On the whole, people on Gabriola are pretty regular types. Many are artsy and creative. Some grow produce for market, others keep the island running with their shops or practices, and there are those that just enjoy their retirement. Then there are the free spirited kind that seemed exist on very little and drift from here to there. Sometimes they work, sometimes not; sometimes they just seem to enjoy what each day may bring.

I have an acquaintance that falls into that category, and although he frustrates me at times, he can also make pretty good company. I have absolutely no idea what he does for a living, and I often see him ambling down some road, seemingly happy in an aimless sort of way. I can only guess at his age but by the intelligent eyes and straight back I think he must be somewhere in his prime.

On most Sundays I try to make a good dinner with a roast and all the trimmings, and I often sit down to this feast all by myself. On one such morning, I picked up fixings for dinner and was about to pull out of the parking space when I saw 'Rumplestiltskins' checking out the dumpster.

I rolled down the window and said "Hey! Want to join me for dinner? Clean up and come over at 6pm, and bring something this time!" He's always happy to be invited over for a real dinner, and he has never arrived late. It's as if he catches the scent of roast beef when it's just cooked to perfection, and there he is at the front door.

Per usual, he hasn't cleaned up, bought no wine or flowers for me and that's the way it always is. I don't know where he lives, or if he even has the facilities to wash up, brush up, and at least cover the outdoor scent with a bath. Why do I keep inviting this guy into my home and to my table?

Still, scruffy and all he's good company, even if he isn't much of a conversationalist. I'm aware that other people on the island offer him help where they can, because despite his appearance he really is a loveable sort of guy and truly appreciates a gesture. To his credit, he likes my choice of dinner music, doesn't drain my bottle of wine but can guzzle a litre of water after his dinner.

As soon as he's consumed a man size plate of dinner he's scanning the counter for desert, and woofing that down too. Having satisfied his appetite for real food, he smiles, burps his appreciation and heads for the sofa in the living room. I don't mind sharing my Sunday dinner with this guy, but I never get an offer to help clean up. Maybe by licking his plate clean he thinks he's done his share. What this loveable character does next is to flop on the sofa, and fall asleep snoring in sheer contentment.

I can't bring myself to wake the loafer and toss him out of my house. Just the fact that he appreciates the comforts of home, and that he can be charming in his own way makes him welcome.

Dishes done and kitchen cleaned, I gaze fondly at that lazy loafer passed out on my sofa. Somehow I could never throw Sarge out. Instead, I pick up my plaid blanket, cover the both of us and sink into his furry coat. The musty scent of the great outdoors is comforting, and I am content to spend this perfect Sunday evening with my canine friend.

June 16, 2008