David Drayer's Blog

It is somewhere around 10:00 at night and I am sitting on a wet bench in the middle of an old growth forest inside of Lily Dale known as the Leolyn Woods. A heavy layer of clouds block the light of the moon and stars; the only sound is that of the occasional raindrop falling through trees. This is the last stop on the ghost walk, and at the request of our tour guides, we have shut off our flashlights and phones. It is so dark that I can’t see the two dozen or so others sitting around me. I can’t hear them either as we are supposed to be meditating. We are at spot where spiritual contact regularly occurs and are encouraged, if we wish, to silently invite a deceased loved one to make their presence known.

I’m not convinced that such a thing is possible, but the unknown is so vast that I’m not ruling it out. This is the kind of strange and interesting event I was expecting to experience when I arrived, and for the past seven hours, I have not been disappointed. What I was not expecting was the tranquility of the place. Even sitting here in the middle of a dark forest asking the dead to speak doesn’t feel as creepy as it should. Residents and visitors are friendly, easy to talk to. Earlier, I met a retired couple who came from Seattle in a motor home, a group of college girls on a road trip from Alfred University, and a woman who makes the trip from New Jersey ever year.

Like the best ghost walks, this one has been more of a history lesson than anything else. The two-hour walk from one end of Lily Dale to the other has covered its evolution from a camp where freethinkers and Spiritualists gathered to its incorporation in 1879 and its current status as one of the largest Spiritualist communities in the world. Also noted were the many famous people who visited here, including Susan B. Anthony, whose radical notion that men and women were equal found an audience here. She spoke several times in Lily Dale, applauding Spiritualism as one of the only religious groups that practiced equality.

That’s not to say that some of the history here didn’t send a chill down my spine. For example, the “precipitated spirit paintings” displayed throughout Lily Dale are said to have appeared on canvases during séances, without a paintbrush or the touch of a human hand. One on the strangest events of the evening occurred where the cottage of the Fox sisters used to stand. (The alleged communication between the young Fox girls and the spirit of a murdered peddler caused a nationwide stir in 1848. Their cottage was later moved here from Hydesville, NY, where it stood until it burned to the ground in 1955.) Anyway, the woman next to me took a picture, then nudged me and whispered, “Am I crazy or is there some weird about this picture.” I looked at the screen and didn’t see anything at first, then noticed what appeared to be the image of a human skull in the darkness just behind the tour guide. “That’s what I thought,” she said and asked our guide to have a look.

He saw it too as did a few others who gathered around for a look. Some were convinced it was a skull, others waved it off as merely a light cast by the flash of another camera and the product of the collective imagination of a group of people on a ghost walk.

The silence of the dark forest is broken by a voice–one of the tour guides–asking if anyone experienced anything during the mediation that they would like to share. Out of respect for the privacy of those who spoke up, I won’t give specific details here, but I can say that one person claims to have felt the touch of his late wife and two others say they received a message, one from a father, the other from a friend.

The flashlights and phones come back on. We are all thanked for attending and reminded of the outdoor services that will be held here tomorrow where mediums will be on hand to relay messages from beyond to those in attendance. Then, we all head out of the woods and back to our rooms or campsites. Some people are quiet and some are chatty. I walk with a small group of people also staying at the Maplewood and we end up hanging out on the porch for a while, talking, laughing, most expressing wonder at what they saw and heard while a few express their doubts.

I wake the next morning to a bright and warm day that promises to be excellent riding weather. If the Maplewood is haunted, I need to sleep in haunted hotels more often because despite a small, lumpy bed, I slept better than I have in months. I go in search of breakfast and lay my jacket in the sun to dry.

Riding out of out of Lily Dale in the early afternoon, I am not sure what to make of my short visit, but I’m glad I came and will undoubtedly be turning it over in my mind for a while. As for where the road is taking me next, I am heading north, thinking Buffalo or Niagara Falls when I pass a vineyard. The smell of grapes baking in the sun gives me a better idea and I start heading east … for the Finger Lakes.

They say “getting there is half the fun” and on a motorcycle, it is typically a lot more than half. But today isn’t typical. An un-forecasted rainstorm has me stranded (unpleasantly) in Pleasantville, Pennsylvania on my way to Lily Dale, New York, also known as “the town that talks to the dead.”

