Bob

Bob lives two houses down.  Each and every evening, like clockwork, he takes his dog, Sugah (yes, you read that right), on a walk, counter-clockwise, around the block.  You could set your watch to him.  Sometimes he wears an old Conoco-Phillips ballcap (I suspect he worked for Conoco before he retired some years back).  Sometimes he wears a fisherman-style hat, but usually only when it's raining.  He always wears a button-up plaid shirt tucked neatly into his jeans.

I first met Bob about two years ago, not long after we moved into the neighborhood.  It was almost dusk and we exchanged small talk for a while before he remarked he'd better hurry on home or his wife would worry that he'd forgotten where they lived.  "I think I've got that Alzheimer's, you know?" he casually remarked with a smirk, before saying goodnight.  Since then Harry and I have developed a casual relationship with Bob and his wife, Jo.  We wave, say hello, talk about the weather or the general state of the neighborhood - normal neighborly things, I suppose.

Tonight I was in the backyard on the deck and I looked out front and saw Bob and Sugah sitting out front on the curb.  Worried he had fallen or gotten lost, I walked around front to see what was up.  My wave and "hello" were met by a blank stare.  As I got closer, I said "hi" again and Bob said hello in exchange.  He said he was sitting down enjoying the nice cool breeze with his dog.  I was so glad to see he was alright.  We started chatting and I said hello to Sugah.

"How do you know my dog's name?" Bob said.  I was immediately alarmed by this.  Anyone who knows me knows I'm a dog person, so of course, I always say hi to Sugah when I see him (yes, him).  "Oh, well I've seen his nametag before, so of course I knew his name."  Bob seemed satisfied with this answer and said he figured the whole neighborhood knew Sugah.  He's probably right.  "So where do you live?" he asked.  Uh oh.  Panic rushed over me.  Did I need to go get Jo and tell her Bob was lost?  How could he not know me?  He was practically sitting in my front yard.  "I live right here.  I'm Harry's wife."  "Oh yeah," he said, "I'm sorry, it's so dark out here and it's getting harder for me to see.  I do know you.  And Harry.  I heard him banging on something with a hammer earlier."

I've never been happier to hear someone joke about Harry making noise.  I was so glad that Bob remembered us.  I assume the day will come when he won't, but that day is not today.

Harry told me I should write about Bob tonight.  His grandmother suffered from Alzheimer's.  She forgot her grandchildren and was convinced her husband was cheating on her, so she divorced him at 72 years of age after being together nearly 60 years.  After they were divorced, Harry's grandfather went to his ex-wife's house everyday to drink morning coffee with her.  He brought her mail to her everyday.  Until the day he died.  Like clockwork.  Like Bob and Sugah.

I guess the moral of the story is to appreciate the simple things in life.  A cup of coffee.  A good, long walk.  The feel of a cool breeze on your face. Your neighbors.