When I was young, I was the right boy, who lived a measured, though strange, life. When there was temporarily no place in the MSU postgraduate community, I settled for a month to live in the Beijing hotel on the mud in a room with 7 fsb-shniks, healthy cockroaches, roasting all night with me.
In order to wake up, every morning I rushed to the Garden Ring with a heavy head, and when I finally exhaled, I was waiting for a prize – a ice cream kiosk and a well-known hole in the fence of the Moscow Zoo, through which you could get there for free. The first to the hole was a concrete volley with water and a large white bear. Envious of me and the ice cream, he got up on his back legs and started dancing. At first I was terribly uncomfortable – he weighed twenty times more than me and was standing one and a half meters higher. I don't know, maybe it was a retirement bear from the circus, or he was just bored at this early hour, but of course I threw him my eskimos, which at that time was exactly half.

But one day I thought about it and ate two-thirds of the Eskimo. The bear, seeing me from a distance, joyfully stood on his back legs and started dancing long before I approached. When he saw how much ice cream I had left on the stick, he stopped dancing and, in a purely human way, shrugged his hand from insult, and then moved away to the furthest corner of the volley.
From shock, he even forgot to move on four limbs – so he went on two...