Lily

I remember the day we brought Lily home. It was a time in which I thought a lot about life, and subsequently, about death. I wondered what life and death were all about, and I also wondered about what death could possibly bring to the human soul. Thoughts had never turned into actions, though they easily could have, and I think I have Lily to thank for that. For a while, we had joked that she was an omen of some sort; the day she walked through our door, I had lost my favorite pair of socks, and a rock had hit the windshield of my father’s car, something that amounted to over one-hundred dollars worth of damage. In Lily’s presence, we always felt as if something were going to happen- we were never sure of what, though. Lily, somehow, just had a way of making you stop and wait. At the time, though, it had been a thing we had simply joked about. At the time, I didn’t know that Lily was something really special.

“How much was she?” I inquired, motioning towards the small dog lying motionless on the floor. Her eyes were closed tight, and her breathing was soft, slow, and consistent; the dog was asleep, surely, though her ears were perked up, as if she were listening for a response, too. I had been sleeping for quite some time when I was awoken by my father, who had been holding the small dog under his arm. He had decided to take an unplanned visit to the local animal shelter to look for “something special,” to keep me company. Now we were both sitting, idly, at the kitchen table. The dog’s adoption papers sat scattered in front of us.

“About four hundred,” my father replied, “although, she cost me an extra ‘hundred for the rock in my windshield.” I sat, surprised, for a moment.

“She’s purebred, though, isn’t she? Isn’t that what her papers said? That price doesn’t make any sense.” I scrambled through the stack of papers scattered about on the tabletop. The shelter wanted us to make sure we knew everything about her; there were papers about her breed, her vaccination history, her past ownership. Everything. I kept thumbing through papers, searching for the one that specified her breed, but my father interrupted me, making it unnecessary.

“Yep. Purebred Corgi. Though they said something was wrong with her. Not sure what. They said that she didn’t get along with people.” My father paused for a moment, looking solemnly at the dog. He took an audible sip from his coffee mug, nodding his head as if remembering something. Suddenly, his expression switched, and he let out a hearty chuckle.

“They even said that she freaked ‘em out!”

At this, my face involuntarily scrunched up. I stood from my place at the table and sat cross-legged by my new, mysteriously brooding Corgi. My movement must have interrupted her peace, and her head shot up to look at me. For a moment, and only for a moment, I could nearly understand why this dog would “freak somebody out.” Her eyes, big and dark, were speaking to me. They were accusing me. Instead of being round, her eyes were almond-shaped; they were, the more I stared at them, becoming increasingly more human. Despite this discovery, I masked my unease and began to stroke the dog’s head. Satisfied, she resumed her sleeping position and was soon snoring again.

“Yeah, I don’t get it, either,” my father’s voice startled me. I looked up at him, his eyes were fixated on the dog again. “She seems pretty cute tah’ me. And lookie there! You two have the same colored hair.” My dad gave another laugh, his chest giving large heaves with each bellow. He was right, my blonde locks matched the Corgi’s fur almost exactly. I couldn’t find a reply; I simply had to nod in agreement.

“What’s her name again, dad?” I asked. “I forgot.” My father had to think for a moment, too. Though I could tell the exact moment that he remembered, for his eyes suddenly flickered with recollection.

“It’s Lilian. I’ve been calling her Lily, though.” My dad slowly creaked out of his chair at the table, mumbling something about yard work needing to be done, and he headed towards the door. At the doorway, though, he turned to face me again.

“Enjoy your new friend, Nat.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Dad,” I said, giving him a small smile. He left, leaving me with Lily. I stroked her head again. “It’s just you and me, Lily-girl.” Lily gave a sad sigh. I gave one, too.

I quickly became concerned for Lily. She refused to eat or socialize, and the only thing she seemed to enjoy doing was sleeping alone in a corner of the living room. Funnily enough, though, I could sympathize with her. A lot of the time, even when the sun shone the brightest and the breeze was just right, I found myself inside, lying in bed. I was eighteen this year; my life had truly just begun and I could be doing anything. Despite this, I found myself doing nothing. I ate nothing, I said nothing, I felt nothing. It was all just nothing. I found sleep the most appealing activity to take part in; dreams could take me away from the nothingness, even if it was just for a little while. I think I cried sometimes, too, when the nothingness became too overwhelming. As I was lying in bed, though, I suddenly heard the sound of toenails scuttering against the floor. The sound grew increasingly louder, and then the cause for this noise stood silently in my doorway.

“Hello, Lily-girl,” I managed, though I didn’t move; my head did not raise from its place on my pillow. I grunted as the small dog clambered into the bed with me. She sat and stared at me, and I felt compelled to acknowledge her presence. I shuddered as my eyes met hers, they seemed to share the same sadness and yearning that I felt. The feeling of her wanting to be next to me was unfamiliar, though it was a welcomed gesture; Lily’s fur was warm and soft, and her presence was overall quite comforting. In a way, Lily reminded me of an owl; maybe a little barn owl. Lily was mysterious, yet appealing; quiet, yet nurturing. Her little ears reminded me of the tufts that sat upon an owl’s head. She was my weird, little owl-dog. I almost smiled at that thought.

