We stop at El Matador, ten miles or so north of Malibu, a beach that’s always brought solace and a certain clearheadedness. There were days after I first moved to the city when I would grab a friend or two and a towel and sunscreen, and we’d go to this beach and you’d have to drag me away under protest at sunset. Now, it always seems there’s too much to do to indulge in whole days of such leisure, but that’s probably just an excuse. What is there to do, really?
Despite the early hour, there are only three open spots in the tiny parking lot and I grab one of them. The rest are taken by surfers, no doubt—their internal clocks align with the tides. The lot sits maybe 150 feet up on a cliff above the beach, and the views from the parking lot alone are spectacular. You can easily see the other pocket beaches, El Pescador (the fisherman) and La Piedra (the rock). I’ve wondered why El Matador is thusly named. The bullfighter. Perhaps it’s the craggy stone formations that emerge from the sea. But they are less like bulls to me than sea monsters. Like the octopus. El Pulpo, as a name, is probably less inviting.
Lily and I get out of the car and stroll a bit to the cliff’s edge. I pick her up and we survey the horizon together.
“So, do you remember the beach?”
“Is this the beach?” she asks.
“Yes, yes—down below, it is.”
Lily looks down. “I remember.” Then, tentatively, “Are we going down there?”
“Not today. Dogs aren’t allowed on this beach.” There’s a sign that says as much, but I think about breaking the rules. What is anyone going to do? Call a park ranger? The police? But Lily looks content, and there’s a picnic table that’s not being used, so I decide not to ruffle any feathers. “I thought we could just sit here for a while.”
Lily agrees, and we sit on the table and listen to the ocean, to the sound of the pounding surf that, because it is so far below, sounds farther away than it is. The muffled cackle of people laughing in the water and the distant cries of soaring gulls add layers to the symphony.
“We have some decisions to make, Monkey.”
Lily mulls the weight of this for a moment before asking, “Why do you call me that?”
“Why do I call you what?”
“Monkey.”
“Why do I call you Monkey?”
“And all those other names.”
“Those are terms of endearment.”
“I don’t understand.” Lily squints as she stares out into the sun.
“Terms of endearment are names or phrases that you use to address someone that you feel great affection for.”
The wind picks up and we sit quietly for a moment.
“You have a lot of them for me,” she observes.
“That’s because I have a lot of affection for you.” And then, almost as an afterthought, “Do you have any terms of endearment for me?”
Lily thinks about this. “Mostly, I think of you as That Guy.”
I could let that bother me, but I don’t. Terms of endearment are probably a human thing. They’re certainly not a dog creation. They have other things—tail wagging, for instance—instead. To her, I am That Guy. The guy.
Her guy.
In the water, a pod of dolphins breaks the surface and we watch them as they dive up and down over the forming waves. Part of me wishes we were not high on a cliff; part of me wishes I could swim out to the dolphins and enlist their help in prying the octopus from Lily with their bottle noses and returning him to the ocean depths.
“Can the octopus hear us now?” I ask.
“No.”
“You can tell?”
“Sometimes. He gets bored with us a lot and tunes out.”
“If he’s so bored, then he should leave.” I scratch the back of Lily’s neck while trying to choke down my offense. Bored with us? Really? He’s not exactly a master of witticisms and repartee. Who the hell does he think he is?
Lily does this thing where she lifts her snout in the air, and I can tell that the backrub feels good, so I continue. I’m more comfortable snuggling with her when I know the octopus isn’t going to interfere. “We have some decisions to make, Goose. Hard ones. About how to get rid of . . .” Instead of saying the octopus, I point at it. I don’t want his curiosity piqued by his mention. “And to be blunt about it, all of the options suck.”
I continue stroking Lily’s back. I’m not sure how much of this she grasps. Sucks for the octopus? Sucks for her? Sucks for us. I think of what Doogie has told me, as well as what I’ve read in my own research, although my own research is limited—if you Google “octopus on dogs,” most results you get are about making an octopus out of a hot dog by cutting the bottom two-thirds the long way into eight sections to look like arms and leaving the head of the hot dog intact. Apparently the Japanese add these to bento-type lunch boxes for children. This makes me think less of the Japanese.
“There’s surgery, where they’ll try to cut him off. That’s perhaps the most obvious thing to do. But the doctors won’t know if they can get all of him until they put you under and see what kind of grip he holds.” Lily looks confused, so I remind her, “You had surgery once on your spine.”
Lily recoils and I feel her tremble. “I don’t like surgery.”
“I don’t think anyone does.” Maybe only surgeons.