“Can you take Polly out for a walk this morning? I wasn’t able to run her out yesterday,” my wife calls as she comes into the kitchen. My son and I are sharing a plate of fried eggs while I’m sipping my espresso.

Polly, our labradoodle, will follow us around with her orange ball if she doesn’t get out enough. As soon as she hears me open the leash drawer, she bolts over and sits like the good girl she is, barely containing herself. I can’t help teasing her with the word “walk” just to see if she’ll break composure.

It is a California-cold morning. I put on my grey Snapchat hoodie (the one with the little yellow heart from the Be Kind campaign), earbuds, and atrocious-looking orange Hokas. I’ve got something relaxing playing, like St. Augustine’s City of God.

I take Polly to a nearby preserve, affectionately known to locals as The Ranch. As I walk the path, I find myself coming up on an older lady walking slowly in the middle of it. I say good morning as I try to give her a wide berth and pass without trampling the native wildflowers. She looks back, jumps off the trail into said flowers, and nearly stumbles into a bush. I apologize as I walk by, not lingering for fear of making it worse.

I’m embarrassed. You idiot, why would you have your hoodie up when walking early in the morning? You are going to give the elderly a heart attack.

A month later, I’m walking Polly through The Ranch, and, again, approaching another older woman walking right in the middle. This time I’ve learned my lesson. I’m listening to bell hooks’ Feminism Is for Everybody. Not that she can hear it, but it can’t hurt the vibe, right? I’m wearing a soft blue running shirt (no hoodie) with fluorescent yellow Hokas. Orange feels a little aggressive compared to yellow.

I try to walk by without spooking her with a small “excuse me”. She turns around. Then she starts running.

What do I do? Is she running from me, or did my approach remind her that her break was over? Her new running pace is just a little slower than my normal walking pace, so passing her would be like when one semi decides to pass another on the highway. Do I hang back or speed up and get it over with?

I decide it is best to just slow down to put more distance between us. Maybe I’ll take a different path from her as soon as there is a fork in the trail. Her own pace slows when she suddenly looks back again, shrieks, and runs off the trail to get away from me.

On the way home, I cycle through: “That lady is crazy,” then, “I feel bad for whatever trauma she has,” then “that really was such an overreaction though wasn’t it?”, then “what did I do wrong?”, and finally, “I did my best. I can’t control how other people react.”

I don’t know why these older women are so startled. And it is women. Not a problem if there are multiple people of any gender. But when it is an older woman, by herself, I’m now on red alert on how to not scare her. I can’t help but think about what my dad taught me as a teenager about how not to make women afraid. I would often walk too close behind women when entering a building, and my dad would pull me back. Keep your distance, especially at night. Cross the street. Take another path.

One night, I even called my wife and had a louder-than-necessary conversation about what color our bathroom tile should be. I’m teaching my son the same things.

More importantly, why am I failing now and what can I do about it?

I don’t really believe it’s the dog. I have her on leash. She’s minding her business. But then again so am I? I tried putting these take-one-leave-one trail bells on my dog that the preserve has at each entrance. I think they’re meant for wildlife with better ears though.

I tried announcing myself at different distances. Too far away and I’m shouting. Too close and I’m already there. Sometimes I announce myself and get no reaction, and then I say something again and get back an angry “I heard you!”

How do I say I’m trying to pass by without coming across like I think I own the trail or that they’re moving too slow? “Good morning” feels good, although a little odd when said to someone who can’t see you. “On your left” is a little clinical and bossy, not very small-town. I’ve tried talking loudly to my dog as I approach instead: “Heel”, “Good girl”, “Come on pup-pup.” Though I’m only now realizing how inappropriate “good girl” might sound out of context.

The one thing that consistently works is when my wife joins me. Stares and startles turn into smiles and requests to pet “what a cute dog you have.” The kindness makes it sting more.

I walk my dog less than I want now. It’s not that big of a deal, I try to convince myself, even if writing this feels like otherwise. I can walk on the street where there is more room to pass or go later in the day when it is busier but also hotter. I feel bad that my presence in the world causes fear and that there may be nothing I can do besides be less in it.

…

Is that what I want to teach my son?

It is a tidy and melancholic way to end. A little too ‘Tis a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done before—except, you know, with dog walking.

I know I’m prone to running away from conflict. I don’t want to package that up as a virtue and pass it down as wisdom. I want to teach courtesy and respect. I want to teach him to know his own strength, and to understand how he might be perceived when someone else feels vulnerable. But I won’t teach him that someone’s fear is automatically his failure.

I tell myself I can’t control how other people react while organizing my behavior around the idea that I can, or at least that I should. Their fear becomes mine to solve. I make myself responsible not only for what I do, but for what they feel.

And it isn’t fair to them, either. No one asked me to leave, even if I feel unwelcome.

I don’t intend to dwell on whether someone’s fear is justified. What took me so long to see is that they aren’t even afraid of me. They don’t know me. They’re afraid of what they think I might be. And if I can find a reasonable way to put someone at ease, I’ll take it.

But someone’s fear can’t, by itself, mean I shouldn’t be there. Polly still needs her walk.