01/02/2026
DINO’s: Dogs in Need of Space 💔
https://www.facebook.com/share/1ARdz5VMgi/?mibextid=wwXIfr
I didn’t know how much rage I was holding back until I saw a stranger’s hand reaching for my dog, and I realized—with terrifying clarity—that I was ready to bite him myself.
We were sitting on the patio of The Daily Grind, a generic, overpriced coffee shop that had popped up in my neighborhood during the last wave of gentrification. It was one of those crisp, bright Tuesday mornings that feel aggressive in their cheerfulness.
Under the metal table, Babel was doing his best to become invisible.
Babel isn’t the kind of dog you see on dog food commercials. He’s a Greyhound mix, likely crossed with something wiry and ancient like a Saluki. He is all elbows, ribcage, and nervous energy. I adopted him two years ago from a hoarding situation in rural Ohio. He doesn’t understand toys, he flinches at the sound of a dropped spoon, and his eyes—large, liquid, and perpetually worried—seem to hold the weight of a thousand disappointments.
Babel is a creature of boundaries in a world that hates them.
I was sipping my oat milk latte, scrolling through the news on my phone. The headlines were the usual American cocktail of anxiety: debates over who controls whose body, billionaires building bunkers while the housing market imploded, and Op-Eds about why my generation is too sensitive. I felt that low-level hum of exhaustion that everyone I know seems to live with lately. The feeling that we are all just commodities, waiting to be consumed.
Then, a shadow fell over the table.
"Well, aren't you a unique looking thing?"
The voice was loud, projecting the kind of unearned confidence that usually comes with a tax bracket I’ll never reach. I looked up. Standing there was a man in his fifties, wearing a polo shirt tucked into khakis and expensive loafers. He had a smile that didn't reach his eyes—a smile that felt less like an expression of joy and more like a demand for compliance.
Babel shifted against my shin. I felt his muscles tense, turning hard as wire. He tucked his long, needle-nose snout under his paws. The universal sign for: Please, I am not here.
"He’s a rescue," I said, offering the polite, tight-lipped smile I’ve been trained to wear since kindergarten. "He’s very anxious. We’re just working on exposure therapy today."
It was a clear dismissal. A boundary drawn in the sand.
The man didn’t even look at me. His eyes were locked on Babel. "Nonsense," he boomed, stepping closer. "Dogs know good people. Animals love me. My brother has a Golden Retriever, loves to wrestle."
"He’s not a Golden Retriever," I said, my voice hardening slightly. "He’s scared. Please give him space."
The man chuckled. It was a patronizing sound, wet and heavy. "You’re projecting, sweetheart. You’re making him nervous with all that negative energy. He just needs a firm hand and a friendly scratch."
He began to bend down.
In that slowed-down moment, a thousand memories fired in my synapses. I remembered the uncle who demanded hugs at Thanksgiving even when I pulled away. I remembered the boss who rested his hand on my shoulder while critiquing my spreadsheets, telling me to "relax" when I stiffened. I remembered the way politicians discussed healthcare, talking over the people actually living in the bodies they were legislating.
I realized it wasn’t about the dog. It’s never just about the dog. It was about Entitlement. The belief that if something is in public—a woman, a child, an animal, a park—it belongs to the public. It belongs to him because he wants it.
"Sir, do not touch my dog," I said. This time, I didn't smile.
He paused, looking at me with genuine annoyance. "You don't have to be a bitch about it. I'm just being friendly. It’s a compliment."
It’s a compliment. The catchphrase of the boundary-crosser.
"He doesn't want your compliment," I said, my heart hammering against my ribs. "He wants to be left alone."
"He’s a dog," the man scoffed. "He doesn't know what he wants."
And then, he did it. He ignored my voice. He ignored Babel’s trembling ribs. He ignored the whale-eye Babel was giving him—the whites of his eyes showing in sheer terror. The man reached out his fleshy, broad hand to pat Babel’s head, claiming his right to touch.
Babel didn't bite. He didn't attack.
He snapped.
It was an air-snap, a loud CLACK of teeth inches from the man's fingers, accompanied by a guttural, vibrating growl that came from the depths of his survival instinct. It was the sound of a creature who had been cornered and had no words left.
The man je**ed back as if he’d been shot. He stumbled, knocking into an empty chair.
"Jesus!" he shouted, his face turning a mottled red. "That thing is vicious! He almost bit me!"
The coffee shop went silent. Heads turned. I saw the judgment in their eyes—the fear of the 'unpredictable animal.'
"You need to muzzle that beast!" the man yelled, his embarrassment curdling into aggression. "If you can't control your animal, you shouldn't have him in public. I could sue you! I could have him put down!"
I stood up. My legs were shaking, not from fear, but from the adrenaline dump of a lifetime. I looked at Babel. He was cowering now, pressing himself into the concrete, waiting for the punishment he thought he deserved for protecting himself.
I looked at the man. And I saw him for what he was: a bully who was used to the world bending to his whims, shocked that a frightened animal hadn't read the script.
"He didn't bite you," I said, my voice surprisingly steady, carrying across the silent patio. "He told you 'No' in the only language he speaks. And he only did that because you refused to listen to me when I told you 'No' in English."
The man sputtered. "He—he’s aggressive."
"He is not aggressive," I stepped between him and Babel. "He is autonomous. He is a living being with feelings and fears, and he is not here for your entertainment. He is not public property."
I looked around the patio, meeting the eyes of the onlookers. A young woman with a laptop gave me a tiny, imperceptible nod. An older lady frowned, but she was listening.
I turned back to the man. "You felt entitled to touch him. You prioritized your desire to feel like a 'good guy' over his feeling of safety. And now that he’s set a boundary, you’re playing the victim. It’s a classic move. But it’s not going to work today."
"You're crazy," the man muttered, adjusting his polo shirt, unable to hold my gaze. "Another hysterical liberal woman with a dangerous cur."
"And you," I said, dropping my voice so only he could hear, "are the reason women choose the bear."
He opened his mouth, closed it, and then turned on his heel. He stormed off toward his oversized SUV, muttering about how the neighborhood had gone to hell.
I sat back down. My hands were trembling as I reached under the table. Babel looked up at me, his ears flat, expecting a scolding.
"It's okay, buddy," I whispered, stroking the velvet fur behind his ears. "You’re a good boy. You’re a very good boy."
He let out a long, shuddering breath and rested his head on my knee.
I looked at my cold latte. I thought about how many times I had stayed silent to keep the peace. I thought about how many times I had let people touch my hair, or interrupt me, or explain my own job to me, just to avoid being called "difficult" or "crazy."
Babel hadn’t worried about being called crazy. He cared about being safe.
We sat there for another twenty minutes. I didn't leave immediately. I wouldn't let that man chase us out of our space. When we finally got up to leave, the young woman with the laptop looked up.
"He's a beautiful dog," she said softly.
"Thank you," I replied. "He's very selective about his friends."
"Good for him," she said. "We all should be."
As we walked home, the city noise seemed a little less oppressive. Babel trotted beside me, his head held a little higher. He had defended his space, and the sky hadn't fallen.
The lesson wasn't just for the man in the suit. It was for me. It was for anyone who has been told that their discomfort is less important than someone else's ego.
Consent isn't just a legal term. It’s a culture. And if a nervous Greyhound mix can demand it against a world that wants to consume him, then maybe, just maybe, I can too.
A 'No' is a complete sentence. It doesn't require a smile, an apology, or an explanation to be valid. Whether it comes from a woman, a child, or a dog—listen to it the first time.
