When I returned to the prison in the evening after the day’s work, worn out and exhausted, I was again overcome by terrible misery. “How many thousands of such days lie before me,” I thought, “all the same, all exactly alike!” As it grew dusk I sauntered up and down behind the prison by the fence, silent and alone, and suddenly I saw our Sharik running towards me. Sharik was the dog that belonged to our prison, just as there are dogs belonging to companies, batteries and squadrons. He had lived from time immemorial in the prison, he belonged to no one in particular, considering everyone his master, and he lived on scraps from the kitchen. He was a rather large mongrel, black with white spots, not very old, with intelligent eyes and a bushy tail. No one ever stroked him, no one took any notice of him. From the first day I stroked him and fed him with bread out of my hands. While I stroked him, he stood quietly, looking affectionately at me and gently wagging his tail as a sign of pleasure. Now after not seeing me for so long⁠—me, the only person who had for years thought of caressing him⁠—he ran about looking for me amongst all of them, and finding me behind the prison, ran to meet me, whining with delight.