I first heard of Lily Dale a few years ago when I was living in DC and dating a woman who was into the paranormal. I was intrigued to learn that the small, upstate community has been attracting people attempting to contact the other side for more than 150 years. A New York Times article referred to it as a place that draws the “intellectually curious and the emotionally vulnerable,” summoning “visionaries and fools” hoping to commune with the dead. While I have no burning desire to chat with the departed and wouldn’t call myself a visionary or a fool, I am definitely curious.

On second thought, maybe I am a fool, sitting here at a diner in Pleasantville, soaking wet, nursing a fourth cup of coffee, and watching the rain assault my motorcycle. The storm hit about six or seven miles from here, just outside of Tionesta on a stretch of road that offered no shelter, not even a decent place to pull off. This was particularly annoying because I always carry raingear on extended trips but the storm came up so suddenly that I was soaked before I could get to it.

I check the forecast between here and Lily Dale on my laptop for the umpteenth time and is it still vague, saying basically, that it may continue to rain throughout the day…and then again, it may not continue to rain throughout the day. The logical thing to do in this situation is call the trip off, head for home, and reschedule. However, the main attractions in Lily Dale are seasonal and that season ends in the next two days. Rescheduling means waiting until next year, which I’d rather not do.

Outside, the downpour has dwindled to a light rain but doesn’t look like it is going to stop anytime soon. If this were a bar instead of a diner, I’d be tempted to order a few fingers of Jameson, find a nearby motel, and call it a day. But since it is not a bar and the rain has slowed down enough to make riding possible, I am going to continue heading north.

The rain stops by the time I cross the New York state line. It stays away until I am a half-hour from my destination and another downpour forces me into another diner.

I finally pull up to Lily Dale’s gated entrance  much later than expected and with a good-sized headache, but thankful to have made it in one piece. The girl in the booth explains the daily and weekly passes while I locate my wallet under the rain suit. It’s still sodden with the morning’s storm and I hand her two soggy bills—a 5 and a 10—for a 24-hour pass. She hesitates and I say, “It’s just rain. Not sweat or anything disgusting.” She takes the bills gingerly and we both start to laugh.

Cruising up and down the quiet streets, I pass some grand Victorian houses, but the majority of the residents live in small, modest homes, many sporting a colorful shingle in the front yard with the name and phone number of the medium or spiritual advisor who lives there. There are community buildings, a church, a museum, a gift shop, a café, a couple of parks, and a nice view of Cassadaga Lake.

From my research, I recognize a Victorian style building with a dozen rocking chairs lining its front porch as the Maplewood Hotel, which first opened its doors in 1880 and is allegedly haunted. I stop to see if I can get a room. The floor boards creak under my boots. I can feel the history of the place; it is like walking into another time. “You look like you could use a room,” a woman with long, gray hair says as I approach the front desk.

“And a hot shower,” I add. She says she can’t help me with that as there are only bathtubs available. “That will work,” I say and she gives me the lowdown on the hotel like she is trying to get the bad news out of the way first. Many of the rooms share a bathroom and there is no air conditioning, no elevator, no television, and the nearest access to laundry facilities are in the next town over. I am low-maintenance by nature and even after the grueling ride here, I’m more interested in old world charm than the standard creature comforts. I do, however, prefer a private bath and manage to get one. She tells me to come to the front desk if I need anything—no phones here either—and hands me a key, a map of Lily Dale, and points out a dry erase board that lists the events for the rest of the day and evening. I don’t know what a “Thought Exchange” is but it sounds worth checking out as does the “Ghost Walk” which will be held after dark.

My 3rd floor room is small for a double, but plenty for me. Before I even unpack, I start filling the claw foot tub with hot water and get out of my wet clothes. Each of the twin beds has a white bath towel fashioned into the shape of … I’m going to guess a rabbit … leaning against the headboard, holding a washrag and a travel-sized bar of soap. The bath feels good, encouraging my muscles to relax, the headache to lift, and my eyelids to get heavy.

The temperature is hovering around 45 degrees this morning with a projected high of 50 and the roads are wet from an all-night rain. Conventional wisdom would say this is not a motorcycle day despite the fact that I really need one. I have to write and submit a newspaper article by 5:00 this afternoon and all of my ideas seem to have gone to sleep or disappeared entirely. One of the beauties of freelancing is having the freedom to do whatever you need to do to jumpstart your brain and get things flowing again. For me, a motorcycle ride usually does the trick.

