Lily and the Octopus

by Steven Rowley

“Today me will live in the moment, unless it’s unpleasant, in which case me will eat a cookie.”

And then on the very last night of my twenties, when I held my new puppy in my arms, I broke down in tears. Because I had fallen in love. Not somewhat in love. Not partly in love. Not in a limited amount. I fell fully in love with a creature I had known for all of nine hours.

You wouldn’t think a twelve-year-old dachshund would be good at Monopoly, but you’d be wrong there.

Maybe she was always that small—I don’t think she’s ever weighed more than seventeen pounds—but her presence in my life has always been outsized.

Someone once said give a dog food and shelter and treats and they think you are a god, but give a cat the same and they think they are the god.

To focus, I think of how dogs are witnesses. How they are present for our most private moments, how they are there when we think of ourselves as alone. They witness our quarrels, our tears, our struggles, our fears, and all of our secret behaviors that we have to hide from our fellow humans. They witness without judgment.

If I remember all of the good things, isn’t it my responsibility to also remember the bad?

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.

“Dogs are always good and full of selfless love. They are undiluted vessels of joy who never, ever deserve anything bad that happens to them. Especially you. Since the day I met you, you have done nothing but make my life better in every possible way. Do you understand?”

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

“You try to kill me, we have business. You try to kill my dog, you die.”

All dogs go to heaven.