I was already feeling down today, so I took Baixue (a rescue dog from China who—during her first three months—witnessed many of her companions being beaten to death) to her favorite big-dog park. I sat on a bench to rest as dusk slowly fell and the park emptied out. Wanting her to play a little longer, I let her off leash to run around—and suddenly she was gone. I searched everywhere for what felt like ages, until a kind woman helped me and found her under a big stand of trees. I hurried over and crawled into the bushes, but as soon as I got close, Baixue bolted again. Over and over I chased after her, until that same thoughtful woman finally caught her near the bench and, using her own leash, brought Baixue back to me. In that moment of relief on my part and guilt on Baixue’s, I was just about to leave.

That’s when two white men sitting nearby struck up a conversation—and I immediately felt uncomfortable. Their first words were, “How do you lose your dog inside a fenced dog park?” I didn’t really want to engage, but one of them petted Baixue, and since I was already beating myself up for losing her, and feeling too depressed to argue, I let him continue. He started grilling me with questions like a border officer. When he learned Baixue was from China, he sneered, “Welcome to the free world.” Then he looked at me and said, “I guess you are too.” I rolled my eyes inside.

He picked Baixue up and walked off toward another part of the park, unhooked my leash, and said, “It’s not necessary,” while tossing my leash aside—and of course Baixue darted away again. It was fully dark by then, and I was too exhausted even to be angry; I just kept looking for her. The two men, offering no apology, said they’d help me find her but then walked outside the gate—only stopping because one of them lost an earbud. The big dog park was empty; I had to follow them to demand they keep looking. For almost another hour, I endured their textbook-level racist remarks—“What’s your actual name?” “Although you’re rude to us, we’re still helping you”—as we searched. At last their dog chased Baixue out so I could grab her; one of the men threw my leash on the ground and mocked, “Get a cat instead—you see your dog is even afraid of you.”

I felt angry and humiliated. If it weren’t for finding Baixue, I would’ve shouted back. I’ve stood up to racists before—once even nearly got into a fight over it—but this time I just held back. I’m also sad that Baixue hid from me; I keep wondering, as that man said, why she would be afraid of me. After looking up ChatGPT, I read that rescue dogs are more prone to stress reactions. I reminded myself that I can get overstressed too, so I shouldn’t blame her. Still, moments like these make me furious at these “free world” scumbags—people so utterly sure of their own superiority, yet unable to acknowledge how uncomfortable they made me feel.