So low temperatures, wet roads and conventional wisdom be damned. I put on an extra layer of clothes, gather up some basic writing materials, towel off the bike, and head out. It is cold though, and the roads are just slippery enough to make the bike feel unsteady. I need to get in sync with motorcycle, relax into the ride.

I focus on the thrumming of the engine and the interplay between what I am doing physically and how the bike responds. In any conditions, the physics involved in riding a motorcycle is fascinating. At least as far as I as I can follow, which is only enough to appreciate it and ignite my imagination. I start to envision myself at one with the bike. The wind goes from icy to invigorating. I can feel the twists and turns in my gut, the tires gripping the road.

About an hour into the ride, I am in the midst of the motorcycle high I was looking for, and as if on cue, the sun overpowers the clouds and the temperature taps up a few degrees higher than expected.

It doesn’t always work like this, but it works today. The ideas I had for the article reappear in my mind and are wide awake now, ready to party. I start looking for the right place to stop, set up my computer, and take another crack at the article. I know the spot the minute I see it.

Oh yeah, this will work just fine.

By the way, I’d like to give a shout out to those of you who wrote me at daviddrayer.com telling me that you missed the motorcycle trip posts this year. A flexible schedule and excellent weather made 2016 the best motorcycle-riding year of my life and I had every intention of posting some of my trips but somehow never got around to it.

I will go back through my journals and my pictures and see if I can put a couple together for you over the next week or two. So thanks for reaching out … and stay tuned!

Hey! Good news! Digital copies of my novel, A Noble Story, are FREE right now on Amazon and will remain so until this Sunday, April, 10th.

I am excited to share this with you because the idea for the novel came to me on the weekend motorcycle trips I write about here, and this blog greatly influenced the style and narrative voice of the book.

As soon as the weather warms up, I will be out on the next adventure. Until then, help yourself to a free copy of A Noble Story and extend the offer to all of your friends.

Enjoy!

My novella—Attachment—is being released today and I want to celebrate by hopping on the bike and getting lost in that state of mind motorcyclists live for, that feeling of freedom, that fusion of excitement and tranquility. However, it’s freezing in the small, western Pennsylvania town where I am currently holed up and my bike is in storage until April.

So…the next best thing to an open-ended bike ride—believe it or not—is an open-ended hike and this time of year is as good as any to go. There is no shortage of woods and trials around here to lose myself in. I choose one that travels along what used to be the old Allegheny Valley Railroad founded in the 1850s. The train tracks are long gone, but the hiking trail follows its course alongside the Redbank Creek, featuring several tunnels and winding thorough 41 miles of forest, small towns, and villages in Armstrong, Clarion, and Jefferson counties.

I love the tunnels. They have this mysterious attraction. Especially when, like today, I am approaching one I’ve never been through before. I don’t know how long it is, what kind of shape it is in, or how far I will have to brave the darkness before seeing the light at the other end. Stepping inside, I can’t help but wonder what I’d do if I came upon something lurking inside…like a wounded, wild animal or a madman hiding out from the world.

This actually reminds me of the feeling I had when I sat down to write Attachment. The story of a man becoming possessed and steadily taken over by an angry disembodied spirit had been in my mind since the fall of 2012, but I avoided writing it. I told myself it was because the supernatural genre wasn’t my thing, that the tale would too long for a short story and too short for a novel, but the real reason I avoided it is because I know how deep I go into whatever world I write about and this one had the potential to be very dark.

I had almost forgotten about it when I started having nightmares a year ago. I could see the character of Paul very clearly in those creepy dreams. I don’t want to give anything away, but let’s just say he is not the kind of guy…or rather ghost…that is easily ignored. I knew I had to write the story then just like I have to walk through this dark tunnel now.

I barely slept during the time I wrote the early drafts and there were times when I felt like I do today as I get to that point in the middle of the tunnel where the light behind me disappears and I have yet to see any light at the other end.

But, as is often the case in life, I have found that if I keep moving forward, the light will appear and the story will unfold as it is supposed to.

