Lily and the Octopus(67)

Weezie sits expectantly, hungrily, in front of Trent and I forget again if dogs do or don’t eat pizza.

“I don’t know what I’ll do when it’s Weezie’s time,” Trent says. I know he says this because he’s experiencing some of my pain, coupling it with imagined future pain of his own, trying to understand. Plus the not knowing what to say that all of us experience in the face of grief. And I appreciate it, I do. But it’s not Weezie’s time. She is here. Unscathed. Alive. He also has Matt. What do I have?

The distribution of loss is inequitable. And I don’t want him not to have Weezie. And I don’t want him not to have Matt. I love my friend, and I want him to have every happiness. So I say this as a realization only. Not as a desire to redistribute loss or to make it more equitable. The distribution of loss is inequitable. That’s just the way it is. That’s just the way the world works. There’s no one handing it out. There’s no one making sure everyone gets a fair share.

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

Had.

Past tense.

Did Lily know this as her eyes grew heavy? That the adventures were over? Or did she feel the heaviness of sleep as the onset of a satisfying rest, one that would allow her to be fresh for new adventures ahead? Was it exciting or terrifying? Or did she see nothing at all?

I think of Kal and rub the tattoo on my arm. To die would be an awfully big adventure. But it’s not true. Life is the real adventure. Having the hurricane inside you is the true adventure. And then I think not of Cate Blanchett as Queen Elizabeth I, but of Mel Gibson as William Wallace. Everyone dies. Not everyone really lives. And then of Mel Gibson in the movie Ransom: Give me back my son!

The pizza makes me listless, and I lie down again. I’m vaguely aware of Trent taking my plate so that Weezie won’t eat the crust I’ve left untouched. Pizza bones, my dad called them.

Bones.

Remains.

Ashes to ashes.

Dust to dust.

I try to focus on getting back to Fishful Thinking, on getting back to Lily, on rescuing her from the meteor storm of red balls. I will try harder this time to get to her, to save her. I will grab her and we will run. The fact that we are on a boat surrounded by water and there is no place to run to is of little consequence. This time we will run.

Except when sleep comes, I do not dream of Lily.





5 P.M.


What are these?” Trent is holding pamphlets.

“I don’t know.” I sit upright and lean on some throw pillows. I’ve never seen them before. The pamphlets. The room is vaguely spinning and the TV is still playing Friday Night Lights and this time I don’t need to be reminded what happened; I wake up already knowing.

Trent thumbs through them before saying, “Oh.” He places them on the coffee table.

“What?”

“Nothing. You can read these later.”

I reach forward and my abs hurt in the way they do when I’ve been working out a lot, except I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen the inside of a gym. Weeks ago, maybe. When I pick up the pamphlets, I immediately regret it. Pet mortuary. Pet crematory. Pet burial grounds. Words jump out at me and assault my eyes. Respectful handling. Individual cremation. Selecting an urn. Bereavement counseling. Fine products. Compassionate care. Each phrase is a new stab at my heart.

Trent takes them from me.

“Where did you get those?” I ask—I accuse.

“They were here on the table.”

Someone must have put them in my hands before I left the animal hospital, but I have no memory of it. Did I drive here with them clutched in my hands? I have no memory of that, either.

“I’ll put them over here with the letter.”

“There’s a letter?”

“You can read it later. You don’t need to read it now.”

Dear Sir,

We were able to remove the octopus after all. Your dog is fine. Please come pick her up at your earliest convenience. She is excited to see you!

Yours in science,

The Animal Hospital





“What does it say.” I don’t ask; this is an order for him to tell me. There is no reading it later. I need to know. I need to know what the letter says now.

Trent sighs. He opens the letter, which is folded in thirds. He scans it until he gets to the end. “You have until Monday to decide what you want to have done with Lily.” He reads me the options. If I choose individual cremation, I can shop for an urn, bring her home. If I choose group cremation, they will dispose of the cremains for me. There are other packages for burial. One includes a “precious clay paw-print keepsake.”

All of this tests my beliefs. I don’t believe in God; I don’t believe in an afterlife. I do believe you live and you die. I do believe death is eternal nothingness. I do believe the body is just a shell. I do believe Lily is no longer there. There is no deciding what to do with Lily; there is no more Lily. There is deciding what to do with her body.

None of this frightens me.

Or does it?

I don’t need Lily’s remains to remember her by.

I don’t need an urn to remind me of her love.

I don’t need a precious clay paw-print keepsake to remind me that life is fragile, temporary, short.

Or do I? Do I need them so that I know I loved her? Do I need them to know that she loved me? Can I stomach the idea, years from now, of not knowing where her body is?