Lily and the octopus / Steven Rowley.
Teddy is unhappily single in L.A. In between sessions with his therapist and dates with men he meets online, Teddy has debates with his dachsund, Lily, who occupies his heart. Unfortunately, he is also able to communicate with the "octupus" attached to Lily's head, which is soon revealed to be a metaphor for Lily's lethal cranial tumor. As Lily's condition worsens, Teddy faces off with the "octopus", engaging it in a battle of wills that takes on epic proportions. An exceedingly authentic, keenly insightful, funny and ardent tribute to the purity of love between a pet and its human. -- adapted from Booklist and Publisher's Weekly.
Record details
- ISBN: 9781501126222
- ISBN: 1501126229
- Physical Description: 305 pages ; 22 cm
- Edition: First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition.
- Publisher: New York : Simon & Schuster, 2016.
- Copyright: ©2016
Content descriptions
General Note: | "A novel"--Dust jacket. |
Search for related items by subject
Subject: | Dogs > Fiction. Dog owners > Fiction. Human-animal relationships > Fiction. |
Available copies
- 29 of 30 copies available at Evergreen Indiana. (Show)
- 0 of 0 copies available at Greenwood Public Library.
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- 0 current holds with 30 total copies.
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Lily and the Octopus
Itâs Thursday the first time I see it. I know that itâs Thursday because Thursday nights are the nights my dog, Lily, and I set aside to talk about boys we think are cute. Sheâs twelve in actual years, which is eighty-four in dog years. Iâm forty-two, which is two hundred and ninety-four in dog yearsâbut like a really young two hundred and ninety-four, because Iâm in pretty good shape and a lot of people tell me I could pass for two hundred and thirty-eight, which is actually thirty-four. I say this about our ages because weâre both a little immature and tend to like younger guys. We get into long debates over the Ryans. Iâm a Gosling man, whereas sheâs a Reynolds gal, even though she canât name a single movie of his that she would ever watch twice. (We dropped Phillipe years ago over a disagreement as to how to pronounce his name. FILL-a-pea? Fill-AH-pay? Also because he doesnât work that much anymore.) Then thereâs the Matts and the Toms. We go back and forth between Bomer and Damon and Brady and Hardy depending on what kind of week it has been. And finally the Bradleys, Cooper and Milton, the latter of whom is technically way older and long dead and Iâm not sure why my dog keeps bringing him up other than she loves board games, which we usually play on Fridays.
Anyhow, this particular Thursday we are discussing the Chrises: Hemsworth and Evans and Pine. Itâs when Lily suggests offhandedly we also include Chris Pratt that I notice the octopus. Itâs not often you see an octopus up close, let alone in your living room, let alone perched on your dogâs head like a birthday party hat, so Iâm immediately taken aback. I have a good view of it, as Lily and I are sitting on opposite sides of the couch, each with a pillow, me sitting Indian style, her perched more like the MGM lion.
âLily!â
âWe donât have to include Chris Pratt, it was just a suggestion,â she says.
âNoâwhatâs that on your head?â I ask. Two of the octopusâs arms hang down her face like chin straps.
âWhere?â
âWhat do you mean, where? There. Over your temple on the right side.â
Lily pauses. She looks at me for a moment, our eyes locked on each other. She breaks my gaze only to glance upward at the octopus. âOh. That.â
âYes, that.â
I immediately lean in and grab her snout, the way I used to when she was a pup and would bark too much, so excited by the very existence of each new thing encountered that she had to sing her enthusiasm with sharp, staccato notes: LOOK! AT! THIS! IT! IS! THE! MOST! AMAZING! THING! IâVE! EVER! SEEN! ITâS! A! GREAT! TIME! TO! BE! ALIVE! Once, when we first lived together, in the time it took me to shower she managed to relocate all of my size-thirteen shoes to the top of the staircase three rooms away. When I asked her why, her reply was pure conviction: THESE! THINGS! YOU! PUT! ON! FEET! SHOULD! BE! CLOSER! TO! THE! STAIRS! So full of ebullience and ideas.
I pull her closer to me and turn her head to the side so I can get a good, long look. She gives me the most side-eye she can muster in annoyance, disgusted with both the molestation and unwanted attention, and my gaucheness as a big, stupid human man.