After about 3 1/2 hours of walking, I am glad to see a little town ahead. Something tells me there is a hot meal and a cold beer or two in my future.

PS If you’re interested, you can read the first chapter of Attachment at daviddrayer.com for free. The digital version of it is currently on sale at Amazon for only .99 cents. Enjoy!

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01BJUCIUE

I arrive at Ricketts Glenn around 4:00 in the afternoon. The sky has turned dark and an ominous wind is kicking up. I have been on the bike for about six hours zig-zagging my way across the state. My plan of spending the last few hours of the day hiking is in danger of being rained out.

I am going to need a room for the night so I suppose I could skip the hike and go in search of a motel, but my phone has no signal here and something tells me there is nothing close by. Besides, getting back on the road under that sky would be crazier than setting out on a hike. Taking shelter under the pavilion at the edge of parking lot is the wisest move.

I stretch out muscles cramped from the hours on the bike and intend to wait out the storm, but the trail looks so inviting that I can’t resist starting down the path, telling myself I won’t go far. The forest is deep and dark and has an energy that I want to absorb. Or maybe it is absorbing me as I keep getting pulled in, further and further. I pass a family of five rushing in the opposite direction. “There’s a storm blowing in,” the father says to me. “You’re going to want to turn around and get back to the parking lot.”

While that is probably what I should do, it is the last thing I want to do. So I keep going…

Every time I am about to turn around, I come to another stunning waterfall or a picture I can’t resist walking into. This is one of the most beautiful parks I have ever been to and I am absolutely high on the splendor of it.

A tremendous crack of thunder echoes through the dark woods. I hear the rain hitting the leaves overhead before I feel it and then it is hissing all around me, drenching me along with everything else. Getting wet isn’t the bad part though. The bad part is that the rocks that line the often steep slopes were once in the creek bed and in the rain, they become very slippery.

I find a huge overhanging rock and take shelter there. Watching the storm, I fish out the notebook that I always carry in my back pocket and write down notes from the day.

Occasionally, a small group of hikers braving the rain come by, slipping and sliding, scaling up the trail, their clothes hanging heavy and wet, their hair, plastered to their heads. For the most part, they seem to take it in stride, accepting it as part of the experience. Most don’t notice me sitting cross-legged under the over-hang, out of the rain, writing in my notebook. The ones that do sort of startle and then pretend they saw me all along. I usually wave and they usually wave back. One girl, college-aged, shouts, “Are you drawing in that book?”

“Writing,” I shout back.

She smiles and nods. “Perfect place to do it.”

After about a half-hour, the rain stops and I continue on the trail, seeing one waterfall after the other. The late afternoon sun returns then making everything shimmer.

It’s midmorning and I’m on the motorcycle heading east through Cook Forest in northwestern Pennsylvania. The air is alive with one of my favorite summer smells, a combination of sun-baked pine trees, the river, and wood smoke lingering from last night’s campfires. I just finished the first draft of a novella and hopped on the bike both to celebrate and to forget about the story for a while. Between doing research, getting to know the characters, and writing the narrative, it has consumed my thoughts for the past…I don’t know how many weeks…and I need to let go of it for a bit, think about other things, other stories I want to write.

Already the day is hot and I appreciate the sections of the road where the trees keep pockets of air so cold that they cause a prickle of chills to shoot up my arms and down my back. The saddlebags are packed for a trip of two or three days, but I can stretch it out longer if I want. As usual, I have no specific destination in mind. I pass a bar in Sigel that looks vaguely familiar. Then, I remember dancing there a couple of years ago with an ex-girlfriend from DC. My sister and brother-in-law had taken us there on a visit to western PA. We had a blast, I remember, the four of us dancing until they started shutting off the lights.

I am near Clear Creek and am reminded of a spot I wanted to visit in this area call Beartown Rocks. An acquaintance who reads my blog and column had recommended it. I stop at a ranger station for directions and find I am only a few miles away. It is supposedly a jumble of rocks as big as houses created by the glacier. I park the motorcycle and spend the next while walking through them. They are amazing!

I continue east, avoiding highways, zig-zaging my way through forests and small towns. Even though my saddlebags are too full to carry anything else, I can’t resist stopping at a roadside stand selling homegrown vegetables. They have cucumbers, tomatoes, corn, zucchini, and peppers. I buy a handful of cherry tomatoes and an ice cold bottle of water and take them to a shady spot where I can consult the map and see where I am.

