Lily and the Octopus

by Steven Rowley

Instinctually she probably already knows what is fast becoming clear to me: she is the whelk; she is the crab; she is the snail. The octopus is hungry. And it is going to have her.

“Do you want to get the deviled eggs?” I don’t know why he’s asking me this, because I always want to get the deviled eggs.

As always, I have to roll the dice, move her game piece, conduct the transactions, buy her houses and hotels, and be the banker—because, well, she’s a dog.

“What do you want from her?” Pause. “I’m not sure I’ve decided.” “I will do everything in my power to stop you.” “It would disappoint me if you did anything less.”

If it’s not the octopus that takes her, something else will eventually. A rhinoceros or a giraffe.” “A rhinoceros or a gir— How would a dog have a giraffe?” New Jenny has gone completely around the bend.

All those nights she had no idea that I went to bed angry at her. Or if she had known, she has forgotten. Because dogs live in the present. Because dogs don’t hold grudges. Because dogs let go of all of their anger daily, hourly, and never let it fester. They absolve and forgive with each passing minute. Every turn of a corner is the opportunity for a clean slate. Every bounce of a ball brings joy and the promise of a fresh chase.

Yours is by far the harder lot, but mine is happening to me.

The octopus? Does he merit my forgiveness? Was he just doing what octopuses do? Would I blame the lioness for taking down the gazelle? Or should I blame the ecosystem—the creation of a world where flesh is food?