You call to a dog and a dog will break its neck to get to you.

Host: The evening was tender, bathed in the soft amber glow of a streetlamp that barely cut through the fog of late autumn. Inside a narrow alley café, the air was thick with coffee and loneliness. The radio played an old blues tune, its melody lingering like the scent of something familiar but long gone.

Jack sat by the window, his grey eyes tracing the pattern of raindrops sliding down the glass. Jeeny was beside him, her hands cupped around a chipped mug, her hair catching the faint light like strands of night.

Host: On the table between them lay a small, torn paper with the quote written in blue ink — “You call to a dog and a dog will break its neck to get to you. Dogs just want to please. Call to a cat and its attitude is, ‘What’s in it for me?’” — Lewis Grizzard. The words seemed to vibrate in the dimness, like a quiet argument waiting to begin.

Jeeny: “It’s funny, isn’t it? But also... true. Dogs are all heart. They run toward you with everything they have, no questions asked. There’s a kind of purity in that — a devotion that doesn’t calculate.”

Jack: “Or a kind of stupidity, depending on how you look at it. You call, they come — even if you’re holding the leash that’s going to tie them down. Cats at least know how to protect their freedom.”

Host: A gust of wind shook the café’s door, and for a brief moment, the sound of distant laughter from the street floated in. The light flickered, and Jack’s face, sharp and tired, looked like it had been carved from stone.

Jeeny: “You always see love as a trap, Jack. Why is that? A dog’s loyalty isn’t about being enslaved — it’s about connection. It’s about believing that someone’s call is worth answering.”

Jack: “Connection? No. It’s dependence. That’s the thing about dogs — they need to belong to someone. Cats, though — they belong only to themselves. There’s something honest about that. They don’t pretend their affection is unconditional.”

Jeeny: “Honest, maybe. But also cold. If everyone lived like cats, we’d have a world full of walls, not homes. You call it freedom; I call it fear of attachment.”

Host: The rain outside had softened to a whisper. A waiter, half-asleep, refilled their cups. The steam rose, curling between them like a ghost of something unspoken.

Jack: “Fear of attachment? No. It’s just realism. People are conditional, Jeeny. Even dogs — they love you because you feed them, because you stroke their heads. You stop doing that, and see how long the loyalty lasts.”

Jeeny: “That’s not true, and you know it. Have you ever seen a dog wait for its owner who’s gone? There’s a statue in Japan — Hachikō. That dog waited at the station for nine years after his owner died. Every single day. If that’s not love, then what is?”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled slightly, her eyes glistening in the dim light. Jack’s fingers tapped lightly against his cup, as if to drown the weight of her words.

Jack: “Fine. Hachikō. A beautiful story, sure. But what did it get him? Nine years of waiting for someone who’d never come back. That’s not love, Jeeny — that’s blindness. That’s devotion turned into suffering.”

Jeeny: “No, that’s faith. The kind this world has forgotten. To wait, even when you know it might not end the way you want — that’s what love is. Cats don’t wait. They leave. They move on. But dogs — dogs stay. They hope.”

Jack: “And hope is just another name for denial. The cat knows how the world works. It doesn’t wait for affection that might never come. It doesn’t need permission to walk away.”

Jeeny: “And yet, when the cat leaves, it misses what it never knew it had. You think that’s strength, Jack, but maybe it’s just another kind of loneliness.”

Host: Jack looked down, his reflection shimmering faintly in the black coffee. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Outside, a stray dog barked, its voice echoing against the empty walls of the street.

Jack: “You ever wonder why people always prefer dogs in stories? Because dogs forgive. They come back, no matter how badly they’re treated. Cats would never humiliate themselves like that.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why we need dogs more. Not because they’re obedient, but because they remind us what it means to forgive. To try again. To still trust when you have every reason not to.”

Jack: “That sounds beautiful — until someone uses it to manipulate you. You keep forgiving, and they keep hurting you. The world doesn’t reward loyalty; it uses it.”

Jeeny: “And the world doesn’t reward distance either, Jack. Cats live their entire lives without ever trusting anyone completely. They think they’re free, but they’re just alone. Is that the kind of freedom you want?”

Host: A car passed outside, its headlights briefly painting their faces in silver. The contrast between them was sharp — Jack’s features hardened by doubt, Jeeny’s softened by belief. The air between them was thick, not with anger, but with truth.

Jack: “Maybe freedom and love just don’t belong in the same sentence, Jeeny. You can’t be bound and free at the same time.”

Jeeny: “You can — if what binds you is choice. The dog runs to you because it chooses to. That’s not slavery, Jack. That’s devotion — the kind that comes from the heart, not the chain.”

Host: Jack laughed, but there was no mockery in it — only a quiet ache. The rain had stopped completely, and through the window, the clouds began to break, revealing a sliver of the moon.

Jack: “You talk like someone who’s never been hurt by loyalty.”

Jeeny: “And you talk like someone who’s been hurt because you loved wrongly — not because love itself is wrong.”

Host: The room grew still. Only the clock on the wall kept ticking, its rhythm slow, like a heartbeat fighting to be heard. Jack’s eyes met Jeeny’s, and for a moment, all the arguments in the world melted into silence.

Jack: “So you think I should be more like the dog.”

Jeeny: “No. I think you should be more like yourself — but not so afraid of being one.”

Jack: “You make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It is simple. Just not easy.”

Host: The flame of the candle between them flickered, its light catching the faint smile that touched Jack’s lips. Outside, the stray dog howled once more, a sound half wild, half devoted, carrying through the wet streets like a hymn of something ancient and faithful.

Jeeny: “You see? Even out there — something still answers when it’s called.”

Jack: “And somewhere, something still waits to be heard.”

Host: The night began to soften, the moonlight spilling gently across their table, melting into the still warm cups. Between them, the quote no longer felt like a joke — but a mirror.

For one believed in the freedom to walk away, and the other, in the grace to stay.
And somewhere in that quiet space — between the cat that walks alone and the dog that always returns — they both found themselves.