The octopus has a good grip and clings tightly over her eye. It takes me a minute, but I gather my nerve and poke it. Itâs harder than I would have imagined. Less like a water balloon, more like . . . bone. It feels subcutaneous, yet there it is, out in the open for all to see. I count its arms, turning Lilyâs head around to the back, and sure enough, there are eight. The octopus looks angry as much as out of place. Aggressive perhaps is a better word. Like it is announcing itself and would like the room. Iâm not going to lie. Itâs as frightening as it is confounding. I saw a video somewhere, sometime, of an octopus that camouflaged itself so perfectly along the ocean floor that it was completely undetectable until some unfortunate whelk or crab or snail came along and it emerged, striking with deadly precision. I remember going back and watching the video again and again, trying to locate the octopus in hiding. After countless viewings I could acknowledge its presence, sense its energy, its lurking, its intent to pounce, even if I couldnât entirely make it out in form. Once you had seen it, you couldnât really unsee itâeven as you remained impressed with its ability to hide so perfectly in plain sight.
This is like that.
Now that Iâve seen it, I canât unsee it, and the octopus transforms Lilyâs entire face. A face that has always been so handsome to me, a noble and classic dog profile, betrayed only slightly by a dachshundâs ridiculous body. Still, that face! Perfect in its symmetry. When you pulled her ears back it was like a small bowling pin covered in the softest mahogany fur. But now she looks less like a bowling pin in shape and more like a worn-down bowling pin in occupation; her head sports a lump as if it had actually been the number-one pin in a ten-pin formation.
Lily snorts at me twice with flared nostrils and I realize Iâm still holding her snout. I let go of her, knowing she is seething at the indignity of it all.
âI donât want to talk about it,â she says, tucking her head to gnaw at an itch on her stomach.
âWell, I do want to talk about it.â
Mostly I want to talk about how it could be possible that Iâve never seen it before. How I could be responsible for every aspect of her daily life and well-beingâfood, water, exercise, toys, chews, inside, outside, medication, elimination, entertainment, snuggling, affection, loveâand not notice that one side of her head sports an octopus, alarmingly increasing it in size. The octopus is a master of disguise, I remind myself; its intent is to stay hidden. But even as I say this silently in my head I wonder why Iâm letting myself so easily off the hook.
âDoes it hurt?â
Thereâs a sigh. An exhale. When Lily was younger, in her sleep she would make a similar noise, usually right before her legs would start racing, the preamble to a beautiful dream about chasing squirrels or birds or pounding the warm sand on an endless golden beach. I donât know why, but I think of Ethan Hawke answering the standard questionnaire inspired by Bernard Pivot that ended every episode of Inside the Actors Studio:
âWhat sound or noise do you love?â
Puppies sighing, Ethan had said.
Yes! Such a wonderful juxtaposition, sighing puppies. As if warm, sleeping puppies felt anything lamentable or had weariness or exasperations to sigh over. And yet they sighed all the time! Exhalations of sweet, innocent breath. But this sigh is different. Subtly. To the untrained ear it might not be noticeable, but I know Lily about as well as I think itâs possible to know another living thing, so I notice it. Thereâs a heaviness to it. A creakiness. There are cares in her world; there is weight on her shoulders.
I ask her again. âDoes it hurt?â
Her answer comes slowly, after great pause and consideration. âSometimes.â
The very best thing about dogs is how they just know when you need them most, and theyâll drop everything that theyâre doing to sit with you awhile. I donât need to press Lily further. I can do what she has done for me countless times, through heartbreak and illness and depression and days of general uneasiness and malaise. I can sit with her quietly, our bodies touching just enough to generate warmth, to share the vibrating energy of all living things, until our breathing slows and falls into the parallel rhythm it always does when we have our quietest sits.
I pinch the skin on the back of her neck as I imagine her mother once did to carry her when she was a pup.
âThereâs a wind coming,â I tell her. Staring down the octopus as much as I dare, I fear thereâs more truth to that statement than Iâd like. Mostly I am setting Lily up to deliver her favorite line from Elizabeth: The Golden Age. Neither of us has actually seen the film, but they played this exchange endlessly in the commercials back when it was in theaters and we both would collapse in fits of laughter at the sound of Cate Blanchett bellowing and carrying on as the Virgin Queen. My dog does the best Cate Blanchett impression.