The tomatoes taste like summer, slightly tangy, almost sweet. I dig out the map and find that I am a couple hours away from another place I have heard about. Ricketts Glen State Park is in Luzerne County and is supposed to have 24 named waterfalls ranging in size from 9 to 94 feet.

So I guess that’s where I’m heading next.

Check back tomorrow and I’ll tell you what I find.

It is strange how these trips often take on a certain motif without my directing it. Yesterday, for example, it was impossible not to be aware of the dictating forces of nature as I was “Dodging Downpours” and witnessing examples of the power of nature, whether it was how a tornado brought down the great Kinzua Bridge or how a wall of water pushed aside a concrete dam and wiped out a town.

Today, the theme seems to be…ghosts.

It started when I arrived in Coudersport. I’d once read of a hotel where Eliot Ness was said to have written The Untouchables. How he got from the mean streets of Chicago during the Prohibition era to this quaint, little town in north, central Pennsylvania a couple decades later, I had no clue, but I figured if the place was still in business, I’d grab a beer and a bite to eat there. I parked the on Main Street and was stopped by this amazing looking place:

If ever a house looked like it should be haunted, this would be it. I found out it has been long abandoned and unless someone with the means to restore it comes along pretty soon, its days are numbered, which would be a shame. Built in the late 1870s as the dream home of a wealthy business man, it has had many incarnations since. And yes, there is a ghost story. In 1928, it became the Old Hickory Tavern and—according to local lore—a young man was shot there in a barroom brawl and carried upstairs where he later died. Over the many decades since, people claim to have seen a young man standing at the upstairs window gazing out into the night.

Also on Main Street, I found the Hotel Crittenden and lunch. Eliot Ness did indeed move to Coudersport and supposedly did like to drink at the bar and tell stories of his glory days as a Prohibition agent in Chicago. With a lot of help from a sports writer named Oscar Fraley, he did write much of his memoir at a corner table in what is now the restaurant.

I tried to get a room for the night there but they were renovating the hotel part of the building so I was back on the road where I encountered an even bigger ghost story a few towns away in Smethport.

I stopped off at the Old Jail Museum where for five bucks, I got a guided tour of the oldest public building in town. Built in 1872 and used as a jail until 1990, the place is packed with local history, original artifacts from the Civil War, and memorabilia of the area’s lumber, oil, and railroad past. For anyone interested in history, this is well worth the time.

But back to the ghost story…

It is well documented that 11 men were hung on the third floor of the jail. The most famous was a man by the name of Ralph Crossmire, who was hung for the murder of his mother in 1893. Crossmire swore he was innocent to the very end and as they led him to his death, he swore if they carried out the hanging, he would return and haunt the jail. Within days after his death—and countless times over the years since—inmates and guards claimed to have seen Crossmire’s ghost. Even today, visitors and workers at the museum have made similar claims.

While the 3rd floor is not yet open to the public, the dungeon is. Massive stones make up eight cold, damp, dark rooms where a prisoner was confined as a form of punishment. My tour guide stayed in the door way as I wandered through the area. “I don’t even like to think of what it must have been like when they locked the door,” she said, “and shut off the lights.”

By the time I left the museum, another storm was moving in. Dark clouds filled the review mirror, but there was a patch of blue sky off in the distance in the direction I was headed. I focused on that and made a run for it.

Unintentional selfie

Dodging downpours and riding between thunderstorms isn’t ideal, but it beats waiting for inspiration and a stretch of good weather. I was patient all through May and now, with June three-quarters over, I’m done waiting. I’m on the road, taking my chances, winding through the lush Allegheny National Forest in northwestern Pennsylvania.

I grew up not far here, but haven’t traveled these roads in years and forgot about all of the logging trucks, tractor trailers, and tankers that travel these routes. They whip past, jolting the motorcycle and hitting me with a wave of hot, gritty air. As soon as possible, I switch to smaller roads, the kind with steep hills and tight turns that truckers tend to avoid.

I can’t go through this part of the country without visiting Cook Forest. I was here several times as a boy and revisiting it now is like rereading a great book. It’s even better with time, comfortably familiar and yet, somehow new again.