Lily soon became restless lying in bed, and she began whining and pawing at my bedsheets. I had a feeling that she needed to go outside, so I forced myself to get out of bed.

The cold, hardwood floor had become a feeling unfamiliar to the bottom of my feet. My body had been inside the comfort of my bed for days now, and the outside world was quite alien now. I opened the door for Lily, who had been following me, and she graciously went outside. Instead of running off, though, she stood just outside the doorway, staring at me.

“Go on, go potty,” I said, shoo-ing her off. Despite my words, though, Lily remained looking at me. She barked as if urging me to come along with her.

“What?” I asked, stepping out onto the patio. As soon as I did so, the sun’s light shone down on my face. The warmth was almost nicer than that of a bedsheet, and the light itself was so fulfilling, that the emptiness that troubled me not even five minutes ago seemed to have dissolved into nothingness. The hole inside of me, even if it was just temporary, had been filled up. At that moment, I felt okay; I felt like things weren’t as bad as I once thought they were.

“Thanks, Lily,” I said, though I’m not sure why. I think it was, perhaps, because I thought that she forced me outside on purpose; I thought that, perhaps, Lily knew what I needed.

Over the next few days, Lily’s oddness really began to show. I would be lying, however, if I said I didn’t start to get attached to her. Oftentimes, I would find myself sitting close by to her, simply watching her and waiting to see what she would do next.

“What are you doing, silly girl?” I asked her. It was a warm, summer’s day, and large clouds filled the sky. I found Lily outside on the grass, lying on her back. It was as if she were truly at peace, watching the sky roll past her. The white clouds proved a beautiful contrast in the reflection of her dark, brooding eyes. I got lost in them; that happens a lot. I can’t help but think that she’s yearning to tell me something, and I wonder if, one day, if I stare hard enough into her eyes, the message within her will burst out and I will become aware of her desires. I was caught off-guard, and was rather frightened of her eyes when their gaze first set upon me, but my fright slowly dissolved into bewilderment and I actually found myself looking into them at any given opportunity. In a way, Lily’s eyes reminded me of my own. Before Lily’s appearance in my life, I hated my eyes; they were so sickly brown that you couldn’t see the blackness of my pupil. I thought that my eyes had made me look lifeless and dull. Looking into Lily’s eyes has given me a new perspective on things, I think; they give Lily a sense of uniqueness and longing, they tell a story. I think it’s because of them that I grew to like mine a little more. Despite not knowing exactly what her eyes wanted to tell me today, I laid down next to her on the grass, and we both lazily watched the sky until neither of us could sit still any longer.

Later that day, when day gave way to afternoon, I found Lily inside the house, in the living room. She was staring at the wall; her gaze was unmoving, and she seemed as if she was in a sort of trance. Despite me creating an abundance of noise by opening and shutting the door, Lily’s stare remained unceasing. I found this odd, so I took a place on the couch, which sat opposite the staring dog. I began to stare at Lily, waiting for her to move; waiting for anything at all to happen. Lo and behold, I became lost in Lily’s eyes again; they seemed to be sad; I’ve never seen a dog cry before, though it looked as if tears were streaming down Lily’s face.

Time seemed to stand still, and the only reason I knew that any time had passed at all was that the shadows in the room had shifted. How long have I been here, staring? How long has Lily been here with me? Suddenly, the front door opened, and my father strutted inside with a newspaper under his arm.

“Dad. Look. Lily has been sitting here, staring at the wall, for hours now. I don’t know what’s going on.” My dad’s glance shifted from Lily to me, and a smirk spread across his face.

“And you’ve been here for hours, staring at her, haven’t you? I think she might just be staring at that bag, there, anyhow.” He replied, walking across the room. I followed Lily’s gaze and found the bag mentioned by my father; it was simply a plastic bag you would find bagging groceries at any store. I couldn’t find a reason why Lily would want to stare at something so plain, so I shrugged my father’s response off as if he just didn’t understand Lily’s true, odd character. Perhaps she thought that there was food inside of it? An average, run-of-the-mill dog might have given interest to a bag with food inside of it. But for so long? I didn’t quite think so. I didn’t say anything for a long time; there was nothing to say. Lily and I were both trapped in a cycle of abnormality. This meant, though, that I wasn’t alone. I had Lily, and Lily had me.

I loved Lily. It isn’t abnormal for an owner to love their dog, but my love for Lily was greater than any love I felt for anyone before. I felt connected to her as if I had known her my entire life, and the sadness trapped behind her small eyes spoke volumes to me. I found myself looking into the mirror more often as of late, looking into my eyes and comparing them to Lily’s. Perhaps it was an illusion, or perhaps it was the power of suggestion and me wanting so badly for it to be true, but I think I saw the same sadness behind my eyes, as well.

