I was on my usual caffeine circuit, shuttling between the Starbucks and The Cow’s End, because one coffee is never enough and also because I enjoy the illusion of productivity that comes with walking briskly while holding a cup. It was a normal Venice morning—skaters wiping out, tech bros on rental e-bikes, a guy playing Karaoke on the pier with real conviction but no apparent tuning abilities.
And then, here they came.
The runners.
A whole squad of them, bare-chested, bronzed (or at least spray-tanned), and absolutely committed to whatever half-baked philosophy had convinced them that sprinting down Washington Boulevard at full speed was a form of divine communion.
Leading the charge was a guy who looked like he had recently discovered The Iliad and was making it everyone’s problem. He had that crazed, unearned confidence of a man who quotes Marcus Aurelius on dates. Behind him, the rest of the pack—muscles tight, jaws clenched, locked in a synchronized display of vital energy.
They were too fast. Too focused. Too convinced they were in Sparta and not Venice Beach, California.
Which is why they did not see the dog walker.
This poor guy was just out here trying to make a living, walking a herd of dogs—five, maybe six—of various shapes, sizes, and temperaments. The kind of group that, when standing still, looks like a United Nations summit of canines.
The collision was inevitable.
The dogs felt it first. You could see it in their faces—pure, unfiltered confusion. Like, What is this? What is happening? Why is there a human stampede?
Then, the barks started.
Not aggressive, just necessary. A protest. A loud, disorganized chorus of What the hell, man?!
And that’s when it happened. The moment that shattered the Bronze Age fantasy like a cheap ceramic amphora.
The runners panicked.
It wasn’t immediate. At first, they tried to push through, as if they could just outwill a pack of startled, barking dogs. But then, the barking intensified. Leashes tangled. A very small but very angry dachshund made a noise like a car alarm going off inside a tin can.
And suddenly—chaos.
The formation broke. Their warrior discipline collapsed.
One guy flinched so hard he nearly did a barrel roll. Another, who had been carrying a water bottle like it was a ceremonial goblet, launched it into the air. The guy in the lead, Mr. I Am Achilles Reborn, let out a noise that was decidedly unheroic and sidestepped into a trash can.
They did not stop running. Oh no. They just kept going—now scattered, weaving, stumbling, their noble chariot race turned into a frantic, disjointed sprint for safety.
Meanwhile, the dogs? They won.
Not because they chased, but because they stood their ground. The little dachshund looked triumphant. A golden retriever sat down mid-chaos, utterly unbothered, while the dog walker just sighed, like this was not the first time Venice Beach had thrown him this particular flavor of nonsense.
And me? I just stood there, sipping my second coffee, watching the dust settle.
Venice never disappoints