Continuing north, I also stop off at the Kinzua Bridge. It is a testament to both man’s ingenuity and nature’s final word. When it was built in 1882, it was the tallest railroad bridge in the world. At 301 feet, it was higher than the Brooklyn Bridge. Even more amazing, they rebuilt it in 1900, concurrently taking it apart and putting it back together replacing the iron with steel so it could handle more weight. The new six and a half million pound structure was operational for over a hundred years. Then a tornado whipped through in 2003 and in a matter of seconds, did this:

The cost of rebuilding wouldn’t be a profitable venture in today’s world so it’s been turned it into a visitor’s park. Part of the structure still stands and has been rebuilt to include a glass skywalk. My pictures don’t do it justice; it’s worth seeing in person.

Speaking of the power of nature, after zig-zagging another couple of hours eastward, I come across the remains of the Austin Dam in Potter County. After splashing back a rough, muddy road, I reach a memorial park with pictures from before and after the dam’s collapse. There is also literature telling its history, including how it failed on September 30, 1911, wiping out the town of Austin and drowning 78 people.

One of the stories I read is about a woman named Cora Brooks, who was a bit of an outcast in Austin because she ran a brothel. Her home was on a hill nearby and she was one of the very first to see the dam break. She called the switchboard operators in town urging them to sound the alarms and tell everyone to run to higher ground immediately. Her message got through and she is credited with saving hundreds of lives.

With the wind picking up and the sky turning black, it doesn’t look like I am going to be going anywhere for a while so I pull the bike under a pavilion and get comfortable on top of a picnic table. A few minutes later, the sky opens up and rain pounds the roof of the pavilion.

I take the notepad out of my back pocket and give myself a reminder to do some research on Cora Brooks when I get home. I also jot down other thoughts and images of the day, looking for something I can spin into a future short story, a column, or an article.

Looking at the ruined dam in the pouring rain, it’s not hard to imagine what happened here on the last day of September in 1911.

���Spontaneity is a meticulously prepared art.���

Oscar Wilde said that and I agree. As a guy who has lit out on a days-long motorcycle trip because I couldn���t sleep, jumped on a moving train to see where it was going, moved to a new city without ever having seen it, and done all sorts of crazy things for love, I know a thing or two about spontaneity.

As a reader of this blog, you know the destination of my motorcycle trips are always unplanned and while that sometimes lands me in some very unpleasant circumstances, most of the time, it leads me on adventures far more wonderful and interesting than anything I could have designed.

So, for the past week, I have been laying the ground work for my impulsive nature. After spending the winter in hibernation, my motorcycle is now shined up, tuned up, inspected, insured, and ready to roll. I turned in all of my reward points from credit cards and hotels for gift cards that will go a long way in feeding and sheltering me on the road. I���ve filled the tank, pulled the leather out of storage, and packed the saddle bags for when spring is serious about staying around, and I am unable to resist heading out for wherever the road leads.

Speaking of adventure, there���s been plenty since I last wrote here five months ago. After publishing my 3rd novel, A Noble Story, I said goodbye to DC. I had five productive years there, worked for some ground-breaking companies, and met some good people I will never forget. I put everything I owned in storage, hopped on my motorcycle, said my goodbyes, and took off. I wound my way through five states of country roads and blogged about some of that journey in my last two entries here. By the time the snow was flying and it was way too cold to keep riding, I���d made my way back to the small town in western Pennsylvania where I was born and raised.

After enjoying the holidays with my family, I decided to stay for a while, rented a little apartment that I have turned into a decent writer���s cave, and got a gig writing a column���Tales of a Wayward Son���for a local newspaper.

From time to time, I will include a column here on Drayer���s Notebook. To kick things off, I will start with one���written tongue firmly in cheek���about the challenges of dating in 2015.

That���s it for now. If you want to say hello, you can reach me via my website: Daviddrayer.com.

Enjoy!

The following was first published in The Leader-Vindicator out of New Bethlehem, PA on March 19, 2015.

Tales of a Wayward Son

Love Bites

Romance is going to the dogs. Literally.

