“They put a needle in the octopus.”
Lily looks at me as if they’re one and the same and I wonder if she’s already giving up hope. I feel like I’ve swallowed my own bag of wasabi peas as my throat starts to burn and then close. I try to focus on something, anything, and I choose the spelling of wasabi and how odd it is that I can’t remember if it ends with an ie or just an i. I think it’s just an i. Can that be right? Both ways I can see a squiggly red line underneath, like the word processor in my brain is telling me there’s no correct way to spell it. Is wasabi a proper noun? Should it be capitalized? No, it’s just a plant, isn’t it? I want to run back inside the veterinary office and have them do for me what they did for Lily all those years ago: give me back my ability to breathe. And maybe confirm the spelling of wasabi. I can’t remember the last time I’ve taken a breath, a long, deep, true breath, the kind they talk about in Lamaze classes and on yoga DVDs. Hawaii, I guess. Vacation. When I was free of work and deadlines and dating and the need for anything else but to just be. But the last time at home? Without mai tais easing my circulation? I can’t say.
I feel a sudden need to forget the morning, to turn the day around. To vomit the wasabi peas.
To breathe again.
“You know what we need?” I ask. I don’t even wait for her to guess. Lily perks up; she can tell by the tone of my voice I’m going to say something that she finds exciting. “Ice cream.”
On the way home, we stop at the corner pet store near our house, the one the Korean family runs, and I select a peanut butter frozen yogurt made especially for dogs. I don’t even wait for us to get home.
The octopus blinks and asks, “What you got there?” I don’t think I’ll ever get used to hearing him speak.
“Nothing,” is my reply. I hold the Styrofoam dish for Lily right there in the car and she laps at it hungrily until the frozen treat is gone. Even then she licks the empty dish for another three minutes, her mood brightened.
The octopus eyes me hungrily the whole time, but I don’t let him have any. I hope not to pay dearly for that later.
Tuesday
Lily and I have no standing plans on Tuesday nights, so when Trent calls and says we should go grab a drink by the beach, I agree. It’s night, and I immediately have second thoughts—it feels like a hassle to go all the way to the beach this late when you can’t even see the beach—but Trent is already down there for a business dinner that’s just ending, and the beach always seems like a getaway, a respite, a destination. Even in darkness you can smell the saltwater, hear the crashing waves, feel the cool ocean breeze. These used to be of comfort; now, the ocean is mostly the swamp the octopus crawled out of. Trent wants to know what the vet said about Lily’s prognosis, and since I don’t have Jenny until Friday, it’s probably a good idea for me to talk.
Trent is feeling nostalgic and suggests this gay bar we went to in the nineties that’s right across the Pacific Coast Highway from Will Rogers Beach, specifically the gay section of Will Rogers Beach known affectionately as Ginger Rogers. Parking is usually a nightmare, but I luck out and find the perfect spot under a broken streetlamp, hidden from drivers in a pool of gloom. It’s maddeningly too small, and after five minutes of trying to fit in the damn thing I have to concede defeat and move on to the next spot I find a good quarter mile away.
On my hike back to the bar I step in a puddle. It hasn’t rained in weeks, so that’s of some concern. I try to text Trent but my phone is frozen and I have to give it a hard reboot. When I finally make it to the bar, the exterior looks different. It has a nautical theme like I remember, but something is amiss. I guess the bar could look at my haggard face and say the same about me.
The place is dimly lit, but it’s easy to spot Trent sitting at the bar; he’s one of the few people here. I pull back the stool next to him, wave for the bartender, and take a seat.
“What made you think of this place?” I ask.
“Client dinner. The fog of work. Remembering simpler times.”
The bartender comes over and he’s good looking, but not the threatening kind of good looking that’s usually a job requirement for bartenders in gay bars. I ask Trent what he’s drinking and he says vodka tonic so I order the same.
“What did the vet say?” Trent asks. “What are the options?”
The bartender pushes the drink in my direction, at the last second adding a lime. I reach for my wallet before Trent stops me. “I opened a tab.”
I take a sip of the drink and it’s strong, which I like. “They can either make her comfortable with medications to stop any pain and seizures, or they can put her under, take a bigger sample of the octopus, and devise a more aggressive treatment plan.”
“What are you going to choose?”