Lily perks up just a bit and delivers her response on cue: âI, too, can command the wind, sir! I have a hurricane in me that will strip Spain bare if you dare to try me! Let them come with the armies of hell; they will not pass!â
Itâs a good effort, one she makes for me. But if Iâm being honest, it isnât her best. Instinctually she probably already knows what is fast becoming clear to me: she is the whelk; she is the crab; she is the snail.
The octopus is hungry.
And it is going to have her.
Itâs Thursday the first time I see it. I know that itâs Thursday because Thursday nights are the nights my dog, Lily, and I set aside to talk about boys we think are cute. Sheâs twelve in actual years, which is eighty-four in dog years. Iâm forty-two, which is two hundred and ninety-four in dog yearsâbut like a really young two hundred and ninety-four, because Iâm in pretty good shape and a lot of people tell me I could pass for two hundred and thirty-eight, which is actually thirty-four. I say this about our ages because weâre both a little immature and tend to like younger guys. We get into long debates over the Ryans. Iâm a Gosling man, whereas sheâs a Reynolds gal, even though she canât name a single movie of his that she would ever watch twice. (We dropped Phillipe years ago over a disagreement as to how to pronounce his name. FILL-a-pea? Fill-AH-pay? Also because he doesnât work that much anymore.) Then thereâs the Matts and the Toms. We go back and forth between Bomer and Damon and Brady and Hardy depending on what kind of week it has been. And finally the Bradleys, Cooper and Milton, the latter of whom is technically way older and long dead and Iâm not sure why my dog keeps bringing him up other than she loves board games, which we usually play on Fridays.
Anyhow, this particular Thursday we are discussing the Chrises: Hemsworth and Evans and Pine. Itâs when Lily suggests offhandedly we also include Chris Pratt that I notice the octopus. Itâs not often you see an octopus up close, let alone in your living room, let alone perched on your dogâs head like a birthday party hat, so Iâm immediately taken aback. I have a good view of it, as Lily and I are sitting on opposite sides of the couch, each with a pillow, me sitting Indian style, her perched more like the MGM lion.
âLily!â
âWe donât have to include Chris Pratt, it was just a suggestion,â she says.
âNoâwhatâs that on your head?â I ask. Two of the octopusâs arms hang down her face like chin straps.
âWhere?â
âWhat do you mean, where? There. Over your temple on the right side.â
Lily pauses. She looks at me for a moment, our eyes locked on each other. She breaks my gaze only to glance upward at the octopus. âOh. That.â
âYes, that.â
I immediately lean in and grab her snout, the way I used to when she was a pup and would bark too much, so excited by the very existence of each new thing encountered that she had to sing her enthusiasm with sharp, staccato notes: LOOK! AT! THIS! IT! IS! THE! MOST! AMAZING! THING! IâVE! EVER! SEEN! ITâS! A! GREAT! TIME! TO! BE! ALIVE! Once, when we first lived together, in the time it took me to shower she managed to relocate all of my size-thirteen shoes to the top of the staircase three rooms away. When I asked her why, her reply was pure conviction: THESE! THINGS! YOU! PUT! ON! FEET! SHOULD! BE! CLOSER! TO! THE! STAIRS! So full of ebullience and ideas.
I pull her closer to me and turn her head to the side so I can get a good, long look. She gives me the most side-eye she can muster in annoyance, disgusted with both the molestation and unwanted attention, and my gaucheness as a big, stupid human man.
The octopus has a good grip and clings tightly over her eye. It takes me a minute, but I gather my nerve and poke it. Itâs harder than I would have imagined. Less like a water balloon, more like . . . bone. It feels subcutaneous, yet there it is, out in the open for all to see. I count its arms, turning Lilyâs head around to the back, and sure enough, there are eight. The octopus looks angry as much as out of place. Aggressive perhaps is a better word. Like it is announcing itself and would like the room. Iâm not going to lie. Itâs as frightening as it is confounding. I saw a video somewhere, sometime, of an octopus that camouflaged itself so perfectly along the ocean floor that it was completely undetectable until some unfortunate whelk or crab or snail came along and it emerged, striking with deadly precision. I remember going back and watching the video again and again, trying to locate the octopus in hiding. After countless viewings I could acknowledge its presence, sense its energy, its lurking, its intent to pounce, even if I couldnât entirely make it out in form. Once you had seen it, you couldnât really unsee itâeven as you remained impressed with its ability to hide so perfectly in plain sight.