I like dogs and they tend to like me too, but they are at the center of a disturbing trend that is seriously cramping my style. Every woman I have gone out with during the past few years has had a big dog in her life that made dating very difficult. I could tell you dozens of stories, but in the interest of time, I will only tell you the most recent one. Krissy (not her real name) and I met at the party of a mutual friend. She was intelligent, beautiful, and we had a lot of the same interests. I asked her out and things were going great until I met the other important guy in her life, Booger. Right off, I didn���t like his name, but that wasn���t his fault. He was a huge, hairy mutt who loved everyone���except other dogs who he tried to kill���and he absolutely adored Krissy, who absolutely adored him right back.

We lasted three months.

Our final day together was a sunny Saturday this past October. We���d planned a walk around the city and I���d arrived at her place with a bouquet of sunflowers. I anticipated us strolling around Old Town, hand in hand, talking and laughing easily, stopping at a little caf��, browsing novelty shops, going wherever the day took us.

However, I���d foolishly forgotten about Booger.

While Krissy put the flowers in a vase, I loaded the fireplace with wood for later that evening. I joined her in the kitchen and was about to kiss her when she yelled, ���Booger! Wanna go walkie? Booger wanna walkie?���

There was a thundering sound from the far end of the house as the ninety pound dog raced through the living room and down the hall. He burst into the kitchen, skidded across the tile floor, and slammed into the table. The vase of sunflowers crashed to the floor.

Krissy is a well-educated woman with an impressive vocabulary that went out the window when Booger was around. ���Bad Boogie! Bad, bad!���

The dog whimpered, ashamed, but still it did not dampen his enthusiasm. He was overjoyed, wide-eyed, shaking with excitement. Krissy forgot about the flowers and asked, ���You wanna go?���

Oh, did he ever! He began howling and spinning in circles. ���Go get your leash!��� she laughed, matching his excitement, shaking her head and hands wildly, making funny faces. ���Go on! Go get it! Go!���

He exploded out of the kitchen, rumbling through the house as we knelt to clean up the mess. She looked at me, narrowed her eyes, and said, ���What���s the matter?���

���Nothing. I was picturing,��� I stammered, ���a romantic walk���you know���just the two of us.���

Booger tore back into the kitchen, sliding across the floor again, panting and drooling, the leash clutched tightly in his mouth. With his tail going uncontrollably, he looked at us as if we were the most wonderful human beings on the planet and he was the luckiest dog ever.

Still on our knees, we were eye level with Booger and Krissy said to him in a deeply disappointed voice, ���Boogie stay home. No walkie.��� The dog���s eyebrows twitched up and down like he didn���t understand and the manic wagging of his tail began to slow. ���No walkie. No!���

A whine escaped the dog and the leash fell from his mouth with a heartbreaking clatter.

I couldn���t take it. ���No,��� I said. ���He can go. Of course, he can go.���

She glared at me. ���You say that now, but you���ll act all weird on the walk.���

���No,��� I said, ���I promise. He can go. I want him to go. Really.���

She turned to Booger then and whispered, ���You wanna go?���

The romantic walk I���d envisioned was doomed. With Booger tangling his leash around everything imaginable and continually jerking Krissy forward, it was impossible for us to carry on a conversation or even hold hands. The caf�� and novelty shops were out too because Booger suffered from separation anxiety and couldn���t be left alone outside. The beginning of the end came when she was cleaning up after him and he took the opportunity to break free and attack another big dog being walked by another pretty woman.

Krissy screamed, handed me the baggie she���d just filled, and ran after her beloved dog. She and the other woman managed to get the dogs separated, after which they exchanged unpleasantries, each blaming the other���s dog for the scuffle. When Krissy stormed back, she said I was acting weird like she knew I would. I denied this and we got into an argument right there. She informed me that she and Booger were going home alone and my invitation to spend the evening was revoked.

Watching them walk away while I stood there holding a bag of doggie waste, I imagined them cuddled up in front of the fire I���d prepared and knew I couldn���t compete with Booger. His schedule was completely in sync with hers. They never quarreled. He was ecstatic every time she walked through the door, was never grumpy, and he was trainable. Sure, he���d misbehave from time to time, but he���d be very ashamed of it, and his transgressions would never involve stealing a glance at another woman or staying out too late with the guys.

And doggone it, I couldn���t even be angry at him.