The car is warm from the morning sun, and I open the sunroof. Lily lasts about thirty seconds in the passenger seat before she climbs into her customary perch on my lap. She turns around three times and I wait at a stop sign until she settles because it’s hard to drive when your dog is stepping on sensitive bits that she shouldn’t. As always, she quiets herself with her chin in the crook of my left elbow, and we turn down the street heading west.
We hit the Pacific Coast Highway in no time. Where is everyone? It’s almost like an entire city has been so lulled by the gloom and the haze that they’ve all given up their identity as early risers. Their loss, our gain. The sun is even shining as we emerge off the 10 and through the tunnel that gives us our first glimpse of the Pacific. This is a hard one to explain to visitors, the weather differential between most of Los Angeles and the ocean. The beach is often the last part of the city to see sun. But not today. Today, the sun sparkles majestically off the water.
I stream some music from my phone and crank it loud, but this seems to bother Lily—she has the look of someone with a crippling hangover, the thumping bass going right through her—so I turn the volume down until you can just make out the music over the sound of the air that whooshes over and past the open sunroof. 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 stop at El Matador, ten miles or so north of Malibu, a beach that’s always brought solace and a certain clearheadedness. 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?
Despite the early hour, there are only three open spots in the tiny parking lot and I grab one of them. The rest are taken by surfers, no doubt—their internal clocks align with the tides. The lot sits maybe 150 feet up on a cliff above the beach, and the views from the parking lot alone are spectacular. You can easily see the other pocket beaches, El Pescador (the fisherman) and La Piedra (the rock). I’ve wondered why El Matador is thusly named. The bullfighter. Perhaps it’s the craggy stone formations that emerge from the sea. But they are less like bulls to me than sea monsters. Like the octopus. El Pulpo, as a name, is probably less inviting.
Lily and I get out of the car and stroll a bit to the cliff’s edge. I pick her up and we survey the horizon together.
“So, do you remember the beach?”
“Is this the beach?” she asks.
“Yes, yes—down below, it is.”
Lily looks down. “I remember.” Then, tentatively, “Are we going down there?”
“Not today. Dogs aren’t allowed on this beach.” There’s a sign that says as much, but I think about breaking the rules. What is anyone going to do? Call a park ranger? The police? But Lily looks content, and there’s a picnic table that’s not being used, so I decide not to ruffle any feathers. “I thought we could just sit here for a while.”
Lily agrees, and we sit on the table and listen to the ocean, to the sound of the pounding surf that, because it is so far below, sounds farther away than it is. The muffled cackle of people laughing in the water and the distant cries of soaring gulls add layers to the symphony.
“We have some decisions to make, Monkey.”
Lily mulls the weight of this for a moment before asking, “Why do you call me that?”
“Why do I call you what?”
“Monkey.”
“Why do I call you Monkey?”
“And all those other names.”
“Those are terms of endearment.”
“I don’t understand.” Lily squints as she stares out into the sun.
“Terms of endearment are names or phrases that you use to address someone that you feel great affection for.”
The wind picks up and we sit quietly for a moment.
“You have a lot of them for me,” she observes.
“That’s because I have a lot of affection for you.” And then, almost as an afterthought, “Do you have any terms of endearment for me?”
Lily thinks about this. “Mostly, I think of you as That Guy.”
I could let that bother me, but I don’t. Terms of endearment are probably a human thing. They’re certainly not a dog creation. They have other things—tail wagging, for instance—instead. To her, I am That Guy. The guy.
Her guy.
In the water, a pod of dolphins breaks the surface and we watch them as they dive up and down over the forming waves. Part of me wishes we were not high on a cliff; part of me wishes I could swim out to the dolphins and enlist their help in prying the octopus from Lily with their bottle noses
