Lily and the Octopus

by Steven Rowley Narrated by Michael Urie

Overview

A national bestseller combining the emotional depth of The Art of Racing in the Rain with the magical spirit of The Life of Pi, “Lily and the Octopus is the dog book you must read this summer” (The Washington Post).

Ted-a gay, single, struggling writer is stuck: unable to open himself up to intimacy except through the steadfast companionship of Lily, his elderly dachshund. When Lily's health is compromised, Ted vows to save her by any means necessary. By turns hilarious and poignant, an adventure with spins into magic realism and beautifully evoked truths of loss and longing, Lily and the Octopus reminds us how it feels to love fiercely, how difficult it can be to let go, and how the fight for those we love is the greatest fight of all.

Introducing a dazzling and completely original new voice in fiction and an unforgettable hound that will break your heart-and put it back together again. Remember the last book you told someone they had to read? Lily and the Octopus is the next one. “Startlingly imaginative...this love story is sure to assert its place in the canine lit pack...Be prepared for outright laughs and searing or silly moments of canine and human recognition. And grab a tissue: “THERE! WILL! BE! EYE! RAIN!” (New York Newsday).

Editorial Reviews

B&N Reads

5/31/2016
Anyone who has ever loved and lost an animal must read this book, but beware: there will be tears. Dealing with uninspiring dates and endless therapy sessions, Teddy is lonely in L.A., but finds love and companionship with his dachshund, Lily. Their bond extends into the magical realistic, as they communicate in very literal ways—but the “octopus” of the title is a cranial tumor that signals loving Lily's inevitable end. Rowley wrote it while grieving for his own lost pet, and it rings with insight and warmth. Read More

Publishers Weekly

04/11/2016
Screenwriter Rowley’s sensitive, hilarious, and emotionally rewarding debut novel explores the effect that pets can have on human lives. Teddy is unhappily single in L.A. In between sessions with his therapist and dates with men he meets online, it is his beloved 12-year-old dachshund, Lily, who occupies his heart. Curiously, Teddy is able to communicate with Lily, with whom he debates the attractiveness of male celebrities and plays board games. Distressingly, he is also able to communicate with the “octopus” attached to the little dog’s head, which is soon revealed to be a metaphor for Lily’s lethal cranial tumor. Complicating matters is the increasing prevalence of Lily’s seizures and the looming inevitability of her demise. The intimacy of pet ownership is sweetly suffused throughout this heartwarming autobiographical fiction, originally written as self-therapy for the author’s own grief. In generous helpings of bittersweet humanity, Rowley has written an immensely poignant and touchingly relatable tale that readers (particularly animal lovers) will love. Agent: Rob Weisbach, Rob Weisbach Creative Management. (June)

From the Publisher

NATIONAL BESTSELLER

“Lily and the Octopus is the dog book you must read this summer.... Reading this heart-wrenching but ultimately breathtaking novel was a very profound experience.... As Lily might say, ‘YOU! MUST! READ! THIS! BOOK!’”
—The Washington Post

“Startlingly imaginative...‘Lily and the Octopus’ is a love story sure to assert its place in the canine lit pack...Be prepared for outright laughs and searing or silly moments of canine and human recognition. And grab a tissue: THERE! WILL! BE! EYE! RAIN!”
—Newsday

“Sensitive, hilarious, and emotionally rewarding.... The intimacy of pet ownership is sweetly suffused throughout this heartwarming autobiographical fiction... In generous helpings of bittersweet humanity, Rowley has written an immensely poignant and touchingly relatable tale that readers (particularly animal lovers) will love.”
—Publishers Weekly

“Steven Rowley’s touching, fresh, energetic novel isn’t simply another ‘boy and his dog’ story. It is a profound exploration of grief—how we find ourselves lost, how we search for reason, how we sacrifice ourselves for our loved ones, all to avoid paying the octopus. But the octopus will be paid. And in settling that debt, in the magical, hopeful world of Lily and the Octopus, we will learn to live—and love—again. A wonderfully moving story.”
—Garth Stein, bestselling author of The Art of Racing in the Rain