“Sometimes, I feel trapped. I don’t quite know how to explain it,” I said. Nobody else was in the room; it was only me and Lily. Whenever I spoke, though, Lily would look at me with concerned eyes. Her ears would perk up and her eyes wouldn’t stray from me until I was done saying whatever it was I had to say. She was listening to me, I just knew it. I wish that I could have loved her forever.

Just as clearly as I remember the day we brought Lily home, though, I remember the day we lost her. It’s not something that I like to remember, but it’s a thought that’s hard to forget.

“Where’s Lily, Dad?” I asked. I hadn’t seen her for quite some time now, and my calls for her proved unsuccessful at bringing her running towards me.

“I put her outside a little bit ago,” my father called to me from the kitchen. I hurried to the living room window and parted the blinds; the outside world, however, was blocked by a heavy wall of rainfall. I gasped and ran to the front door, throwing it open.

“Oh, dad! It’s raining! My poor Lily-girl!” I exclaimed. I had been expecting to see a shaking, rain-soaked Lily sitting pitifully at the doorstep, and I was expecting her to burst inside and leave small, muddy pawprints across the wooden floors of the house. Lily, however, was not there. Immediately, my heart felt heavy and a hollow feeling took the place in which my chest should be.

That silly girl, I thought, why would she stay out in the rain?

“Lily!” I called from my place inside the doorframe; I squinted to see if I could make out anything- perhaps a small blob of blonde running my way? The rain made it nearly impossible to see anything, though, and I was unable to see any signs of Lily. Without thinking, I forced myself out into the cold rain; I called Lily’s name again to no avail. The hollow feeling grew more noticeable inside my chest. Something was wrong, Lily never strays far, especially in the rain. I rounded the corner of the house, either uncaring or completely unaware of the rain and mud being absorbed by my socks. There, near the left wall of the house, was Lily. I knew right away that it was her, even with the rain blocking some of my vision. She was lying on her back, motionless. Her front legs were sticking straight in the air and, despite it bearing all of her weight, her back was slightly arched upwards.

I think that people have a way of knowing when something is dead. The air becomes unfamiliar and the “something” in question, even if it was a “something” you knew and loved, becomes unfamiliar, too. The body of something deceased is just that; a body. It is no longer a soul; it is no longer something that can feel, and laugh, and cry; it can’t feel the rain on its skin and it can no longer lie on the soft grass and watch the clouds go by. I had this feeling, this sort of realization, when I saw Lily. I knew that she was gone almost immediately. Despite this, though, I still went up to her body; I had to know what took her away.

Upon seeing her, I gasped, and my hands involuntarily went to my mouth. She must have gotten into the garbage can, or perhaps there was just some trash lying around in the yard, because there was a plastic bag wrapped tightly around her neck. I wasn't sure how long she had been lying there, dead, but upon ripping the bag away and stroking her head, she was stiff. Her mouth was agape, and her eyes, the things that mesmerized me so much with their beauty, were now grotesquely protruding from their sockets. My bewilderment in them faded back into fear, and I forced myself to look away. I suddenly felt overwhelmed; overwhelmed with grief and with the feeling of death around me.

I began to run. I didn’t know where; looking back, I don’t remember how long I ran, either. I just ran. The rain was cold and unforgiving on my face, and the discomfort of my wet clothes began to become noticeable. I continued to run, though; I ran until my foot connected with uneven ground and I was forced to my knees. Tears began to stream down my face, or maybe they’ve been there all along, I couldn’t tell anymore. As the tears fell and mixed with the rain on the cold, earthy mud, I could tell that not all of them stemmed from the same emotion. Even though I was on my knees in the pouring rain, even though I felt overcome with grief, and even though my best friend was dead, strangled, not even ten feet away, I felt a feeling of relief. I felt liberated; free. I looked to the sky, a smile tugging on my lips. I felt as if, wherever she was now, Lily felt the same way.

There had been a shift, a change, in me that day. As I was sitting, crying both tears of grief and happiness in the rain, I felt a sense of hope tugging at me. The death of Lily had brought me a sense of peace; perhaps it’s because the message in her eyes had always been one of sadness, perhaps, throughout her whole, short life, she had wanted to be set free. I think that she, too, was finally at peace. However, I think this newfound feeling of hope also came from the certainty Lily had given me. I no longer wanted to lie in bed and waste my life away; I know now that even the small things, such as the feeling of the sun’s warmth on your skin or the act of cloud-watching, can mean so much. I know for sure now that Lily was something special. In a way, I think that she was made for me; she came into my life, changed me, and left. I feel as if my connection to her will last quite a while, it may even follow me to my grave; I do know now, though, that even though we were similar in a plethora of ways, her death was a heeding, and not a demonstration. I was not going to be like her in that way; I was not going to end up like my dearest Lily.