In Puerto Rico, many years ago near the Condado Lagoon, there lived a poor fisherman. He lived alone in a hut, and his only companion was his dog.
The fisherman and his dog were devoted to each other. They were often seen strolling on the white sandy beach or walking along the vine-tangled road to San Juan. However, there was one place where they were never seen together: the fisherman's boat. He never took the dog with him.
Yet, the dog was always by his master's side as the fisherman prepared his boat each morning. When the man sailed out to sea, the dog would scamper up to the high ridge separating the lagoon from the open ocean. There he would sit and watch all day, never moving until he saw the little boat return in the late afternoon. Then he would race back to shore to greet his master, and together they would set off for San Juan to sell the day's catch.
Years passed. The fisherman grew older, and so did his faithful dog. Still, the fisherman went to sea, and the dog kept watch from the ridge above the lagoon.
One September morning, as the fisherman was preparing his boat, the dog suddenly began to bark and howl. He circled his master and tugged at his trousers. The fisherman, having never seen his dog behave so strangely, patted its back, thinking it wanted to play. But the dog persisted. The fisherman laughed, gave the dog another pat, and then climbed into his boat and sailed away. The dog went to his watching place on the ridge, still barking and howling.
That morning, the sky was blue and the breeze was soft. Other fishing boats were also out. Suddenly, the breeze turned wild. The fisherman's boat was seized by the wind and whirled around. The sky darkened, and rain began to fall.
"It's a hurricane!" cried the fisherman. "A hurricane blowing onshore!" He thought of his dog at once. Had it left the ridge and run home? Or was it still sitting there? He tried to steer his boat toward the shore, but a great wave swept over him and tossed the boat away.
By dawn the next morning, the hurricane had passed. The sky was blue again, and the sea was eerily calm. As the sun rose, the families of the fishermen ran to the shore, watching and waiting for the boats to return. None came. Slowly, the people returned to their homes to grieve and begin rebuilding their lives. In their sorrow, no one thought of the fisherman's dog.
Several months later, a group of villagers gathering sea grapes noticed what looked like a dog sitting high on the ridge above the lagoon.
"Look," said one. "Isn't that the old fisherman's dog?"
"How could it be, after all this time?" replied another.
To settle the matter, the first man climbed the rugged, stony ridge. But when he reached the spot, he found only a rock—a rock shaped exactly like a dog. He hurried back down. Yet, when the people looked up again, they saw the stone dog clearly. Its head was held high, its body alert, as if ready to spring into the sea. It sat there on the ridge, waiting, waiting…
And there it sits to this day, for anyone to see.