I saw a bumper sticker once that stayed with me: 'God help me

Host: The morning was pale and grey, the kind of light that makes everything look half-asleep. Rain had passed an hour ago, leaving the streets slick, glistening like mirrors. The coffee shop was nearly empty—only the low hum of an espresso machine and the slow rhythm of a jazz bass in the background.

Jack sat near the window, a thin curl of steam rising from his cup. His coat dripped rain, his hair disheveled, and his eyes—those cold grey eyes—looked as though he hadn’t slept in days. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her coffee, the spoon tapping against porcelain in a steady, almost meditative rhythm.

A golden retriever tied outside the café watched them through the glass—tail wagging, tongue lolling, eyes full of trust.

Jeeny smiled faintly, then broke the silence.

Jeeny: “I read something by Neil Macdonald last night. He said—‘I saw a bumper sticker once that stayed with me: God help me become the person my dog thinks I am. I don’t have the heart for this. Meaning, of course, that I’m the failure.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Leave it to a journalist to find poetry in guilt.”

Jeeny: “It’s not guilt. It’s... honesty. The kind that hurts because it’s true.”

Host: A bus hissed past outside, spraying rainwater onto the curb. The dog flinched, then looked back at the door, still waiting, unwavering in its hope.

Jack followed its gaze.

Jack: “I think I get it. That look. The unconditional belief that you’re good. That you’re worthy. Even when you’re not.”

Jeeny: “That’s what he meant, I think. We all fall short of the kindness others imagine we’re capable of.”

Jack: “No. We fall short of the kindness we pretend we’re capable of.”

Jeeny: “Pretend?”

Jack: “Yeah. Every person wears that costume—'I’m decent, I’m moral, I care.’ But strip away comfort, money, social reward—and you’ll see what we really are.”

Host: The rain resumed, softly pattering on the glass, like quiet applause from a distant world. Jeeny looked at Jack, her eyes warm, but edged with the kind of sadness that comes from knowing someone has forgotten how to forgive themselves.

Jeeny: “You really think we’re that empty?”

Jack: “I think we’re flawed beyond redemption. Dogs love us because they don’t understand us. If they did—if they saw the lies, the small betrayals, the selfishness—we’d lose their faith too.”

Jeeny: “That’s a cruel thought, Jack.”

Jack: “Cruel, maybe. True, definitely. Humanity survives on delusion—dogs just make it look innocent.”

Host: Jeeny’s hands tightened around her mug, her fingers trembling slightly. The steam from the coffee fogged her glasses, and she removed them, wiping them slowly, as if clearing more than just glass.

Jeeny: “You always go straight to the edge, don’t you? Straight to where hope dies.”

Jack: “Hope’s overrated. So is moral self-improvement. People talk about becoming better versions of themselves—but when was the last time you saw someone actually do it?”

Jeeny: “Yesterday. My neighbor fed a stray cat. My friend forgave someone who didn’t deserve it. My brother stopped drinking.”

Host: Her voice softened, but it carried weight, each word deliberate, like the careful placing of stones across a stream.

Jeeny: “People do change, Jack. Not in revolutions, but in gestures. Small ones. Quiet ones. The kind no one notices—but they ripple outward.”

Jack: “So you think we’re redeemable because of random acts of kindness?”

Jeeny: “No. Because we try.”

Host: The dog outside wagged its tail again as a man approached, the leash pulled loose from the bench. The dog’s body nearly vibrated with joy—pure, unfiltered, almost sacred. Jack watched, his expression unreadable.

Jack: “That’s the problem. A dog doesn’t measure worth. We do. And the scale’s never fair. The quote says he doesn’t have the heart for this—that he’s the failure. Maybe that’s what being human is—knowing we’ll fail our own ideals and doing it anyway.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s about the courage to keep trying, even knowing you’ll fall short.”

Jack: “That sounds like optimism disguised as denial.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s grace.”

Host: Jeeny leaned forward, her hair falling across her face, her voice steady but trembling at the edges.

Jeeny: “Don’t you see, Jack? The man in that quote isn’t weak. He’s honest enough to admit his imperfection. That’s strength. He’s saying—‘I’m not who I want to be, but I know it, and I wish I could be better.’ That’s the prayer in it.”

Jack: “And what if prayers don’t work?”

Jeeny: “Then at least you’re speaking truth into the void. And maybe, just maybe, someone hears it—even if it’s just yourself.”

Host: The rain deepened, rhythmic, relentless. Jack’s gaze drifted back to the dog now being led away—tail wagging, ears perked, glancing back one last time through the glass.

Jack: (quietly) “You know, I used to have a dog like that. Charlie. He’d wait by the door every evening, same time, same look. One day I came home late—too tired to walk him. I yelled. He hid under the table all night. Next morning, he came running to me again—like nothing happened. That’s the kind of forgiveness humans don’t deserve.”

Jeeny: “And yet, he gave it.”

Jack: “Yeah.” (pauses) “That’s the part that breaks me.”

Host: His voice cracked, almost imperceptibly. The light from the window fell on his face, revealing lines that looked carved not by age, but by remorse.

Jeeny: “Then maybe the point isn’t to become who your dog thinks you are, Jack. Maybe it’s to remember someone already saw that person in you once—and loved you for it.”

Jack: (looking up) “You mean... Charlie?”

Jeeny: “Him. Or your mother. Or anyone who saw your goodness before you forgot it existed.”

Host: The café grew quieter. The rain softened, tapering into mist. Jack sat motionless for a long time, his eyes glistening, his breathing shallow.

Jack: “I used to think strength meant never feeling guilty. But maybe... maybe it’s about letting guilt teach you how to love better.”

Jeeny: “That’s it. That’s what the quote means. It’s not about failure—it’s about conscience.”

Host: The sunlight broke through the clouds, spilling across the table, catching the rim of Jack’s glass, turning the leftover coffee into gold. The city outside seemed to shimmer anew—washed clean, forgiving.

Jack: “You really believe we can become the people our dogs think we are?”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Maybe not completely. But if we wake up every day trying, that’s enough.”

Host: Jack nodded, a faint smile crossing his tired face. He lifted his coffee cup and clinked it gently against hers.

Jack: “To trying, then.”

Jeeny: “To trying.”

Host: Outside, the dog and its owner disappeared around the corner, leaving behind a faint echo of barking joy. The rain clouds parted, revealing a slice of blue sky, as if the world itself had forgiven something unseen.

Inside, two cups of coffee cooled on the table—one nearly empty, one untouched—but between them hung a quiet grace: the kind that doesn’t erase failure, only teaches how to live alongside it.

And in that fragile light, both of them—Jack with his doubt, Jeeny with her faith—sat still, their shadows softening against the wall, becoming, for a moment, the people their dogs might believe they were.