When I lived at 95 Horatio Street in Manhattan, my habit was to walk
for a half hour after dinner. One evening, I ran into a middle-aged
man who was walking his black Labrador.
I said, "What's your Lab's name?"
He said, "Gabo, after Gabriel Garcia Marquez."
"He is a fine-looking animal. Do you get out of the city much to give
Gabo exercise?"
"Yes, my wife and I have a place in the country. Gabo loves the city
and the country. He loves the world."
For three months, it seemed the man and I were on the same schedule.
Two or three times a week I met the man and Gabo on my walk. Without
exception, we talked only about his dog. After a while, when I asked
about Gabo, I noticed an expression of puzzlement on
the man's face. I didn't know the man well enough to ask what was
behind the expression.
Then I moved away from Horatio Street to Wall Street and never saw the
man or Gabo again. In my new neighborhood, I was browsing in a
bookstore, looking at novels. I saw a book by Pete Hamill and read the
blurbs on the book jacket. Then I saw the photograph of the author.
Pete Hamill was the man who walked the black Labrador.
