Porch Lady
Yesterday, I was walking Lily.
For those of you keeping score at home, Lily is the dog I am currently test-driving to determine whether she and I are meant to spend the next decade together.
One of Lily's favorite things in the world is a specific type of grass.
Not to eat.
Not to pee on.
To roll on.
The second she finds it, she drops to the ground and starts scratching her back like she just discovered pure joy.
It is objectively adorable.
There is one yard on our route that has her favorite grass.
Unfortunately, that same yard also has signs everywhere asking people not to let their dogs use the lawn.
I know Lily.
Lily does not pee on walks.
She is a weird little lady who prefers only this one place to pee, which we go to before we start our walk.
But rules are rules, so when she wandered toward the grass to roll around, I told her no and started pulling her back toward the sidewalk.
That's when it happened.
A woman appeared.
She started waving her hands and yelling.
I had headphones in, so I couldn't hear what she was saying.
But I feel reasonably confident it was not:
"Hello! I also find your dog delightful!"
Nor was it:
"Please tell Lily she is beautiful and can roll here whenever she wants."
I suspect it was something closer to:
"Get your dog off my lawn!"
I waved.
Pulled Lily.
Kept walking.
And thought about that woman almost the entire way home.
In approximately thirty seconds, I had decided exactly who she was.
A miserable person.
A lawn enthusiast.
Someone who valued grass more than dogs.
A person I had absolutely no interest in knowing.
And if I'm being honest, I guarantee every time I pass that house now, my middle finger will consider making an appearance.
Not actually appear.
Probably.
But it will think about it.
The problem is that I don't know her.
At all.
Maybe she spent thousands of dollars on her yard.
Maybe she's had dogs destroy it.
Maybe she's having the worst week of her life.
Maybe she wasn't even yelling what I thought she was yelling.
I have absolutely no idea.
Which reminded me of something that happened a few days earlier.
I was driving and singing.
Not normal-person singing.
Full concert singing.
The kind with dramatic hand motions.
The kind where you are both the lead singer and the backup dancers.
At one point, I noticed the man in the car in front of me looking in his mirror.
And he looked annoyed.
Immediately I thought:
Oh no.
He thinks I'm yelling at him.
Which is fair.
Because from his perspective, there was a woman behind him waving her arms around like she was furious.
It probably didn't help that I have a tendency to follow a little too closely when I wish people would drive faster.
Not because I'm angry.
Just because apparently I like to make questionable choices.
But that man didn't know any of that.
He didn't know I was singing.
He didn't know I was putting on a one-woman concert.
He didn't know I use my hands when I sing.
He didn't know me.
Just like I don't know porch lady.
And that's the funny thing.
Most of us spend our days creating entire stories about people from tiny pieces of information.
A facial expression.
A text message.
A tone.
A social media post.
A five-second interaction on a sidewalk.
We decide who people are.
We assign motives.
We fill in blanks.
And somehow, I rarely fill those blanks with something generous.
Even with people I know.
Even with people I love.
Even with people who have repeatedly shown me they are good.
My brain still wants to write the worst possible version of the story.
Which is unfortunate because I claim to want to love people.
And loving people probably starts with admitting I don't know nearly as much as I think I do.
It doesn't mean trusting everyone.
It doesn't mean becoming best friends with everyone.
It doesn't mean pretending bad behavior is good behavior.
It just means remembering that I don't know the whole story.
Maybe porch lady is exactly who I think she is.
Maybe she isn't.
But either way, I can wish her well.
I can let her keep her grass.
I can stop mentally flipping her off every time I walk by.
Or at least reduce it significantly.
Baby steps.
Because I don't have a lot of grace for people who don't like dogs.
(dis)respectfully.
