I raised the end of one of the blinds to see if the coast was clear. No, Pajama Man was out there.
It was our second winter in Naples, Florida. Our first had been spent in an Airbnb three or four blocks away. The woman who owned the house was a delightful host. She lived on the ground floor; her second floor, where we stayed, had been converted into a two-bedroom Airbnb apartment.
We were hopeful of returning, but she didn’t allow pets. At the time I contacted her, we didn’t have a dog, but we certainly anticipated that we would. No, she wouldn’t allow pets; one of her regulars was highly allergic and the host had committed to a no pets policy for the regular guest’s sake. Hard to argue with that; in fact, it was admirable.
In retrospect, it’s best that we didn’t stay there. Being on the second floor would have required us to bring the dog down every time it needed to go out. Now I certainly could benefit by a few extra trips up and down a flight of stairs, but considering the physical arrangement, we decided it would be awkward to be entering and leaving her house with greater frequency. We realized further that we had felt a little awkward when it was just us, without a dog, though the host never did or said anything to make us feel that way.
We found a duplex for our second year. It was a one-bedroom, and the floor was tile throughout. A washer and dryer were conveniently located between the units, we were located on a canal with a sizeable deck, and we had access to the saltwater pool in the small complex next to us.
By the time we arrived we had not one, but two dogs. One was a not-quite-three-year-old Miniature Australian Shepherd named Lexi, a rescue dog with a severe case of PTSD. Poor thing had an acute distrust of people because of the abuse she had suffered. We enlisted the aid – not kidding – of a “dog whisperer.” We also consulted with a veterinarian who specialized in animal psychology and behavior. Lexi was on a daily dose of Paxil, plus Clonidine and Trazadone as needed.
The second dog was a three-month-old bundle of energy and fur named Bear II, a Keeshond. During our married life we have rescued four Keeshonds and one Lab/Border Collie mix. Bear II was the first dog we ever bought. We loved the Keeshond breed, but despite searching for more than a year, we couldn’t find a rescue. After more searching, we found a breeder and bought Bear II, or Bear for short.
The duplex should have worked for us, but it didn’t. It quickly seemed too small. Despite being kenneled at night, between a puppy and an Aussie with PTSD, they would wake me. After boarding them one night, we decided to let them sleep in the truck. Neither had an accident; and if they didn’t sleep through the night, I didn’t hear them. I would, however, hear them in the morning when I was waking, and they wanted up and out. I think they set their alarm clocks!
That brings us back to Pajama Man. He and his wife were staying the small complex adjacent to our duplex. They had two dogs, one of whom was coincidentally named Lexi. I had visited with Pajama Man several times – extremely nice. He even understood and tolerated our Lexi’s sometime aggressive behavior toward his and other dogs. Honestly, just a nice guy – one I would have enjoyed knowing better if our time in Naples were longer.
He came to be referred to as Pajama Man because of behavior I thought was a little quirky. When he would walk the dogs first thing in the morning, he wore his pajamas and a robe, sort of a formal pajama and robe look like you might have seen in old TV shows: “Ozzie & Harriett,” “My Three Sons,” “Father Knows Best,” and so on. I didn’t know the guy’s name, yet I needed something to refer to him, so he became Pajama Man. It wasn’t disrespectful, just distinctive.
While I enjoyed our brief conversations, I didn’t like the chaos that would likely occur if I was outside first thing in the morning while he also was out with his dog (for some reason he tended to walk them one at a time). Thus, I would peek out the window to see if he was out there.
The process worked well until one morning when I heard Lexi in our truck barking like a crazy dog (which in some ways she was!). I also heard Pajama Man frantically calling out “Lexi! Lexi!” As I ran out in the sleep shorts and t-shirt the constituted my pajamas, I discovered that the ruckus did not involve our Lexi other than that she was barking because his Lexi had gotten loose and ran by our truck.
Pajama Man was in full panic mode. He would alternate between frantic calls for Lexi and frightened statements about what his wife would do if he didn’t find Lexi: “She’ll kill me! She’s going to kill me if I’ve lost Lexi!” “Lexi! Lexi!” he would call.
I tried to assuage his fear. “Look, she couldn’t have gone far and there’s no major street in this direction. I’ll help you look. We’ll find her.” We did.
I don’t know why, but the experience caused me to somehow feel closer to Pajama Man. I don’t know if it was rushing to his aid in a time of crisis for him, the fact that we had been searching the neighborhood in our pajamas, or what. But a couple days later, I had the opportunity to visit with him as we were floating around in the saltwater pool.
He is a successful entrepreneur who was in his mid-seventies, both of which surprised me. He had essentially transferred his first business to his son when he decided to cut back and move to South Carolina to be closer to his wife’s family. He was still running his second business but was turning over more of the operating responsibilities to his employees so he could spend more time with his wife who was struggling with a form of cancer that was not getting better. It was his wife who had chosen to get Lexi, which was the underlying source of his fear when Lexi ran off, that his wife would be heartbroken, not mad at him.
That conversation in the pool helped me understand him so much better. I could relate to him in more meaningful ways. Like him, I had owned a business. Like him, I had lived through a major health issue with my wife. For some unknown reason, I am slow to open-up in meaningful conversations with people; yet, every time I do, I experience a greater sense of humanity, that we’re all on journeys of existence and sometimes they parallel each other. Lessons exist in understanding the separate actions on parallel journeys, and deep understanding grows from the uniqueness in our journeys.
I learned a valuable lesson from Pajama Man – that it’s okay to be yourself. I don’t know if he ever considered that others might think it a little odd for him to walk the dogs every morning wearing his pajamas and robe; but that was simply him. He wasn’t trying to garner attention. He simply was walking the dogs before he took care of himself – showering, dressing, or whatever other activities prepared him for the day.
I’m not suggesting that each of us can act in self-indulgent ways that trample on others in the name of living out our individual ways – we must, after all, exist in a respectful society – but I learned that it’s okay to live out aspects of our individuality. And, yes, I now feel free to take out the dogs and trash in my robe and whatever “pajamas” I’m wearing; and I extend friendly greetings to neighbors out for a morning walk and to those driving past on their way to work. More importantly, though, is that I’m more comfortable with not quite fitting the tight parameters of behavior I imposed on myself. And I also appreciate and respect those little expressions and actions – those little quirks – of others that I see and meet.
Maybe some people just aren’t meant to be in our lives forever. Maybe some people are just passing through. It’s like some people just come through our lives to bring us something: a gift, a blessing, a lesson we need to learn. And that’s why they’re here. You’ll have that gift forever.
Danielle Steele
Mike's Fountain Pen 
You’re hitting your stride as a writer my friend. I not only heard wh
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What a wonderful story I lived with you. Yes Pajama Man taught us wonderful lessons! He will forever be in our hearts.
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