I study our charts. If I’m reading them correctly, we’re over a particularly deep trench. Something in me tells me the octopus is near.
Lily looks over the side of the boat and says, “It’s a wonder he ever left all this to come and live with us.”
I’d never given much thought to the octopus’s motivations; the why of it all seemed irrelevant. But Lily’s right. It is a wonder. “I hope the octopus has the same thought about us, right before we harpoon him through his fleshy head.”
Lily blanches in a way that makes me question for the first time whether she’s come to feel some sympathy for that parasite. Stockholm syndrome. Capture bonding. Whatever they call it. I hope she doesn’t. I don’t want that to be true. I don’t want her to hesitate when it comes time for the kill.
The sun fades. We’ve made a habit of watching it sink below the horizon, and tonight is no different. We sit out on Fishful Thinking’s bow, me Indian style and her perched in the gap in my legs, and as the sun dips out of sight I say, “Going, going, going . . . gone.” And then usually we make some kind of wish. It’s my favorite moment of the day.
“What’s the first thing you want to do when we get back home?”
Lily considers this. “I’m not sure I’ve thought about it.”
Does she know something I don’t? Or is this just part of her canine ability to live entirely in the present? Part of me doesn’t want to know. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I want to take a hot shower and sleep a good long sleep in our own bed. And have a slice of Village Pizzeria pizza with roasted red peppers and black olives and a cold Sam Adams beer.”
The idea of it, of going home, piques Lily’s interest. Even if she’s not confident of it happening, even if it’s only a game. “I’d like to have peanut butter in my Kong, I want to sniff around the backyard, and fall asleep in your lap when it’s still.” The rocking of the boat has been getting the better of us both.
“Good choices!” I say enthusiastically. A cool breeze sweeps across the deck of the boat, causing an eerie, almost haunted whistle.
“And I’d like a large bowl of chicken and rice, even though I’m not sick.”
“Seasick, maybe,” I say.
“Sick of the sea,” she replies.
I nod. She means the chicken and rice I always make for her when her stomach is upset. I don’t know why I don’t make the effort more often, since she clearly loves it. I can’t really make it for her here. We don’t have any chicken.
Suddenly the stars appear, brilliant and sparkling, in all their majestic glory.
“Can I tell you something else?”
“Always,” she says.
Immediately I say, “Never mind.”
“No. What?”
I should never have said anything. I think about how what I was going to say would sound to Lily, about how it suggests a future without her, at the very least a future where it is no longer just the two of us. But I’ve opened my stupid mouth and I can’t think of a plausible lie, so I feel compelled to finish my thought. “I’d like to fall in love again.”
In the silence that follows, all you can hear is the rhythmic hum of Fishful Thinking’s engine. We’re so far from shore there’s not even the caw of a passing gull. I know this makes Lily jealous. The idea of my falling in love. She doesn’t like to share my affection with anyone. I never explicitly told her that dogs don’t live as long as people. I wonder, from her time with the octopus, how much she knows. I wonder if in the last few weeks she’s contemplated mortality like I have.
“You will,” she says. Then, almost as an afterthought, “I promise.”
A shooting star zips through the sky and I point and yell, “Look!” but Lily doesn’t turn fast enough to see it.
Scar Light, Scar Bright, First Scar I See Tonight
The light of a full moon streams through the opening at the top of the stairs, casting a bluish pall belowdecks. Maybe pall is too strong a word. Maybe it’s the scotch and not the moon coloring my mood. Even so, I pour myself another two fingers. I should ration it more carefully, but right now it’s a smoky salve I crave.
I undress Lily for bed, which means unsnapping the life jacket I’ve insisted she wear at all times since I first sensed the octopus nearby. She looks up at me as I do this, with an inquisitive expression.
“What?” I ask her.
“There’s a patch, just under your chin, where your beard doesn’t grow.”
I feel under my chin. The coarse hairs are getting almost unruly and I separate them with my fingers, finding just the spot Lily mentions. I can feel smooth skin.
“Oh, that. That’s a scar.”
Lily is only momentarily satisfied with my answer. “What’s a scar?”
“It’s the spot that’s left behind after the healing of a cut or a burn or a wound.”