A new fly shop opened in town, so on the first available Saturday morning, one too hot to fish, I visited to meet the owner, talk fish, and pick up some fly-tying groceries.

As I entered, I paused momentarily to let my eyes adjust from the glare outside.

A large black shape moved toward me, gave me a sniff and licked my hand. My improved vision identified it as a Lab and already I liked the fly-shop greeter. He had two legs up on the Wal-Mart greeters, though I will concede the Wal-Mart greeters have considerably better etiquette on where they stick their noses.

The proprietor rose from his fly-tying bench in the back and ambled forward, adjusting his glasses on his nose to look over the top.  He was a wiry guy, with grizzly hackle hair and beard and a firm handshake.

“Howdy, I’m Spyder.”

A spider in a fly shop.

I quickly realized that the next thing into my mind was not something that should enter my mouth. I wanted to ask, “Were you tying back there or just whipping up a snack?”

You can never be too careful when you meet someone for the first time and they have a big dog.

Instead, I reverted to a safer question about the fishing and we were off on a journey of years and miles. It turned out that Spyder had lived out West for a while as I had. He’d been mostly fishing Montana and Wyoming, making an occasional trip into Colorado. I had mostly fished Colorado with brief excursions into Montana and Wyoming. Try as we may, we never found a match that put us on the same rivers in the same window of time.

As we wore out our opportunity list for having crossed paths, I went on with my shopping. To my credit, I stayed in the departments where I wouldn’t have to rely on credit. When I approached the counter, I had managed to escape with only hooks, thread, and some dubbing.

Spyder adjusted his glasses again to ring me up. The store was still so new that figuring out the cash register was taking him longer than reading new water.

While I waited, I tossed out one last question about Spyder’s travels.

“So what brought you here?” I asked.

“I got a job with law enforcement,” said Spyder. “I worked with the drug dogs.”

I took a quick glance at the Lab wondering if he had Special Ops training or just a winning smile.

“That’s funny,” I replied.  “I once gave a Lab pup to a trainer who worked with drug dogs. I even saw the pup on the evening news making a bust out on the interstate. I heard the dog had a long career with law enforcement.”

Spyder still had his attention on the cash register but had just about mastered it. Casually, he asked, “What was your pup’s name?”

“Chip.”

Spyder then looked up with the same expression my grandmother used to have when she fit the last piece into a four-day jigsaw puzzle.

“I knew Chip!” exclaimed Spyder.

Somehow, it seemed appropriate to meet a fisherman who had known my dog. Miles and years passed between us, but eventually the common link was found. It only proved for certain what I had suspected before my confidence was shaken. Two fishermen are never strangers, if for no other reason than they might both know the same dog.