Diplomacy is the art of saying 'Nice doggie' until you can find a

Host: The night had settled over the city like a sheet of black velvet, speckled with the orange glow of distant streetlights. Inside a quiet rooftop bar, the rain ticked gently against the windows, painting streaks of silver over the glass. The air was thick with the smell of whiskey, wet concrete, and faint jazz murmuring from a lone speaker in the corner.

Jack sat near the edge, the skyline flickering behind him — a mosaic of steel and smoke. His grey eyes caught the reflection of the city, cold but alive. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands wrapped around a half-empty glass of red wine, her face soft, thoughtful, illuminated by the dull light of a hanging bulb.

Host: Between them, the table was cluttered with notes, a half-burnt cigarette, and a copy of an old diplomatic memoir — a relic of political wit and human contradiction. The quote that began their argument was scrawled on a napkin between the two glasses:

“Diplomacy is the art of saying ‘Nice doggie’ until you can find a rock.” – Will Rogers

Jeeny: “It’s clever, but it’s cruel, isn’t it? Calling diplomacy an act of deception. As if every peace is just a pause before betrayal.”

Jack: “That’s because it usually is.” He takes a slow sip of whiskey. “You think nations shake hands because they believe in peace? No. They do it because they’re buying time — to get stronger, to aim better, to find their rock.”

Host: The sound of rain deepened. A flash of lightning illuminated the room, painting Jack’s face in silver and shadow. His tone was steady, too calm to be cynical — the calm of someone who had seen the world’s masks up close.

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly what’s wrong. If every negotiation hides a weapon, then what’s left of trust? What’s left of humanity?”

Jack: “Trust?” He lets out a dry laugh. “Trust is a luxury, Jeeny. Nations don’t survive on faith; they survive on leverage. Look at history — every ‘peace treaty’ is a drawn-out lie. The Treaty of Versailles was supposed to end all wars. Twenty years later, we had another one — bigger, bloodier. Diplomacy just delays the inevitable.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes darkened, her voice trembling between restraint and passion.

Jeeny: “So you think diplomacy is useless? That words mean nothing?”

Jack: “Words are useful — as camouflage. That’s the point. You talk softly so you don’t have to fight loudly. You say ‘Nice doggie’ because biting first isn’t always smart.”

Jeeny: “That’s not diplomacy, Jack. That’s manipulation.”

Jack: “No, that’s survival.”

Host: The music drifted softly, a saxophone sighing like the wind. Jeeny leaned forward, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass, her eyes locked on Jack.

Jeeny: “Maybe survival isn’t worth it if it costs your soul. Look at the Cuban Missile Crisis — it was diplomacy, not deceit, that kept the world from burning. Kennedy didn’t find a rock; he found a way to talk Khrushchev down. That’s not survival — that’s grace.”

Jack: “Grace?” He tilts his head, almost smiling. “He backed down on the missiles in Turkey — that’s the rock. He just threw it later, quietly, where no one could see.”

Host: The thunder rolled in the distance, low and guttural, like the growl of something ancient. The lights flickered briefly. Jeeny’s voice softened, but her eyes burned.

Jeeny: “And yet the world lived another day. Isn’t that worth a little quiet deceit? If the cost of peace is pretending for a while, maybe that’s mercy, not malice.”

Jack: “That’s the problem with mercy — it teaches predators patience. Every tyrant knows how to smile for the cameras. Diplomacy doesn’t stop monsters; it just gives them better suits.”

Jeeny: “You talk as if every politician is a wolf.”

Jack: “Because I’ve seen the teeth.”

Host: The air between them turned electric. Jeeny’s hand trembled slightly as she set her glass down, the sound sharp in the quiet. The rain had turned into a steady drumbeat.

Jeeny: “Then what do you believe in, Jack? If not diplomacy, if not dialogue, then what? Rocks?”

Jack: “No. I believe in honesty. I’d rather face the dog head-on than whisper sweet nothings while reaching for a weapon.”

Jeeny: “And what happens when the dog’s bigger than you? When the weapon you throw hits someone innocent instead?”

Host: A long silence. Jack’s eyes drifted toward the window, where the city lights shimmered like restless ghosts. His voice, when it came, was lower — stripped of its edge.

Jack: “Then you pray it doesn’t. But pretending won’t stop the bite either.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes pretending buys time to heal. To reason. Diplomacy isn’t cowardice — it’s courage under disguise. It’s looking into the eyes of someone who could destroy you and saying, ‘Let’s talk instead.’ That’s not weakness, Jack. That’s the highest form of strength.”

Host: The rain softened, turning into a whisper. Jack watched her — really watched her — his expression unreadable, a war of thought behind his eyes.

Jack: “You make it sound noble.”

Jeeny: “It is. Real diplomacy isn’t about finding rocks — it’s about not needing them. It’s about believing the other side still has a heart, even when the world tells you they don’t.”

Jack: “That sounds poetic. But history doesn’t forgive poets.”

Jeeny: “History was written by the ones who threw the rocks. But peace — real peace — was made by those who didn’t.”

Host: The wind sighed against the glass, as if agreeing with her. Jack’s fingers tightened around his glass, then slowly loosened. His shoulders dropped — a subtle surrender.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve been too cynical. Maybe diplomacy isn’t the art of finding a rock... maybe it’s learning how not to throw it.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “That’s the first honest thing you’ve said all night.”

Jack: “You think I’m lying the rest of the time?”

Jeeny: “No. Just guarding.”

Host: They both laughed — quietly, softly — the kind of laughter that comes after truth, not humor. The rain had stopped now, leaving a shine on the streets below, where cars slid by like fragments of light.

Jack: “So, Jeeny, tell me — if diplomacy is art, who’s the artist?”

Jeeny: “Anyone brave enough to paint peace on the edge of war.”

Host: Jack nodded, a quiet understanding passing through him. The sky began to clear, revealing faint stars above the dark horizon. He raised his glass toward her — not as a toast, but as a truce.

Jack: “To the artists, then.”

Jeeny: “To the ones who speak softly — even when they’re afraid.”

Host: The camera lingered on their faces — tired, sincere, illuminated by the last glow of the city. Beyond the window, the world shimmered — fragile, dangerous, beautiful — a place where words could still build bridges before the stones flew.

Host: And in that moment, with the storm gone and the night calm, the truth of Rogers’s words found its balance — not in deception, but in the eternal tension between power and restraint, fear and hope, the hand that holds the rock and the one that chooses not to throw.