I was one breath away from letting go of the leash and letting whatever was inside me finally surface. Not the dog’s instinct—mine. Because there comes a point when decades of swallowing anger, of playing nice, of following rules that keep shrinking, finally dissolve. And all that’s left is the urge to shatter the noise with your bare hands.
That’s how close I was this afternoon.
My name is Frank. I’m seventy-two years old, raised in a time when problems with neighbors were settled face to face, on wooden porches, with honest words and eye contact. You didn’t hide behind screens. You didn’t turn pain into performance. You didn’t broadcast someone’s worst moment for strangers to dissect. But that world is gone, they say. Now everything is a clip, a post, a spectacle waiting to be uploaded.
I was at the dog park on the south side of town—the last place I know where the ground still smells like earth instead of fumes. Guthrie was with me.
Guthrie is a kind of dog you rarely see anymore. A twelve-year-old Bluetick Coonhound, ears sweeping the grass, coat mottled like stone weathered by time. He smells of damp wool and yesterday. He doesn’t bark—he bays, a sound low and aching, like a cello mourning something lost. His body has slowed; his hips ache, his eyes are fogged with age. But his nose still understands the world better than any algorithm ever could.
We were on our usual bench, watching the mess of it all. The park felt like a small replica of the country now. To one side, expensive dogs guided by people in polished activewear, checking watches instead of watching tails wag. To the other, the mixed-up mutts and their owners. Nobody crossed lines. Nobody spoke. Everyone stayed inside their chosen corners.
Then the kid came in.
Couldn’t have been older than twenty. Thin, ghost-pale, hair dyed an electric green that seemed to hum. His clothes hung off him like borrowed armor. In his hands was the leash of a Pitbull mix who looked terrified—muscle wrapped tight around fear, tail folded so far under it vanished.
They were trembling together. Boy and dog. Two fragile beings trying to stand their ground in a public space.
It started with a sneeze. Not a snarl. Not a lunge. Just a wet, explosive sneeze. But the dog was big. And big dogs scare people who see only outlines, not souls.
A couple near the entrance flinched dramatically. Well-groomed, mid-forties, the sort who complain about birds being too loud. The man immediately raised his phone. The woman folded her arms, her face settling into practiced outrage.
“You need to control that animal,” the man declared—not to the kid, but to his screen. “It’s aggressive. It just lunged at us.”
It hadn’t. It sneezed.
“I—I’m sorry,” the kid said, voice breaking. “He’s a rescue. He’s just scared.”
“That thing shouldn’t even be here,” the woman snapped, stepping closer, crowding him. “Look at it. It’s dangerous. And you—who knows what you’re on. We’re live-streaming this. Let’s see what the HOA thinks about trash like this in our neighborhood.”
The kid folded in on himself, pulling his hood up like it might make him invisible. The dog whimpered softly, sensing the fear pouring off his human.
“See?” the man shouted, shoving the phone closer. “Growling! I’ve got it all recorded!”
That’s when something in me burned white-hot. My hand clenched. My jaw locked.
I saw it clearly. This wasn’t concern. This was dominance. Two people feeding on the humiliation of someone smaller. The modern disease—the hunger to destroy publicly so you can feel righteous privately.
I began to rise. My knees protested. I was ready to march over and unleash words sharp enough to scar. I wanted to tell them about the mills, about men crushed and burned so people like them could play judge with a phone.
But Guthrie stood first.
He didn’t rush—he hasn’t rushed anywhere in years. He rose slowly, exhaled deeply, and started walking.
He passed the running dogs. Passed the barking ones. He moved with purpose, heavy and steady, like something ancient that knows exactly where it belongs.
“Guthrie, stay,” I said, habit more than command.
He didn’t listen.
He crossed the invisible divide. Walked past the man without so much as a glance. To Guthrie, a man without compassion might as well not exist.
He stopped in front of the kid and the Pitbull.
The woman scoffed. “Oh perfect. Another one. That thing looks filthy.”
Guthrie ignored her. He looked up at the kid with tired, kind eyes, then leaned—fully leaned—pressing his weight into the boy’s legs. Ninety pounds of warmth. Of presence. Of grounding.
Then he lowered himself beside the Pitbull, rested his chin across the dog’s shoulder, and sighed.
No words. Just truth. I am here. You are not alone.
The shaking stopped. The kid’s breath steadied. Slowly, unsure, he reached down and touched Guthrie’s ears. Guthrie closed his eyes and groaned softly, content.
The park went quiet. The man’s phone dropped to his side. It’s hard to sell a story of violence when an old hound is offering himself as comfort.
That’s when I arrived.
I didn’t shout. I didn’t need to. I stood there—six-foot-two, worn down by years and work.
“Phone,” I said, pointing. “Put it away.”
“We’re allowed to—” the man began.
“You’re allowed to be human,” I said evenly. “You’re not protecting anyone. You’re humiliating a scared kid for attention.”
I turned to the woman. “My dog was bred to hunt through mountains. He can smell fear. He can smell cruelty.” I nodded at Guthrie, asleep at the boy’s feet. “And right now, all he smells is pain. He chose to help it.”
People had stopped scrolling. They were watching. Really watching. The couple felt it—the weight of eyes, the return of shame.
“Whatever,” the man muttered, shoving the phone away. “Let’s go.”
They left quickly.
The kid wiped his face with his sleeve, mascara smearing.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “I just moved here. Everyone looks at me like I don’t belong.”
“They’re staring because they don’t know what else to do,” I said, lowering myself onto the grass beside him. “And yelling is easier than listening.”
“I like your dog,” he said, scratching Guthrie’s ear. The old hound’s leg thumped.
“Guthrie. He snores. His breath could knock you out. But he’s honest.”
“I’m Leo.”
“Frank.”
We stayed there as the sun dipped low. No debates. No labels. He told me about saving Tank from a shelter days before closure. I told him about Guthrie stealing a Thanksgiving turkey once.
For one hour, there was no divide. Just two men. Two dogs. And a country that felt, briefly, softer.
As we left, Leo paused. “Why did he come to me?” he asked. “Why Guthrie?”
I looked at my dog, tail swaying gently.
“Dogs don’t see what we see,” I said. “They see the heart. And Guthrie can’t stand watching a good one crack.”
I walked home lighter than I had in years.
We waste so much time screaming across fences we forget the view looks the same from both sides. Everyone’s just trying to survive the noise.
The world is loud. The internet is cruel. But if you listen closely, there’s still truth underneath.
Be who your dog believes you are. And when someone trembles in the chaos, don’t record it.
Be like Guthrie.
Lean in.
On the tribulations of an expatriate in Europe
Friday, January 02, 2026
Be who your dog believes you are
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