It either is or it isn’t.

It was unusually mild for winter. Seohui wore a blue fall coat over a down vest and wrapped a black scarf around her neck. Her only remarkable feature was her sturdy legs—and walking was her best skill. She drifted along, thinking, “If I walk along the river until it meets the Atlantic, then follow a coastal road, I might end up in Florida.”

From afar, a black dog suddenly barked and charged toward her. Startled, Seohui froze, searching around for the owner. The owner stood a few feet away, holding the leash, seemingly relaxed, and even looked amused as the barking dog advanced. Seohui, pale and shaking with a mixture of fear and anger, glared at the dog as if it might bite any second, then turned her fury toward the owner:

“Your dog is trying to bite me! Why didn’t you call it back? Don’t you know you’re supposed to leash your dog after 9 AM?”

The owner shot back with a bold, almost mocking expression:

“It was startled by your strange look—your sunglasses, mask, and hat.”

I believe dogs reflect their owners. A vicious dog suggests a careless or cruel owner. A gentle dog—eyes soft and welcoming—is the sign of a kind-hearted person saying sorry. Depressed dogs often can’t socialize and wander alone. I considered carrying dog treats in my pocket to throw and keep aggressive dogs at bay. Despite switching my walks to after 9 AM to avoid leash-free dogs, careless owners still let their pets roam.

Seohui’s aversion to dogs stems from a painful past:

“Dog-bastard.”

It was the first curse she ever uttered. As a toddler—only able to say “Mom” and “Dad”—she didn’t even know she was cursing, but the cruel veterinarian jabbed her with a needle, and she repeated what grown-ups had shouted at the dog that bit her. Her father, loving his daughter who strongly resembled him, had always fussed over her, rubbing his rough-bearded cheek against hers—even though it stung, she’d laugh at his booming laughter.

Yet one day, while the family was a moment distracted, their dog—not realizing how beloved Seohui was—bit her and dragged her to a dark corner, leaving scars all over her body. Furious, her father tore the dog away and it disappeared forever. Seohui’s legs still bear scars, and she walks timidly when dogs come around. No matter what the owner says—“Oh, my dog doesn’t bite. He’s nice.”—she can never believe them, because dogs don’t follow logic and may attack anytime. And if we can’t trust humans, how can we trust animals?

While Seohui walks on eggshells around dogs, Seungmi worships them.

Seungmi was the youngest of eight siblings. She lost her father young. Her tough, hardworking mother ran a food stall and financed the education of Seungmi's oldest sister, who became a pharmacist. The sister eventually opened a pharmacy in the same alley. Seungmi grew up with hand-me-down clothes and shoes, seldom loved amid her mother’s busyness and her older siblings’ support of the household. Loneliness cast a shadow over her childhood.

Still, in the wide expanse of New York, Seohui and Seungmi crossed paths in a neighborhood park. Seungmi, in ripped jeans and an orange down jacket, stood out from a distance. Her dog looked like a deep thinker. Hearing Seungmi call her dog in Korean, Seohui recognized her as Korean but stayed quiet.

One thoughtful afternoon, the dog approached and stared at Seohui. Despite her fear of dogs, Seohui asked:

“Does your dog think a lot?”

Seungmi, looking mildly exasperated, called the dog away, then walked off. After that, the dog would approach Seohui whenever it saw her. When Seungmi tried to leash him, he lingered by Seohui.

“What is her name?” Seohui asked.

“Her name is Nike.” Seungmi answered bluntly.

“I didn’t know there were Koreans in this neighborhood. Nice to meet you. Your dog is calm… like a philosopher in thought.”

Their friendship blossomed via that dog leash connection. Later, Seungmi approached with a sweet smile and a coffee. Sipping it, Seohui felt a warm joy. Seungmi brought freshly made rice cakes, dumplings, kimchi — all homemade. They grew closer. Seohui found Seungmi’s love for Nike over-the-top. It felt like Nike was the only being in the world that mattered to her.

“Say goodbye to Nike before you go—she looks sad otherwise!” she’d say when Seohui started to leave. Seohui thought it absurd—uncomfortable even—but endured. She resisted calling the dog “our daughter.” The way Seungmi treated Nike like a child was uncanny. Once, without warning, Seungmi knocked on Seohui’s door with Nike.

“She insisted—‘My daughter couldn’t just walk past your house.’”

Seohui replied coolly:

“Then leave Nike in the backyard and come have tea.”

“She cries when he can’t see me. He wants to stay here.”

Seungmi petted Nike perched on the table, calling him “my daughter” and fed her snacks alongside tea. The scene—so regal and absurd—stunned Seohui. It reminded her of a tourist on a bus in Korea whose phone conversation revealed she was kissing her dog, not her child.

That scene calls to mind a grandma’s comment she read online: “When did humans become dogs’ mothers?”

Seungmi’s second great love—after dogs—was shopping. Inviting Seohui along, her fashion sense impressed her.

“You pick beautiful clothes.”

She replied:

“My older sister used to wear the prettiest clothes when she visited, and I envied her. Now that’s why I love shopping. Do you know how much money I spent to get to the point where I know what flatters you? Through trial and error, trying to keep expenses secret from my husband… let me help you. Let’s trash all your old clothes and start fresh.”

“Everything?” 

Seohui said in surprise.

“Yes. You need a few neutral basics—black, gray, beige, or white pants and skirts, cardigans, sweaters, jeans, ankle boots, and black horn-rimmed glasses. You don’t have many good days left!”

Seohui nodded to the expert advice. They went together to the laundromat to hem her boot-cut pants. Her credit card hurt, but her feet burned with every step.

Seungmi was creative and intuitive—able to replicate clothing or dishes by sight or taste. Over time, Seohui learned that Seungmi’s shopping and dog passion often caused friction with her husband—she’d even run away, stay in hotels, or impulsively shop to calm her frustrations.

“I’d rather go on a trip than stay in a hotel like this. Won’t you come with me?”

Though hesitant, Seohui felt compelled to agree to Seungmi’s generous offer.

“Why don’t you plan something? You travel a lot.”

Seohui shrugged and booked a VIP package without much thought. They detoured to the travel agency on the way to Flushing, but when they tried to pay, the agent said they only accepted cash or check. After a brief argument, they left. Disappointed, Seungmi lit a cigarette in the rainy parking lot, and Seohui asked for one too.

“Don’t cancel the trip just yet.” 

Seungmi insisted. Reluctantly, Seohui called back and demanded a different agent—in the end, they accepted her credit card.

Despite her wanderlust, traveling felt empty—a tour of churches and sites that felt repetitive. In contrast, Seungmi thrived: buying new clothes, enjoying bar nights, and indulging in local culture. Seohui, on the other hand, only longed for rest—the exhaustion of travel made her anxious, and she deferred to Seungmi at every turn. Her mantra became: “Okay... whatever you want.”

After some time, tension surfaced:

“either yes or no—why do you just float along without conviction on this trip?”

Seungmi suddenly shouted in anger.

“Yikes! You scared me!” Seohui said, startled—not only by the tone, but by everything behind it: the time Seungmi once barreled into her roommate during a fight.

She realized—if she didn't give in, she might get kicked.

Seungmi, like Nike, expected passionate devotion—but human relationships didn’t work that way. Seohui struggled with the irritation.

Travel was over. For Seungmi, human connection felt like a tired conflict—but Nike's loyalty comforted her. Seohui couldn't escape her reflection: “Why should I wag my tail if my heart isn’t there?”

Eventually, they gradually drifted apart. Like a memory stored away, their friendship faded—just two distant strangers now.