“Lily?”
Silence.
Of course there is no answer.
I got out of the car.
11 P.M.
There’s an empty bottle of vodka in the freezer and I don’t know why it’s there or why there’s not a full bottle. I toss it into the recycling bin. Then I take the unopened bottle of vodka from the cabinet and the remaining beer in the refrigerator and I dump them down the drain. I do this before undertaking the somber task of putting Lily’s bed out of sight in the closet. I take her paw-print blanket and hold it up to my face, inhaling deeply, before folding it neatly and placing it on top of the laundry. I lift her food and water dishes off the floor. I don’t even wash them, I just empty them and put them in a drawer. There’s a stray piece of kibble hidden under her food bowl.
Unfinished business.
My bed is unmade. In the middle is a nest of towels where Lily slept her last night. I strip the bed, and under the towels I find an empty trash bag laid out over the sheets. I don’t remember putting it there, or even having the thought to do so. I flip the mattress, even though it’s dry, and make the bed with clean sheets.
Slowly, I’m erasing the events of the day.
I take a hot shower and stand for a long time under the spray. I’m aware that I’m washing her off me, removing her from the spots where we last touched. I turn off all the cold water until the hot water scalds, and when I can’t stand the pain any longer I turn the cold knob until the water becomes temperate again.
When I get out of the shower I forget to even dry off and I just stand there next to the open window in the thick July air looking out into the darkness of the backyard. Tomorrow is Friday—therapy with Jenny. How will I speak of this with her?
On Fridays we play Monopoly.
I find some shorts on the floor, flop down onto the sofa, and turn on the TV. I look down at my legs and they are splayed in a way that creates a nook for Lily—the one she would always step into, turning around three times and then falling asleep in, her chin slung over the bend in my knee. This is how I sit now. I never sat like this before. This is how I sit now. Lily has fundamentally changed me.
What was the point of grieving early? That’s what I will ask Jenny. If the point was to alleviate the grief I feel now—to make it malleable, to spread it thinner in a more manageable fashion—grieving early had utterly failed. If I was detaching weeks ago, shouldn’t it be easier to fully detach today?
There will be two drugs.
I want to go back to that space in between them. After the first, where she is no longer in pain, just floating on a peaceful cloud of sleep. Before the second, where her heart still beats and her chest still rises and falls and that little bit of pink tongue is still tucked safely inside her closed jaw.
Midnight encroaches and I want to stop the clocks. Tomorrow will be the first day that Lily never saw. There’s an overwhelming desire to run away.
The octopus came when I was away. All this time I have felt at fault, the one to blame, but suddenly I am overcome with a wave of anger at Lily. She used to bark at the mailman, bark at the wind, bark at every passing car. She used to race to the front door to scare away potential attackers, her silly body rigid with readiness, her nose pressed through the wooden blinds to smell danger, her bark that of a much larger dog. She used to dash to the door whenever I got home. She used to be diligent when things would go bump in the night. But somewhere along the line, she aged. She got older, and harder of hearing and maybe lazy or just impaired. Whatever the cause, she let her guard down. She failed to protect us.
That is when the octopus came.
She is the one at fault.
She is the one to blame.
Or maybe the octopus tricked her into submission. He was that wily. He could have come prepared. He could have come unannounced. The octopus, after all, is a master of camouflage.
It’s impossible to focus my anger.
Why did I think we would be together forever? Lily never made that promise. Dogs don’t live as long as people. In my head, I knew this. But to think that there would come a day when we would part was to take the joy out of a day we had together. A day together at the beach. A day together taking naps and walks. A day together chasing squirrels.
My body fights with my mind for rest. My eyes grow heavy and yet still resist sleep, but I don’t know why. I need sleep. Desperately. Maybe I fear the return to Fishful Thinking now that I know it does not end how I thought it did. Now that the journey does not return us home.
I finally break free of my repose and wander aimlessly through the house, turning off switches wherever there is light.
When I get to the kitchen I find red ball staring at me from the linoleum floor, and my eyes water again. I lean down to retrieve it. It’s impossibly fixed to the floor, like the sword in the stone. It takes a long time to move it but, like Arthur, I do, and I tuck it in the drawer with her food.
I turn off the kitchen light.
She was twelve and a half
