In the distance, you can hear a donkey braying

. Wharton lives on a barge. It makes me jealous. I'd live like that too, but then again, it's just duplication, imitation, it's been done before, what's the point of people?

Anyway, as a writer, I decided to dabble in the weird, and although I couldn't indulge in the sweetest thing because of William, there were still many others left. Overall, the idea of ​​an unusual apartment really appealed to me (maybe no one would notice it was a fake?), so I started looking for a suitable place for myself. My choice fell on the English moor, those vast, dark stretches of clearings, strewn with boulders. "Moor" itself translates to "moorland" here, though that's not entirely accurate, but let's stick with it for simplicity's sake.

So I moved to the moorland – a hermit's life – lovely, eh? I bought a detached cottage with the intention of gradually renovating it. It wasn't so bad, actually—a bit run-down, but it held up.

All of this, however, was only a superficial reflection of my inner resolutions, which I'd made when I moved. I wanted to take my new lifestyle quite seriously, to the point of bordering on asceticism. I'd be a complete hermit, so what! I thought. Ergo: no social contact, no closeness with anyone, in any sense. Yes!

But you know—the poor always get the wind in their face. It's the same when someone has a lofty idea and wants to hoard it in peace, as I did. So it wasn't surprising that trouble knocked on my door the very first day.

I unpacked my bundles without much haste, pausing every now and then to stare at the wall. My wall, I might add. Then I heard outside: "Iha! Iha!" Who dares to invade my solitude? Well, I have to turn the stranger away. By the way, I didn't know English was so strange. Iha, Iha? What's that supposed to mean? Here we call, "Come to the fence!" or something along those lines, but here they only say one word, repeated twice? What kind of methods are these? I'd been warned that the English are a strange people.

I went out. I saw—a donkey. A wild donkey with dusty fur. Standing shamelessly at my gate, staring at me with nostalgic eyes. I immediately sensed what was coming. I knew this disgusting scene from somewhere, albeit in a different guise. I felt that my new life path could twist dangerously, now to the right, now to the left, so that it would be quite easy to fall off, because it would become quite an ambitious OS.

I knew perfectly well why he'd come. He wanted to be tamed. Yes, yes – these creatures are all the same. But his lack of expectation! Oh, my dear, I'm not the one who pulled this trick! A good farmer lived in the cottage before me, because he left some of his equipment for me to use. Among them was an air rifle and even a half-full box of pellets.

I went back inside and filled my tank. I went out again. The animal stood motionless, its eyes seemingly sinking deeper and deeper into dullness. I fired into the air. It worked. It immediately galloped away at a donkey's gallop. It was quite a scene, even, so in the end, the donkey only improved my mood that day.

"Iha, Iha!" woke me the next morning, however. I put on my slippers, threw off my nightcap, threw on my robe, loaded my air rifle, and went out into the yard. I fired into the air. A repeat of the previous day. I went back to sleep.

But that was only the beginning. For the next ten days, he came every morning, sometimes even in the afternoon and evening. I had to go to a nearby town to buy more pellets, as he was running low, and the intruder clearly had no intention of giving up.

So I saw those longing eyes every day, staring at me like a golden egg. I decided to accept it as a necessary evil and not interfere too much with my renovation and creative work. He'd come, I'd shoot, he'd run away. He'd come, I'd shoot, he'd run away. It slowly became like brushing my teeth.

One day—it must have been two months since I'd been living on the moor—I made an interesting discovery. I was sitting on my veranda, reading, and then I saw—a partridge wandering around my plot. So I immediately got my air rifle and—go for it—chased it away. I fired upward. I was already quite experienced at this, so the excellent effect I achieved didn't surprise me at all.

I leaned the shotgun against the table and continued rocking in my rocking chair, until suddenly I heard "tam-tam, tam-tam, tam-tam, tam-tam." I knew that sound well. A moment later, a donkey emerged from behind the gate. Its eyes, however, were less idiotic and more darting and disoriented. It seemed to be losing ground. I became suspicious. I fired again. It ran away.

I was so eager to continue my observations, which I had practically turned into an experiment, that that evening I went out in front of the house and made a racket. A gallop, and there it was, standing at my gate. Just as bewildered and disoriented. I knew exactly how it worked. It came running, terrified that it had been late for our ceremonial shooting. Now that's a story! I fired another shot to make it go away.

Over the next few days, I really enjoyed this reversal of circumstances. At first, I felt like a manipulator, and it gave me a great, if rather lousy, satisfaction. But soon I simply began to like the donkey coming to me. And what I had feared before happened—you know, we looked at each other, I moved closer to the gate each day, and all that stuff. But I no longer saw anything wrong with it, and besides, my readers and critics didn't need to know about it. So, for my own and the donkey's private use, I decided to loosen up a bit the rules regarding our solitary lifestyle. I remembered the times when nonconformity was the best way to earn money, and when I had decided that no idea could overshadow our natural needs and desires. And now, my great need was to see the donkey. So I added a little of my old beliefs to my classical asceticism, and that's how we lived for a while: the moor, the donkey, and I.

And things probably would have remained that way if old Wilcox hadn't visited me one day. I would have sent him to hell, but my familiarity with the donkey had so changed my mood that I received him warmly. He wanted help with some important paperwork for the office. I helped. In thanks, he gave me a bottle of excellent brandy.

We drank half together, and then, after he'd left, I enjoyed some alone. As alcohol often does, all my feelings took on an even more intense hue, so I loved my donkey. I loved him like hell, and I longed to see him. I fired.

He came running, my reliable friend. We looked at each other, and I poured myself glasses of liquor and toasted. When I noticed the donkey was tired, I decided to send him off kindly. I somehow managed to stagger to the air rifle, took it in my hand, and pulled the trigger.

I heard only a terrible wail, and saw my friend fleeing in panic. He was limping. It took me a moment to realize I'd put a pellet of shot right in his rump. Damn Wilcox and his brandy!

In the morning, despite my terrible hangover, the first thing I did was fire a volley to summon the donkey. He didn't come. Not that afternoon, nor the next day.

Truth be told, he never came again, but sometimes I still shoot into the air, hoping he might... And sometimes I think I hear that familiar "Iha, Iha!" in the distance.