Lily and the Octopus

by Steven Rowley

The Law for the Wolves Now this is the Law of the Jungle, as old and as true as the sky; And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die. As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk, the Law runneth forward and back; For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack. —Rudyard Kipling

Once you had seen it, you couldn’t really unsee it—even as you remained impressed with its ability to hide so perfectly in plain sight.

I don’t know the derivation of this comfort craving, but there’s a quote from Cookie Monster that’s always inhabited my head: “Today me will live in the moment, unless it’s unpleasant, in which case me will eat a cookie.”

Less than twenty-four hours since the arrival of our . . . cephalopod houseguest, I already recognize a trait we share: I, too, am hiding in plain sight. I am walking through life invisible, skulking like a failure, hoping few people notice me.

I have to be better about living in the not knowing.

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.

By then I had all but given up trying to outstubborn a dachshund, an exercise in futility if there ever was one.

We never used to watch much TV; we used to talk about our days—commiserate over the things that bothered us most and laugh about the happenings that struck us as odd—but lately it has become a crutch.

they don’t need me insisting on seeing her or overseeing her recovery. And I would. I would be like Shirley MacLaine in Terms of Endearment: “It’s past ten. My daughter is in pain. I don’t understand why she has to have this pain. All she has to do is hold out until ten, and IT’S PAST TEN! My daughter is in pain, can’t you understand that! GIVE MY DAUGHTER THE SHOT!”

Eye contact is dangerous. Eye contact is a trigger.

before. Since chocolate is toxic for dogs, I called the vet and they suggested giving her some hydrogen peroxide as a way to induce vomiting—one teaspoon for every ten pounds of body weight, so one and a half teaspoons for Lily. Pretty effective stuff.

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.

The ceremony is perfect for my sister and her new husband—all business, no flourish. Nothing about the bride as property. No one to give her away, no mention of them being man and wife, no mention of a Christian god that none of us really believe in.

Her floppy ears bound upward with each gallop, sometimes floating there in the wind as if someone has put them on pause. When she comes back to me I know they will be flipped backward, pinned to her head and the back of her neck. I spend half my life restoring that dog’s ears to their factory setting.

I adore this passage!!

supposed to be another date with the hugging guy, but I canceled, since I was feeling gross and unattractive and unworthy of being loved. Ironically, this will probably help him clarify his feelings; men are hunters and tend to like other men who don’t make it easy.

“It’s natural, as our loved ones age, to start grieving their loss. Even before we lose them.”

cooking the bird breast side down for one hour at 425 degrees to crisp the skin and seal in the juices before lowering the temperature to 325 degrees and flipping the bird breast side up until the turkey registers 165 on a meat thermometer. Overall, this should make the cooking time between four and five hours.

How to cook a turkey

Dammit, Jenny. I am in mourning. That much is clear to me now. There is a recognizable departure from the normal attitudes of life: An eighteen-pound turkey is an acceptable meal for three. A dog’s supper dish can be on the people table. Pilgrim hats are appropriate haberdashery in June. An octopus may take my dog. There may not be a November.

With every good memory comes the memory of a mistake. A parallel memory. A darker recollection.

I don’t know if Enclosed World Syndrome is an official syndrome or something this vet made up, or who is even in charge of anointing syndromes officially. But Lily did rather quickly come to find comfort only in smaller and smaller concentric circles with our house at the center

Me too…

Lily catches the scent of something on the grass between the sidewalk and the street. I let her sniff. There will be no yanking her by the neck. She can have all the time in the world. And I will forgive myself for the mistakes I’ve made. For the times I got so angry. For the times I’ve acted hatefully.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “For all those other nights.” “Wh-y-y-y-y?” The panting continues. And this makes me cry even harder. 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.

There were days after I first moved to the city when I would grab a friend or two and a towel and sunscreen, and we’d go to this beach and you’d have to drag me away under protest at sunset. Now, it always seems there’s too much to do to indulge in whole days of such leisure, but that’s probably just an excuse. What is there to do, really?

After a pause Lily looks up at me. “Sometimes I think of you as Dad.” My heart rises in my throat. That’s the only term of endearment I need.

“Death is a unique opponent, in that death always wins.”

“If you spend your entire life trying to cheat death, there’s no time left over to embrace life.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and it is warm. “Don’t be afraid. That’s all I’m saying.”

sometimes it’s nice to have memories. Don’t you have any favorite memories?” Lily thinks about this. “All of my memories are my favorite memories.” I’m amazed by this. “Even the bad ones?” “Dogs don’t remember bad memories.”

Abby

I suppose we had a deal, a truce of sorts, but I’m confident he won’t keep his end of the bargain, so why should I keep mine?

Speaking of the Octopus…

“How many tickles does it take to make an octopus laugh?” Is he serious? In my experience, octopuses are foul creatures incapable of the lightness of laughter. Not knowing what else to say, I answer, “Does it matter?” “Ten—tickles.”

“I could try my hand at the harmonica again.” Lily cringes, but remains polite. “No, thank you.”

“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.

I am so very small. Physically small, but also petty. Why am I driven more by revenge than by forgiveness?

Basic human nature?

My mother for not saying she loves me? We’re too often guilty of thinking that our parents arrived on this planet as fully functioning adults on the day that we were born. That they don’t have pasts of their own prior to our birth. That the father is not also a son, that the mother is not also a child. My mother had a tough beginning, enduring things I know little about. And yet I more often discount her pain and overvalue mine.

Ema

“You know, yacht derives from the Dutch word jacht. Translated literally it means the hunt.”

Jenny and I once talked about how we manage to live despite the knowledge that we are all going to die. What’s the point of it all? Why bother getting up in the morning when faced with such futility? Or is it the promise of death that inspires life? That we must grab what we can while there is still time. Is it the not knowing if today is the day that keeps us going? But what if this is the day? What if the hour is here? How do you stand? How do you breathe? How do you go on?

Coach Taylor gives the first of his trademark speeches. Something about life being so very fragile. Something about us all being vulnerable. Something about how, at some point in our lives, we will fall. “We will all fall.”

I am forty-two. This is the halftime of my life, and my team is losing. I’ve never been more in need of this speech. He continues about how what we have can be taken from us. Even what we have that is special. And when it is taken, we will be tested.

The distribution of loss is inequitable. That’s just the way it is. That’s just the way the world works. There’s no one handing it out. There’s no one making sure everyone gets a fair share.

I think back to our relationship and my saying explicitly, these are the things that if you do them they will hurt me, and his uncanny ability to just do those things anyway. I’m not able to talk about it yet. Talking about it would hurt me. So what do you do if you’re Jeffrey? You call to talk about it.

Insensitive

A heart is judged not by how much you love, but by how much you are loved by others.

I’ve read a lot of Lord Byron of late; he had a Newfoundland, named Boatswain, who was the inspiration for one of his more famous works, “Epitaph to a Dog.” Near this Spot are deposited the Remains of one who possessed Beauty without Vanity, Strength without Insolence, Courage without Ferocity, and all the virtues of Man without his Vices.

Dogs generally see the whole you and love unconditionally. I think there’s a part of Ted that thinks the love he has from people is somehow conditional, and that prevents him from fully letting go.

Death is a part of life. The earlier one understands this, the more fully one can live.

I imagine that Ted and Jeffrey would adopt a dog from an area shelter—just as I would encourage readers of Lily and the Octopus in the market for a dog to do.