10:30 A.M. Sunny Clear
Shuk! A tennis ball flies through the air.
My chug, Georgie, hurls himself after it. He dodges the waves, gallantly chasing the ball.
Everyone cheers the little dog on. He maneuvers the whitewash with grace. How can you not be impressed?
Shuk! Shuk! Shuk! One ball after the next. George body surfs the waves in, ball in mouth, effortlessly. His sausage-like body gliding through the ocean is mesmerizing.
We- Georgie, Brian, and I- head back home, walking down Ocean Avenue, smiling at strangers.
I see an older woman watering her petite garden in the square, cementless base of a city palm tree.
I've seen her before.
I don't know how to describe her.
Frail- maybe. Delicate- not.
Three months ago, I overheard her scolding her husband, "Someone’s dog took a big shit right on our walkway!" I walked by, ironically with my two dogs, and said, "Hello!"
In a singsong voice, she said, "Oh hi!"
Fake.
That kind of energy imprints itself.
People who aren't authentic stain my brain. It's indelible, irreversible.
I couldn't forget it if I tried.
But I believe in love and kindness. Those virtues triumphed over my ego- not an easy feat- so they must have a greater power beyond me.
So she's watering her small garden, her crooked body holding a watering can, and I say, "I like your plants!"
She didn't hesitate to say something negative back. A lifetime of giving negativity the mic.
"Thanks! If only I could keep people from stealing them!"
I stop; this is too juicy. There are only 7 plants there.
"Stealing them?" I ask earnestly.
She’s got me, and she knows it.
"I come out and I just find holes. I tried planting the cheapest plants, but I came out to water them, and they're just gone."
A lifetime lived through the lens of being wronged.
She strikes me as a justice person—the type that remembers every wrong done to her, and keeps score by planting marigolds.
"Maybe you just need so many plants that you won't notice if someone took one," I offer.
Practicality is my thing. I see the world through the lens of agency—whether I have the means to fix something, or have to invent a new way.
She smiles. Genuinely. I like that.
I wave goodbye.
“You’ve got your troops out!” she lightly calls after me, with a little laugh.
All I hear is “troops."
“Yeah!” I shout instinctively, raising a fist in the air before my brain catches up.
ICE agents had been on the beach earlier, and it rattled me. I stand up for our brothers and sisters.
I keep walking, thinking about behavior, pride, and how in awkward, uncertain moments, we all want something to stand behind. Something to feel proud of. Even if it’s just our little dog troops.
And suddenly, I feel something strange—sympathy for post-war Germans. That shameful, frayed nationalism that seeps in when people are desperate, the economy’s broken, and nothing feels certain. That blind need to feel strong.
It takes real strength to resist that. To choose kindness. Love.
Anyone can fall into rage, into blame. Anyone can commit atrocities when no one’s watching. But it takes a brave human to rise above that—to look your fear in the face and say, No. Not today. I choose love.