The man came ambling down Park Street, snarling and growling the whole way. He was maybe in his 70s and he sneered, sputtered and scolded like he was having the worst day of his life.

In his hands he clutched a leash. Attached to the leash was a medium-sized dog that made no sound at all. It just kept walking a step ahead of its owner, smiling in that way dogs have.

The animal seemed perfectly well-behaved to me. Yet the man muttered and fussed as if addressing a troublesome child.

I know true love when I see it.

This older fellow may spout off at his pet the entire length of Park Street. But he’d surely snap off the arms – and without hesitation – of anyone who tried to take or harm his dog.

Dog walkers: I’ve made friends with several here over the years. Others I’ve only watched from a distance. They interact with their pets in a fascinating way. Some people have families to tend to or cars to show off. These people have their dogs. Some of them have very little else.

I know a homeless man who for years kept a pair of dogs with him. They’d seek shelter along the riverbank or in some unused basement. What little this man had in the world was shared with his pets, including food.

Times got even tougher. The man was forced to turn his pets over to a shelter while he sought to right himself. It never happened. Now, he writes me from wherever he lands, scrawling his thoughts on lined paper. He doesn’t lament the fright of the streets or the rumble of hunger. He just wants his dogs back.

Dog walkers: You get the feeling they could happily survive without any human interaction.

There was a gentleman who walked past the newspaper office every night with two small dogs on a leash. I talked to him dozens of times over the years but we never talked about the usual things. Not once did we discuss the weather or current events.

We talked about his dogs. What mischief they were up to the night before, what tricks they were learning or what health problems they suffered.

This fellow was short and stout. He spoke in rapid-fire sentences as if he could not keep up with his thoughts. He would speak to me for a while and then address the dogs, as if seeking confirmation from them on a certain point.

One day while I was standing in front of the newspaper, my friend came along, shuffling sadly. He was holding only one leash, walking only one dog. Both looked profoundly morose. In mourning.

The second dog had died, the man explained. His mouth quivered as he spoke. His eyes blurred with tears. True anguish, no doubt about it. He had lost a member of his small family.

While the surviving dog watched us from the sidewalk, my friend explained: His other pet had grown sicker and sicker in recent days. The animal was suffering. The logical and responsible choice was to have the dog put down.

I don’t remember the details, but an elaborate funeral was arranged. A service was conducted and the beloved dog was buried. A small monument marks the spot.

It wasn’t long after that my friend was bounding down the street again. He was holding two leashes and walking two dogs. Somewhere, he had found another pet, somewhat similar to the one that had passed.

My friend spoke with his rapid-fire style again, like a proud grandparent. His family was stable.

The dogs yapped and wrestled with each other as my friend told his story. He occasionally paused to scold them for their behavior. Had someone tried to take away his pets, this man would have snapped their arms like brittle tree branches.

I see the snarling and growling man and his well-mannered dog quite often. But it occurs to me that I haven’t seen my friend with two leashes in well over a year.

I wonder if he is well and if his two dogs are with him. I wonder if he was afflicted with health problems of his own. Mostly, I wonder if he has someone to watch over him in his declining years the way he watched over his beloved pets.

Mark LaFlamme is the Sun Journal crime reporter.

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