If you're around Cleveland Circle between 10 a.m. and 6 p.m., there's a good chance you've seen him. He's walking the streets six days a week – come polar vortex or oppressive heat wave – with his blue bag and small can of pepper spray, just in case.

Bob is a mailman. And the stereotypes are pretty much true. Come rain, sleet, or snow – fending off neighborhood dogs – true. He has had the same route for the past 13 years looping up and back down Englewood and Orkney and Strathmoore and Beacon for 6 hours a day, munching on string cheese when he gets hungry. He has memorized people's names and apartment numbers the way a librarian knows exactly where a book belongs on which shelf. If you used to live here, he could probably tell you what your address used to be based off your name.

When was the last time you mailed a letter? Or received a handwritten card that someone like Bob might have delivered? A mailman striding through the neighborhood is a flesh and blood connection to our family and friends.

And he knows this neighborhood.

He used to chat daily with an older man who lived on Englewood Ave. When the man missed two days and the mail started to pile up, Bob got worried. He rang doorbells, and asked the neighbors if they'd seen him, but no one had. He called the local police and they got the fire department to break down the door. Sadly, the man had died in his room and Bob was the only one that knew to miss him.

Would Google check up on you if you didn’t open your e-mail?

Bob is a presence that the neighbors have grown to trust. As if on cue, a man slows his car down and leans out the window. He’s back from vacation, he says, and he wanted Bob to know. Then he asks about his family. "Excellent," says Bob, the way a man who wades through snow drifts would reply. The truth is his 6-year-old son was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Bob stayed home for 9 months taking care of him as he went through multiple bone marrow transplants. He's back in school, now, says Bob. He's doing better. And Bob is back to walking his route 6 hours a day.

About that pepper spray: Bob actually likes dogs, but he has been nipped in the butt by an older, docile looking Huskey and he's been chased down by an angry Akita – not to mention the stories he's heard back at the office (that's what he calls the post office!). He's not interested in taking chances.

“You have to to slide your bag so that it sits between you and an angry dog,” Bob says. They teach that in mailman training. He demonstrates with one swift move.

What do you think about when you're delivering mail?

"Winning the lotto," Bob says. And then he laughs.