Illustration by Bob AulSend anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations —changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent—to "Hey, You!" c/oOC Weekly, P.O. Box 10788, Costa Mesa, CA 92627-0247, or e-mail us at firstname.lastname@example.org. You were the body boarders on Newport beach a few Saturdays ago. We were the couple in love, strolling the beach with our unleashed dogs. You showed up, suited up and dove into the ocean for a hot session, leaving your bags, towels and other assorted personal effects on the beach. That's where one of our dogs, Moochie Boy, discovered them. He snorfled around your things while you waited patiently, far out past the breaks, facing the eastern horizon. It was a beautiful morning. Moochie Boy sniffed—harmlessly, I thought—and then he did the unthinkable: he raised his leg and hosed your stuff. I shouted as best I could, called him a bad dog and ordered him away. But the damage was done. I mean, he pissed like a racehorse. I looked out to sea, but you were preoccupied. And then Idid the unthinkable: I sneaked away. Later that day, I took Moochie Boy out for another walk. And there you were, your bags packed, towels wrapped around your necks against the cold. You met us on the boardwalk: think back, and you'll remember bending over to pet a dog. That was Moochie Boy. You called him "a sweet poochie." And for the second time that day, I did the unthinkable: I made small talk but said nothing about the dog-urine-soaked beach bags hanging from your shoulders. So consider this an apology. It's not perfect, but it's the best I can do. Please wash your bags.