so it was time to think about taking up a job. Especially since money had long since stopped being scattered among old papers. The cupboard was clean, and money was increasingly scarce.

The Man pondered, "The Dog is big, and the apartment is getting bored. I'll find a job that won't keep us apart."

The Man rented a plot of land and went there with the Dog to work. As the summer grew warmer, they became increasingly reluctant to return to the stuffy apartment. So they moved into the gazebo and were happy

. Autumn was approaching. Yellowing leaves slowly spread a golden carpet across the ground, giving it the warmth it had received from the summer sun. Summer flowers faded in the flowerbeds, and richly blooming asters—harbingers of autumn—took over. A sense of quiet settled over the garden, awaiting the coming changes; only the din and bustle of the bird assemblies held there before their departure for warmer climes persisted in the treetops.

Dog and Solitude

. Beautiful fruit and vegetables grew in the allotment, and money for the Man's labor appeared in a tea box on the sideboard. But the Man and Dog's happiness was short-lived. One night, robbers broke into the house, wounded the Dog, and killed the Man—for the few pennies on the sideboard. The Man was buried behind the house, and the Dog crawled away to his grave.

The Man was gone; only the Dog remained, and Solitude came to his aid. The dog remained on the Man's grave without food or water, not allowing anyone near him. When he expired, only

Solitude remained there