There is a tradesman (let's call him S) whom I visit on occasion – sometimes because I am passing and stop to say hello and play with his dog, sometimes because I commission him to make something for me, and mostly because I often collect discarded material from his trade for use in artwork.

Since I have known S, he has had two, maybe three dogs. I say "maybe three" because I formed bonds with two, but a third lingers in my memory like a ghost, perhaps because I had not known S sufficiently well then to have formed a relationship with any canine companion of his.

In the local "animal rescue world" where "securely fenced yards" are a prerequisite (for reasons that I would imagine are obvious), S would generally be overlooked as a potential adopter, because his property (where he lives and works) is unfenced and inches away from a road on which cars sometimes speed.

However, he is a great companion and caretaker for whichever dog he has at the time. He cooks for his dog, sits outside eating meals with his dog, works quietly, playing spiritual music while his dog lies nearby in the workshop or occupies him/herself just outside of the door. His dogs are free to roam, but do not go far. The most they might do is accompany women on that street home from work on evenings.

The first of his dogs that I met was a male pup, rescued by a Swede I know. She could not keep him and was grateful when S adopted him. I cannot recall his name at the moment – a Swedish word beginning with T.

T grew to be a handsome pothound stud – lithe and active, with a wonderful personality, welcoming to visitors, while still providing effective protection for his property, his human and the women he chaperoned on evenings.

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T was not neutered and would sometimes roam (although not far) when females were in heat. My offers to S to have him neutered were met with a polite chuckle of dismissal.

There were females to be "serviced," and let the dog "have his fun" – a common Tobago rationale.

"A man and his dog" would have been the caption, had someone taken a photo of those two best friends sitting outside under the tree on an evening, unwinding after a long day.

One day T disappeared. A devastated S informed me that a man (who had tried to befriend T whenever he strolled by) had been seen luring him away. Searches in the community were futile and the strange man and T were never seen again.

It took a while before S got another dog – Precious, an already-spayed female (rescued by a mutual friend)...small, compact, white with brown spots, with bulbous, intense orange eyes. The first time I met P, she ran to welcome me like an old friend.

"But look at how she welcoming you!" S had exclaimed. "That dog don't be like that with no one who come here."

Whenever I arrived there, Precious would run to meet me, then zoom around in wide circles before returning for affection. In order to avoid a fate similar to T's, S would never leave her outside alone. She woul