A moment ago, at a sunny street corner: a woman and her dog. The dog is biggish, black, shaggy, and leashed. It's sniffing some bush, then a patch of grass, then something on the concrete, then the area near my feet. At that moment, the moment before its muzzle meets and pulls some smell from the surface of my shoes, the woman pulls the dog away from me. The leashed animal looks up at her; she looks down at it and says: "No, honey, some people do not like dogs. I know, I know, but not everybody likes you. Some people hate you and we have to respect that." She gives the leash another strong pull, the dog chokes, surrenders, and runs to her side. Both walk across the street.

Now, why all of this talking? Dogs do not speak English, so the woman was actually speaking to me. She wanted to make me (of all people) feel guilty for not wanting my feet sniffed by some strange, dirty, hairy animal. Her lovely, lovely animal is not loved by everybody. This is not the dog's fault; it is the fault of the world. The dog lives in a world that happens have people like me—people who do not like it. The woman wanted me to see/hear that she was making a big, big effort to accommodate people like me—the faults of the world. Dog owners sometimes.