Lily and the Octopus(23)
I tuck Lily’s hind legs under her and settle her into her usual crouch, legs slightly splayed like a frog’s. From behind her I reach under her abdomen and feel for the water balloon, for the soft squish the size of a lemon. When I find it, I take a deep breath, gird myself, and squeeze. Up and to the back.
I don’t know what’s different in the morning light—the fullness of her bladder, her willingness to do her part, my fearlessness brought on by the dawn of a new day, the dream of her running, the desire to see her run again. Whatever it is, when I squeeze up and to the back her tail rises to that familiar forty-five-degree angle that makes it look like a missile about to launch and slowly she starts to pee.
“She’s doing it! You’re doing it!” I’m so excited I almost let go. But I don’t. I continue to squeeze.
Lily is startled by the sensation and overwhelmed with relief. Jeffrey pumps his fist and we both break out in smiles.
“At last,” Jeffrey says, relieved.
“Ha-ha!” I am triumphant.
Lily attempts to stand and I realize I can stop squeezing. I gently guide her over the puddle of her making.
“You did it, Bean.” Everything else fades away.
I’m the happiest I have ever been.
Suction
Monday
The octopus sits in his usual perch as Lily and I make our way to the veterinarian’s office. We skirt the construction around LACMA because no one in Los Angeles knows how to merge. Lily sits as she always does when I drive, in my lap with her chin nestled in the crook of my left elbow—the arm I try in vain to steer with as I downshift with my right. She looks up at me, annoyed, whenever we actually have to make a turn. The octopus hasn’t said anything this morning. He doesn’t have to; the echo of his voice rings hauntingly in my brain. He’s getting bigger by the hour.
The waiting room is small and dark and cramped, the brown linoleum floor is peeling in the corners, and any available breathing room is filled with shelves of dietary pet food and supplements with names like Rimadyl and Glycoflex. I’m not sure why I still go to this vet, other than that it’s close to my house. This is a pattern in my life I need to rethink: Jenny the therapist, this dumpy veterinary office. I will say there are new doctors here who are better than the last rotation, who disappeared suddenly after some unflattering Yelp reviews.
I find a seat on an empty bench made of wood and wrought iron. It makes me feel like I’m waiting for a trolley. The shelves tower over us, which would be our doom in an earthquake, but also mercifully provide at least the illusion of privacy. Veterinary offices can be a grab bag of emotions. Cats are always frightened and in crates, their owners equally skittish. There are happy dogs here for simple things like checkups, excited to be out in the world and scenting the lingering promise of a biscuit. There are nervous dogs who hate the vet under any circumstance. There are sick and injured dogs with fretful owners who may bark and lunge and bite. There are owners leaving with no pets, having just received some kind of devastating news. And then there’s us. People with dogs with octopuses on their heads. We, apparently, are the worst of the lot. Since we are too horrific and deformed to look at, others who pass through give us a wide berth.
After some time, we are led into an examining room to wait for the doctor. I set Lily down on the table and she flinches as her pads make contact with cold metal. I stroke her back to get her to stay calm. This room is also small. On the wall is a poster promoting pet dental care with photos of dog teeth in varying stages of decay. The wallpaper, somewhat ironically, is the color of gum disease.
The vet enters with a smile. He’s the cutest of the newer staff and I’ve named him Doogie in my head because he looks too young to be a doctor, even an animal doctor, which may (or may not, who really knows?) require fewer years in school. His khakis have pleats and I wonder if I should mention something about how outdated they look, but maybe he wears them in an attempt to look older.
“What brings you in today?”
Flabbergasted, I stare at him square in the eye. If he was reading a chart, or looking at notes from Lily’s patient file, that would be one thing. But he’s looking right at my dog with that grin. This is probably where his inexperience cuts against him.
“Are you serious?” It’s all I can stammer.
“How is Lily?” He pulls back her lips and stares at her teeth. What’s he getting at? I know they are old. I know they’re rotting. I know both her teeth and her gums are victims of my tight budget and neglect. But are they worse than what’s on her head? Is that really what he’s saying? What is the obsession in this place with teeth?!
“Well, for starters, she has an octopus on her head.”
The vet lets go of her jaw, looks at Lily’s head, and blanches.
“Oh.”
Yes, oh.
The vet crouches down to get a better view of the octopus.
“How long has that been there?”
“I first noticed him late last week.”
He grabs Lily by the snout and angles her head around to get a good look at it from all sides. “And an octopus, you’re calling it.”
“What would you call it?” I begin to scan the room to see if there is a framed veterinary degree of some kind on the wall that might inspire confidence. I remember Internet-stalking Doogie after our last visit because I thought he was handsome. I think he went to school in Pennsylvania, but now I’m not so sure. The pants, his cluelessness. Maybe he just purchased a degree from a fake school in Guam. I won’t be Internet-stalking him again.