Lily and the Octopus

Lily aged and her reactions slowed and her eyesight became less crisp, Doogie’s predecessor warned me that she might develop something he called Enclosed World Syndrome. I told him I hadn’t heard of Enclosed World Syndrome, only New World Syndrome (the introduction of a modern, sedentary lifestyle to indigenous peoples, along with obesity, diabetes, and heart disease—you’re welcome, Native Americans). 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 and, coincidentally, so did I. Or maybe Lily’s aging coincided with the end of my relationship with Jeffrey and the stalling of my writing career. “How’s Jeffrey?” “How’s the writing going?” These were questions that had irritated me to my core. Not because of their illegitimacy, but because I had no response. How was Jeffrey? We can’t go two days without fighting. How was the writing? I haven’t written anything in months. It became easier to avoid people than to have to explain that I was struggling. My Enclosed World Syndrome got a little better, partly out of necessity, when I became single again. Lily’s never did.

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.”

“There’s an ostrich in her bed?”

Any conversation would only unravel from there.

Slowly I lift my head and take in my surroundings. There’s a shirtless model outside of Abercrombie & Fitch. Nordstrom is undergoing some sort of storefront remodel. Crate & Barrel is pushing patio umbrellas in bold, striped fabrics. Someone who may or may not be Mark Ruffalo is making a beeline toward Kiehl’s. Slowly, the pounding in my head stops. Slowly, my body temperature lowers, my normal heartbeat returns.

I wish there was a way I could see from my phone if the octopus was gone. Some sort of app connected to a series of nanny cams to spy on every room in my house. Something that would allow me to look at Lily asleep in her bed, her head unencumbered by that beast, her mind deep in the sweetest dream. Or maybe I’m glad that there’s not. Maybe it would just be one more thing on my phone for me to check obsessively, taking me out of the moment, taking me away from life. Maybe I would use it as permission to stay clear of Lily in my magical thinking that that’s when the octopus will leave, even though I know deep down it’s going to take a lot more than a trip to the mall for him to go.

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.

As we walk two blocks and round the corner and climb the hill that gives us a distant view of the Hollywood sign, 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.

The afternoon air is cool, the haze is soft. The last few petals of the jacaranda trees color the sidewalk. The streets are empty. People are not yet home from work to walk their dogs. We don’t get any strange looks or sideways glances. No one stops to ask why there’s an octopus hitching a ride on my dog. In the distance, soft mountains and rolling hills mark the edge of the Los Angeles basin. There’s the slightest hint of salt in the air—you’d have to really want to smell it, but it’s there.

“Oh, look! The Hollywood sign.” It’s the octopus. Lily has finished sniffing and has turned to look back at me.

I roll my eyes.

“It’s smaller than I imagined.”

“You’re smaller than I imagined.” It’s not much of a comeback and I’m not even sure what I mean by it, but it’s all I have. Smaller as in petty, I guess.

For the briefest of moments, I think maybe the octopus just wants to see some sights. The Hollywood sign. Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. Venice Beach. The building where they filmed Die Hard. That maybe he mistook Lily for a small, four-legged tour bus, and he’s riding up top on a double-decker waiting for the next photo op.

But I know this isn’t true.

Still, it’s important for us to get out more, I think, while looking out at the expanse. Not so the octopus can leave, but because maybe the octopus is here to stay.

Wednesday Night

I wake to find the bed shaking and immediately think it’s an earthquake. We haven’t had one, a memorable one, for years, and in the back of my mind I’ve been preparing.

Expecting.

Waiting.

I prop myself up on my elbows and stare into the darkness. Something’s different; something’s not right. There’s not the usual rolling sensation of surfing tectonic waves. My stomach isn’t sinking in the way it does when you reach the top of a roller coaster, in the