Lily and the Octopus

by Steven Rowley

In my twenties, I had another terrible therapist (therapists!) who concluded that since my mother never says “I love you” (at least not in the same way that other mothers do), there was going to be a limit to my ability to feel love. Love for someone, loved by someone. I was limited. 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. I remember Lily licking the tears from my face. THIS! EYE! RAIN! YOU! MAKE! IS! FANTASTIC! I! LOVE! THE! SALTY! TASTE! YOU! SHOULD! MAKE! THIS! EVERY! DAY! The realization was overwhelming—there was nothing wrong with me! There were no limits to what I could feel!

We sat at a picnic table on some grass and I scooped Lily up into my lap. WHAT! IS! THIS! CLOUD! THAT! YOU’RE! LICKING! I! LOVE! TO! LICK! THINGS! WOULD! I! LIKE! TO! LICK! THAT! Even on my best days, I always wished life excited me as much as it excited her. So I lowered the cone to let her have a lick. The response was immediate. THIS! IS! AMAZING! WE! MUST! HAVE! THIS! TO! LICK! EVERY! SINGLE! DAY!

Tonight it is me who wants to burrow to the foot of the bed, to find the safest spot under the covers, where I can feel small and protected and warm. A spot away from the nightmare of the octopus, away from the reach of his quivering arms, away from what I know is coming next.

“I’m serious, you prick. We’re going to the vet in the morning and I will do whatever it takes to stop you. I will max out every credit card at my disposal. I will beg, borrow, and steal. I will order every test, every pill, every measure, every treatment.” The octopus blinks, but doesn’t retreat. Skeptically: “Will you?” I would pull the walls of this house down on top of him if he weren’t attached to the fragile skull of my deepest love. In my whole life I’ve never been more angry. Mostly because he is right.

But Lily did rather quickly come to find comfort only in smaller and smaller concentric circles with our house at the center and, coincidentally, so did I.

Since the arrival of the octopus, I find myself spinning a familiar cocoon. It’s impossible to talk about what I can’t bring myself to say. If I were to join friends at a noisy bar or in a crowded restaurant and anyone were to ask, “How’s Lily?” what on Earth would I say? “Well, there’s an octopus on her head.”

When I get home the octopus is still there. My heart sinks, despite my brain telling it not to. I saddle Lily in her harness and grab her leash and we head out on a walk. Our old walk, the one up the quieter street with the hill. The one we used to take daily before our syndrome made us hermits and our outdoor excursions became limited to the shorter route that looped us quickly back home.

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.

The octopus laughs, and I’m still angry. But I also can’t help but feel joy at watching Lily prance and play. There is still vitality inside of her. There is still grace and jubilation and puppyness and wonder. I take a seat in order to fully appreciate her frivolity, her silliness. This may be the last time I see it in her. The last time I appreciate it myself. We are both transforming.

I look at the photograph. Across a guy’s rib cage are scrawled the words “To die would be an awfully big adventure.” I recognize it immediately. “Peter Pan.” “J. M. Barrie,” Kal corrects. “Peter Pan isn’t real.” “Isn’t he? I always thought Peter Pan was death. An angel of death who came to collect children.” Kal raises an eyebrow. “You’re darker than I thought.” “I didn’t used to be.” I am transforming. “What is death? Is it the end of photosynthesis, chemosynthesis, homeostasis?” Kal has the rhythm of a poet. “The last heartbeat? The last cell generation? The last breath of air?” “Maybe all those things.”

Trent speaks again, since I can’t. “I don’t know what I would do if I ever lost Weezie. The thought to me is . . . unfathomable.” But you will lose Weezie, I almost say. I no longer live in a world of ifs.

“What are we doing?” Lily yawns and nuzzles into me again. The night air is warm and still. “We’re creating a memory.” “Why?” I don’t tell her why. The answer is I need it. I need this memory to hold on to if my plan fails and she is no longer there. “Because 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.”

“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.

I pull the blanket over Lily’s head just enough to cover the octopus, so that it is just her and me, like it had always been. “I will love you forever. For the rest of my days and even all of the days after that.” With one last look, I pull the blanket up high enough to cover her completely. It takes me a minute to stand, but when I do I walk out of the room and, without looking back, I close the door behind me.

I see him casually leaning against a wall and something inside my body says there you are. There you are. I don’t understand them, these words, because they seem too deep and too soulful to attach to the Farmers Market, this Starbucks or that, a frozen yogurt place, or confusion over where to meet a stranger. They’re straining to define a feeling of stunning comfort that drips over me, as if a water balloon burst over my head on the hottest of summer days.

“Have you ever been in love?” Byron asks. I pause and think of Lily, even though I know that’s not what he means. I answer yes because, even if there had never been a Lily, it’s true. I even go so far as to try to mask the pain of it. “You?”

“I recently lost someone close to me.” A few last drags of the spoon in my empty dish before I put it down and turn my full attention to Byron. “I don’t know. I feel her here today. With us. You, me, her—three hearts. Like an octopus.” I shrug.

Byron smiles. His eyes are still blue, this time like the sky. The sky with the dachshund cloud. I remember one of the more spectacular sunsets aboard Fishful Thinking, when I sheepishly confided in Lily that I would like to fall in love again. How the words tripped heavily off my tongue with guilt. How even saying them out loud suggested a time after Lily. And I remember her simple response. “You will,” Lily said. We start walking. I start talking. “We met on a farm in the country when she was just twelve weeks old. She was gentle and kind and this lady called her a runt. Her father was called Caesar and her mother’s name was Witchie-Poo.” Byron squeezes my hand twice with waggish delight. I begin the story of Lily. BEGIN! THE! STORY! OF! ME!