This is like that.
Now that Iâve seen it, I canât unsee it, and the octopus transforms Lilyâs entire face. A face that has always been so handsome to me, a noble and classic dog profile, betrayed only slightly by a dachshundâs ridiculous body. Still, that face! Perfect in its symmetry. When you pulled her ears back it was like a small bowling pin covered in the softest mahogany fur. But now she looks less like a bowling pin in shape and more like a worn-down bowling pin in occupation; her head sports a lump as if it had actually been the number-one pin in a ten-pin formation.
Lily snorts at me twice with flared nostrils and I realize Iâm still holding her snout. I let go of her, knowing she is seething at the indignity of it all.
âI donât want to talk about it,â she says, tucking her head to gnaw at an itch on her stomach.
âWell, I do want to talk about it.â
Mostly I want to talk about how it could be possible that Iâve never seen it before. How I could be responsible for every aspect of her daily life and well-beingâfood, water, exercise, toys, chews, inside, outside, medication, elimination, entertainment, snuggling, affection, loveâand not notice that one side of her head sports an octopus, alarmingly increasing it in size. The octopus is a master of disguise, I remind myself; its intent is to stay hidden. But even as I say this silently in my head I wonder why Iâm letting myself so easily off the hook.
âDoes it hurt?â
Thereâs a sigh. An exhale. When Lily was younger, in her sleep she would make a similar noise, usually right before her legs would start racing, the preamble to a beautiful dream about chasing squirrels or birds or pounding the warm sand on an endless golden beach. I donât know why, but I think of Ethan Hawke answering the standard questionnaire inspired by Bernard Pivot that ended every episode of Inside the Actors Studio:
âWhat sound or noise do you love?â
Puppies sighing, Ethan had said.
Yes! Such a wonderful juxtaposition, sighing puppies. As if warm, sleeping puppies felt anything lamentable or had weariness or exasperations to sigh over. And yet they sighed all the time! Exhalations of sweet, innocent breath. But this sigh is different. Subtly. To the untrained ear it might not be noticeable, but I know Lily about as well as I think itâs possible to know another living thing, so I notice it. Thereâs a heaviness to it. A creakiness. There are cares in her world; there is weight on her shoulders.
I ask her again. âDoes it hurt?â
Her answer comes slowly, after great pause and consideration. âSometimes.â
The very best thing about dogs is how they just know when you need them most, and theyâll drop everything that theyâre doing to sit with you awhile. I donât need to press Lily further. I can do what she has done for me countless times, through heartbreak and illness and depression and days of general uneasiness and malaise. I can sit with her quietly, our bodies touching just enough to generate warmth, to share the vibrating energy of all living things, until our breathing slows and falls into the parallel rhythm it always does when we have our quietest sits.
I pinch the skin on the back of her neck as I imagine her mother once did to carry her when she was a pup.
âThereâs a wind coming,â I tell her. Staring down the octopus as much as I dare, I fear thereâs more truth to that statement than Iâd like. Mostly I am setting Lily up to deliver her favorite line from Elizabeth: The Golden Age. Neither of us has actually seen the film, but they played this exchange endlessly in the commercials back when it was in theaters and we both would collapse in fits of laughter at the sound of Cate Blanchett bellowing and carrying on as the Virgin Queen. My dog does the best Cate Blanchett impression.
Lily perks up just a bit and delivers her response on cue: âI, too, can command the wind, sir! I have a hurricane in me that will strip Spain bare if you dare to try me! Let them come with the armies of hell; they will not pass!â
Itâs a good effort, one she makes for me. But if Iâm being honest, it isnât her best. Instinctually she probably already knows what is fast becoming clear to me: she is the whelk; she is the crab; she is the snail.
The octopus is hungry.
And it is going to have her.