Lily and the Octopus(64)

My heart is broken enough.

Time stops.

Time passes.

The woman returns, this time with an assistant. The assistant offers a half-smile but otherwise does her best to be invisible.

The veterinarian places Lily on the table. She’s still wrapped in my blanket. Her leg is exposed. I can see the catheter. It is taped in place with plastic.

I kneel down in front of Lily so that we are face-to-face.

“Hi, Monkey. Hi, Tiny Mouse.”

Lily chuffs a few deep breaths.

“There is a wind coming,” I cue her.

Silence.

There is no Cate Blanchett. There is no response. She can no longer command the wind, sir. She no longer has the hurricane inside of her.

Lily makes one last effort to stand, and that’s when I really lose it.

We can still run. We can still break out of here. We can still choose life.

But what kind of life would it be?

Instead, I shower Lily’s face with kisses.

“So many adventures we had. And I loved every one.”

Lily’s head droops and I kiss her again.

The assistant holds her back legs and I hold her front.

I nod at the veterinarian.

“Okay. I’m going to inject the first drug. The anesthesia. She’s just going to fall asleep.”

Sleep well, my beautiful slinkster dog.

The anesthesia is fast.

For a few seconds, nothing. But then Lily’s eyes open wide as she feels the whoosh of the drug inside her. Then her eyes grow heavy.

She blinks once, maybe twice.

She staggers left.

We slowly lower her to the table, where she falls gently asleep.

“Let me know when you’re ready and I will inject the second drug.”

“Wait!” I snap.

I’m not ready.

OH GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE?

Why is this happening?

It’s Thursday.

Thursdays are the days my dog Lily and I set aside to talk about boys we think are cute. I look at the tape on the catheter, the bandage holding it in place.

Rip the Band-Aid. Quick. It’s the only way.

“Okay.” I can feel the letters vomit off my tongue.

O.

K.

A.

Y.

I watch the vet insert the syringe into the catheter and inject the second drug. And then the adventures come flooding back:



The puppy farm.

The gentle untying of the shoelace.

THIS! IS! MY! HOME! NOW!

Our first night together.

Running on the beach.

Sadie and Sophie and Sophie Dee.

Shared ice-cream cones.

Thanksgivings.

Tofurky.

Car rides.

Laughter.

Eye rain.

Chicken and rice.

Paralysis.

Surgery.

Christmases.

Walks.

Dog parks.

Squirrel chasing.

Naps.

Snuggling.

Fishful Thinking.

The adventure at sea.

Gentle kisses.

Manic kisses.

More eye rain.

So much eye rain.

Red ball.



The veterinarian holds a stethoscope up to Lily’s chest, listening for her heartbeat.

All dogs go to heaven.

“Your mother’s name is Witchie-Poo.” I stroke Lily behind her ears in the way that used to calm her. “Look for her.”

OH FUCK IT HURTS.

I barely whisper. “She will take care of you.”

I look up at the vet, pleading. Inject me. Give me the poison, too. At least enough to make my heart stop breaking. Anything. Just please make it stop.

After ten more seconds, the vet pulls her stethoscope away. She doesn’t need to say anything.

Lily is gone.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” She puts her hand on my shoulder while motioning for her assistant. “Take all the time with her you need.”

I don’t even notice them leave.

Time passes. I don’t know how much. I’m aware I’m alone in the room with Lily and that is the only thing I’m aware of. I kiss the tip of her nose.

“Oh, god, please forgive me.”

I’m sitting on the floor with my legs tucked to my chest and I’m rocking back and forth.

The tiniest bit of tongue hangs out of Lily’s mouth. So pink. So still. So lifeless.

So many tears. I can’t remember ever in my life crying this hard.

This is some sort of mistake. It has to be.

I slide my hand under the blanket and place it on Lily’s chest. She’s still warm, but her chest does not rise and fall like it does in even her deepest sleeps. I keep it there long enough to make sure, but after some time even I’m forced to concede that her heart has stopped.

I put my head down and sob, as there’s nothing much else to do. My brain detaches from my heart and creates independent thoughts. It wonders how long I should stay in here so people don’t think that I’m callous. It wonders how long I should not stay in here, how long before people will think that I’m creepy. It tells me to remember every detail of this. That it’s important to catalog. So I do.

The clock.

The white walls.

The blanket.

The cold empty chair and the rolling stool.

The metal table.