Does embarrassment have a place?

On guilt, shame, defensiveness, and doing better next time

The story

We’re on our way back from sunrise at Corona Arch. Up ahead an off-leash collie darts in front of their group on the trail. A man calls the dog closer. Sean and I notice—Scout does too—and maneuver accordingly, so I’m between our heeler and these strangers.

As we approach I hear the man telling his dog not to bother us. “I mean business,” he says sternly as his companion inches forward. I’m thankful he seems aware. I appreciate his fellow hikers asking if it’s all good. (They pause to take a photo, and I assume the rest of the group doesn’t want to worry about the dog interfering.)

The collie’s attention is fixed on Scout, but the situation appears mostly under control. So many times I’ve been told not to make a big deal of things like this. (“It’s not a problem I unclip my dog in leashed areas, because they’re under command.” “If people want to make a snap judgment that my dog isn’t trained, that’s on them.” “My dog won’t approach anyone, other dog owners need to lighten up.”) It’s all these remembered voices that keep me from asking this man to just attach his leash. Here, I think, is one chance to prove how much I’ve relaxed over the years. I muster up confidence—and trust in this person I’ve never met but who at least seems to understand his dog ought not to run up to us without invitation—to pass calmly.

We almost do. We draw level with the group. Then the collie breaks toward us.

I step forward to intercept, grabbing the dog’s collar as Sean and Scout get around. (Scout raises a few hackles but shakes it off well. I almost can’t believe she used to be so outwardly “reactive”.)

The man rushes over, semi-shouting “no”, and I don’t let go of his dog until he’s holding on himself. Then he asks: “What, does your dog like to fight or something?”

Trying to handle myself half as well as Scout did, I force my voice level. “No, but she’s been attacked before, and it’s not kind to charge strangers without permission.” On I walk. I have no interest in what he’ll say next. His fellow hikers call him back for their photo op.

A few minutes later, when my breathing has returned to baseline and we’ve cheerfully passed two other groups, I ask Sean if he interpreted the situation like I did. “Was that guy out of line to imply stuff about Scout? It felt mean, like the only reason his dog shouldn’t be allowed to run up to us is if there’s something “wrong” with ours.”

He agrees. His theory is this: The man felt embarrassed. We’d heard the other people in his group confirming he had control of his dog. He seemed to think he might, possibly, and was forced to realize he didn’t. He prickled defensively.

“He should feel embarrassed,” I reply. I then worry I’ve come across unkind myself. We are generally not supposed to wish negative feelings—any kind of negative feelings—on other people.

I sit with it for a few hours. The day is beautiful; we go out to breakfast; we settle into our next campsite nestled against stark red rocks. I am no longer on edge. And I realize I still mean it: That guy should be embarrassed. He should not hate himself, he should not cry the rest of the day, he should not curl under a rock—but he should feel uncomfortable he disrespected fellow trail users.

And his embarrassment should fuel different decisions next time.