Praise for Lily and the Octopus:
‘Singular, spectacular, and touchingly tentacular’
Chris Cleave, bestselling author of Little Bee
‘Intelligently written, finely observed, and surprisingly moving, this is a book you’ll find hard to put down’
Graeme Simsion, bestselling author of The Rosie Project
‘Steven Rowley’s touching, fresh, energetic novel isn’t simply another ‘boy and his dog’ story. It is a profound exploration of grief . . . A wonderfully moving story’
Garth Stein, bestselling author of The Art of Racing in the Rain
‘A quirky and deeply affecting charmer of a novel, Lily and the Octopus is funny, wise, and utterly original in its exploration of what it means to love any mortal creature. This brave little dachshund will capture your heart, as will her prickly, tenderhearted, and irresistible owner. Don’t miss their adventures together’
Sara Gruen, bestselling author of Water for Elephants
‘My favourite book of the year: Steven Rowley’s Lily and the Octopus. Hilarious, heartbreaking. You will absolutely cry and you will love it’
Patrick Ness, bestselling author of The Rest of Us Just Live Here
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2016
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Steven Rowley, 2016
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.
The right of Steven Rowley to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Hardback ISBN: 978-1-47114-274-1
Export Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-4711-5435-5
Australian Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-4711-4664-0
Australian eBook ISBN: 978-1-4711-5512-3
eBook ISBN: 978-1-4711-5436-2
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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For Lily
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
Contents
The Octopus
Camouflage
Friday Afternoon
Friday Evening
Friday Night
Saturday Late Afternoon
Sunday, 4:37 A.M.
Sunday Night
The Invertebrate
Stuck
Backbone
We’ll Take a Cup of Kindness Yet for Auld Lang Syne
I’m Afraid There’s No Denyin’/I’m Just a Dandy-Lion
The Tonga Room and Hurricane Bar
The Vow
Squeezed
Suction
Monday
Tuesday
Friday
Sunday
Monday
Wednesday Night
A Complete List of Lily’s Nicknames
Saturday
Ink
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
The Pelagic Zone
Fishful Thinking
The Old Lady and the Sea
Scar Light, Scar Bright, First Scar I See Tonight
Midnight
The Squall
The Hunt
Drowning
Infinity (∞)
8 A.M.
9 A.M.
10 A.M.
11 A.M.
Noon
1 P.M.
2 P.M.
3 P.M.
4 P.M.
5 P.M.
9 P.M.
11 P.M.
Three Hearts
August
The Octopus
It’s Thursday the first time I see it. I know that it’s Thursday because Thursday nights are the nights my dog, Lily, and I set aside to talk about boys we think are cute. She’s twelve in actual years, which is eighty-four in dog years. I’m forty-two, which is two hundred and ninety-four in dog years—but like a really young two hundred and ninety-four, because I’m in pretty good shape and a lot of people tell me I could pass for two hundred and thirty-eight, which is actually thirty-four. I say this about our ages because we’re both a little immature and tend to like younger guys. We get into long debates over the Ryans. I’m a Gosling man, whereas she’s a Reynolds gal, even though she can’t name a single movie of his that she would ever watch twice. (We dropped Phillipe years ago over a disagreement as to how to pronounce his name. FILL-a-pea? Fill-AH-pay? Also because he doesn’t work that much anymore.) Then there’s the Matts and the Toms. We go back and forth between Bomer and Damon and Brady and Hardy depending on what kind of week it has been. And finally the Bradleys, Cooper and Milton, the latter of whom is technically way older and long dead and I’m not sure why my dog keeps bringing him up other than she loves board games, which we usually play on Fridays.
Anyhow, this particular Thursday we are discussing the Chrises: Hemsworth and Evans and Pine. It’s when Lily suggests offhandedly we also include Chris Pratt that I notice the octopus. It’s not often you see an octopus up close, let alone in your living room, let alone perched on your dog’s head like a birthday party hat, so I’m immediately taken aback. I have a good view of it, as Lily and I are sitting on opposite sides of the couch, each with a pillow, me sitting Indian style, her perched more like the MGM lion.
“Lily!”
“We don’t have to include Chris Pratt, it was just a suggestion,” she says.
“No—what’s that on your head?” I ask. Two of the octopus’s arms hang down her face like chin straps.
“Where?”
“What do you mean, where? There. Over your temple on the right side.”
Lily pauses. She looks at me for a moment,
