The shark bops Lily in the nose, and she mistakes the command as being for her. She springs to life, running in circles, bumping into inflatable sharks at every turn. She wrangles one by the caudal fin and swings it around like a wrestler slamming a mismatched opponent. The other sharks make a safety bumper for her mania, and she can run every which way in her hunt to bring the one unlucky shark to its demise and I don’t have to worry about her running headfirst into the stove. This is a first since the octopus blinded her, her having this much fun and my allowing her to have it without constantly interfering to redirect her away from injury.
Finally her teeth puncture the luckless fish, and it slowly starts to deflate. Lily lies in wait until just enough air has been expelled from its tail, then pounces. She lands between the dorsal handles and her weight slowly presses the air out of her prey, the shark’s creepy red smile melting into a grimace. It occurs to me that to Lily, the inflatable sharks do not smell like condoms. They smell like red ball did when it was new. They smell like adventure. They smell like fun.
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.
5.
Lily yawns and stretches awake from her afternoon snooze and struggles to get down from my lap. I place her gently on the floor by my feet; she looks bothered by something, and I’m about to carry her to home base (“Home base!”) to reorient her when she scrambles up my leg and starts humping. This hasn’t really happened before—maybe once or twice in the manic hysteria of puppyhood, but that seemed less sexual and more a function of uncontainable joie de vivre. This, however, is uncomfortable in its single-mindedness of reproductive purpose.
“Lily, stop that.”
I’M! HUMPING! YOUR! LEG!
She grabs my leg tighter with her front paws, doubling down on her thrusting.
“Lily. No! You’re female!” Meredith would murder me for bringing gender into this. Why can’t girls—dammit—women be sexual thrusters? I have to shake my sister’s voice from my head as I pry Lily off my leg. It’s hard at this angle to pull her free, but I get my hands around her chest and yank. Finally Lily’s front paws release like Velcro and I lift her back up in my lap.
“What was that about?” I ask.
Lily shakes her head and her ears flap and she licks her chops. “What was what about?” She is as bewildered as I am.
The octopus opens an eye and says, “That was embarrassing.”
“No one is talking to you.” I say it as dismissively as possible, hoping he’ll go dormant again.
Lily turns three times and then plunks down in my lap with a sigh.
Puppies sighing.
“She can’t help herself anymore. It’s Freudian.”
“Freudian?”
“Sigmund Freud? He was known as the founding father of . . .”
“I know who Sigmund Freud is!” I realize now how obnoxious I sounded when I tried to explain to Jenny who Hermann Rorschach was. “We share the same birthday.” I don’t know why I say that last part, why I engage the octopus in further conversation, but it’s true and I just blurt it out.
“Tauruses,” the octopus says with a shrug.
My phone rings. I can hear it but I can’t see it. “Why do you know who he is, is a better question.”
I spot my phone peeking out from under an accent pillow on the couch and I answer it just as the octopus says, “It’s true that most octopuses are Jungians.”
I can’t take it anymore. “You’re so full of shit!” And then, into the phone, “Hello?”
“Did I catch you at a bad time?” It’s my mother.
“No.”
“Who were you talking to?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
I can tell my mother is not satisfied with my response and my evasiveness will obstruct any real conversation.
“Religious people at my door. Jehovah’s Witnesses.” This seems more satisfying, although I probably would never have the courage to tell a Jehovah’s Witness they were full of shit. I heard a rumor that Prince, a known member of the religion, has been spotted going door-to-door in my neighborhood to discuss the faith. I can’t chance yelling at Prince.
“You should live in the country. They never come out this far.”
Lily looks up at me expectantly, so I place red ball on the floor by her feet. “Why are you calling?” I realize how rude it sounds as soon as it’s out of my mouth.
My mother sighs. “I haven’t heard from you in a while. I was wondering if you were okay.”
“I’m fine, Mom. Just busy.” That much is not a lie.
“Did you hear Meredith’s news?”
“Pregnant?”
“Isn’t it wonderful?”
“She’s a good mother,” I say. Red ball glides under the couch and I get down on my knees to retrieve it. Lily, tail wagging, is facing the opposite wall.
“What does that mean? Meredith is a good mother.” I can tell by her tone she thinks maybe I’m implying that she was not.
“What does it mean? It means she’s a good mother. That’s all. She’s a good mother, you’re a good mother. Everyone is
