Lily and the Octopus

by Steven Rowley

Lily and I continue the tradition, although we usually order pizza to be delivered so Lily can bark at the deliveryman like a crazed townsperson accusing Goody Proctor of being a witch.

EIGHT TIMES I WAS COWARDLY 1 When I was five and my father told me to walk in a more masculine way and I was so immediately overcome with shame that I did. 2 That time in the seventh grade when this popular kid with a French last name called me a faggot and instead of standing up for myself I thought of how faggot would sound in French (fag-oh) while wishing for the floor to swallow me whole. 3 When my parents divorced and people asked me about it and I pretended I was glad. 4 When this guy in high school performed oral sex on me and I told him afterward that it was not a big deal because even though he might be gay, I was comfortable with my heterosexuality. 5 Deciding not to major in creative writing because I thought that the broader and blander “communications” was the safer degree. 6 When I ended one relationship by becoming so distant and cold that after months of trying to reach me and discover what was wrong, he was left with no choice but to break up with me. 7 When I didn’t immediately confront Jeffrey about the text message I’d seen. 8 Every time I don’t tell my mother that I love her because I’m afraid she won’t say it back.

the flight to San Francisco is a smaller plane with only two seats in each row on either side of the walkway. If nothing else, I can stare out at the view below and not have to make eye contact with anyone. Eye contact is dangerous. Eye contact is a trigger.

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. There was a book once about a man who tried to teach his dog to speak a human language, to help him solve his wife’s murder. It said that if dogs could tell us all they have seen, it would magically stitch together all the gaps in our lives.

I try to witness this moment how a dog would witness it. To take it all in.

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.

We pass a string of familiar landmarks: the restaurant where Jeffrey and I had our first date; Paradise Cove, where I had lunch with my father the last time he visited; Trancas Market, where in my twenties I used to buy bottled water and snacks before hitting a Malibu beach. I see a younger version of myself at each and it’s all I can do not to wave; I wonder what my younger selves would think of me now, if they would recognize me or even care to wave back.

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.

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

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?

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.