Missing a community member — and his dog

Without quite realizing it, we build peripheral communities in many different slices of our lives. 

Perhaps we begin to recognize certain cars each morning as we commute to work. We are happenstance "time buddies" with people whose names we will never know.

Or perhaps we smile and say hi to people we see routinely at the grocery store because we all happen to shop at 11 on Wednesday mornings.

I have a favorite little waterfront park that I visit many times a week. Some days, I go after work to chill and hang out before I go home. Other days, when I don't work, I go earlier in the day to force myself out of the house.

This park has been a regular destination for me for three or four years. And here, I have developed yet another closed community of anonymous regulars. I don't know any of their names but recognize them by vehicle and park deeds.

There are lovers who meet for lunchtime trysts; freelance renovators who fill the park's Dumpsters with their construction debris; daycare moms who pull up in minivans that dispense clown-car-like amounts of screaming children who all rush to the playground; the mechanics who work on car engines, replace brakes and change oil; the school bus drivers who cool their heels between runs; the delivery drivers who stop to use the portable toilets; and, perhaps most importantly, the regular dog walkers.

I hadn't really given any formal thought to this little community until I realized something was off; someone was missing.

No matter the month, no matter the weather, there is a man who walked an older, buff-colored cocker spaniel every day of the week between 4 and 5 in the afternoon. I'm assuming this was his routine every day; I can attest to him being there the four to five days a week I'm there. The dog was a gentle, slow, lumbering senior who took his sweet time checking out what seemed to be every square inch of the park. His owner patiently walked along behind him, never rushing the pup and allowing him to pursue all those enticing sights and smells, no matter how long it took.

I once told the human he was the most patient dog walker I had ever seen.

And then all of a sudden, I realized I hadn't seen them in a couple of days. Weather never keeps them away so I instantly worried about the man and his canine companion.

I'm even more worried now because I haven't seen them in a couple of weeks. I assume something happened to the dog and pray nothing happened to the man.

We exchanged a few comments over the many months we were park visitors but I don't know his name (though I would recognize his car). It breaks my heart I may never know what happened.

I can only hope that perhaps he's been on vacation and I soon see him and his dog back on their rounds. Worst case scenario, I hope I see him, when he's ready, walking a new pup.

And if I'm lucky enough to see him again, I'm going to formally introduce myself and let him know how worried I was about him.

I sure hope I get that chance. Because whether he realizes it, we're community.