Gripping stranger #1: Golden Boy

I often see you loping across the Burrard Bridge in the morning, a golden retriever of a man tastefully attired in seasonally-appropriate business casual clothing, your brown leather messenger bag ostensibly filled by a nutritious yet tasty lunch hanging just so below your right hip. You'll carry a dapper umbrella on rainy days, a light sporting jacket on warmer ones. Always with your head slightly tilted to the side with the seeds of a wide, easy smile about to burst across your face, I look to you for inspriation. You represent to me the possibility of a better, more optimistic world, unburdened by the angst and melencholy of people like me. I picture you as the beautiful child in every elementary school's dream class who wins the hearts of female teachers because of your demure intelligence, while maintaining the admiration of boys because of your athleticism and sense of adventure. I want to shake your hand and congratulate you for a job well done. I was never sure if you recognized me but I would always be pleased to see you, happily walking across the bridge from your West End apartment, a shiny contrast to bleary-eyed, dishevelled me. Then I saw you in person today and everything changed. You were sitting on a bench by yourself in the middle of a cold, sunny Friday afternoon in English Bay, coffee in hand. You looked a little sad. I was coming home from a run and I think we recognized each other, but I didn't want to push it because you looked like you needed a rest, and maybe a hug. Proof again, I guess, that every dog has his day.