“An exceedingly authentic, keenly insightful, and heartbreakingly poignant tribute to the purity of love between a pet and its human.”
—Booklist (starred review)

“A quirky and deeply affecting charmer of a novel, Lily and the Octopus is funny, wise, and utterly original in its exploration of what it means to love any mortal creature. This brave little dachshund will capture your heart, as will her prickly, tenderhearted, and irresistible owner. Don't miss their adventures together.”
—Sara Gruen, bestselling author of Water for Elephants

“Singular, spectacular, and touchingly tentacular.”
—Chris Cleave, bestselling author of Little Bee

“You will tear through this big-hearted, inventive novel. A fast and funny read that also happens to be a profound meditation on love and forgiveness, Lily and the Octopus is a delight.”
—Christina Baker Kline, bestselling author of Orphan Train

“Intelligently written, finely observed, and surprisingly moving, this is a book you’ll find hard to put down.”
—Graeme Simsion, bestselling author of The Rosie Project

“A whimsical, touching tale”
—People

“My favorite book of the year: Steven Rowley's Lily and the Octopus. Hilarious, heartbreaking. You will absolutely cry and you will love it."
—Patrick Ness, bestselling author of The Rest of Us Just Live Here

“You don’t need to be a dog lover to enjoy Steven Rowley’s new book, ‘Lily and the Octopus,’ but if you’ve realized you like your dog more than most humans you encounter, this is one you won’t want to miss.”
—Newport Beach Independent

“In his funny, ardent and staunchly kooky way, Rowley expresses exactly what it's like to love a dog.”
—Kirkus Reviews

“Rowley shares a moving, profound tale of grappling with loss.”
—Real Simple

“It is a joyful book; it is also a sincerely written tragedy that invoked the purity of friendship between animal/human family members. It's laughter through tears. Rowley has a sense of humor with just enough morbid sensibility to appeal to a wide audience (even if animal best friend books aren't one's thing). Yet, he navigates the five stages of grief and loss while inspiring others to appreciate the lives we already have.”
—Edge Media

“Portland’s Steven Rowley strikes a chord in a moving book about heartache and friendship that is expected to be a big seller this summer.”
—Portland Press Herald

“The connection between man and dog is loud and clear in this sweet novel...”
—Fort Worth Star-Telegram

“Author Steven Rowley uses humor and pop-culture references to tell a whimsical story of courage in the face of heartbreaking reality. Philosophical and introspective, “Lily and the Octopus” also looks at the transformative power of love, the importance of forgiveness and the beauty of really living, letting ourselves be seen instead of hiding in plain sight...I laughed, I sobbed, and at the end, I felt as if I’d caught up with a friend over coffee.”
—The Free Lance-Star

Library Journal - Audio

09/15/2016
Screenwriter Rowley's poignant debut novel offers an anthropomorphic story that will be recognized by listeners who have faced a loved one's illness. Ted, lonely and single in Los Angeles, finds solace in his companion Lily, a dachshund. He raises her from a pup, and their lives are melded. Aging together, Lily and Ted chat, play Monopoly, and discuss cute boys. One day Ted notices something on Lily's head that resembles an octopus and wonders why he never noticed it before. Ted can't bring himself to say out loud the word tumor and calls the growth the Octopus—he even gets the vet to use the term. The Octopus, sarcastic and caustic, yet with a sly wit, won't leave. And thus begins a major battle that reaches epic proportions. Rowley captures with tenderness, humor, and creativity Ted's feeling of powerlessness, the nuances of his grief, and the fierceness people can summon when faced with an overwhelming foe. Michael Urie captures well Lily's manic yet innocent voice, as well as Ted's calmer tones and the Octopus's sly taunting. VERDICT Urie's skillful narration adds another dimension to this tale of loss of a beloved pet. Recommended. ["This funny and heartbreaking first novel will appeal to dog lovers": LJ 5/15/16 review of the S. & S. hc.]—Judy Murray, Monroe Cty. Lib. Syst., MI

Library Journal

05/15/2016
Fortysomething Ted and his 12-year-old dachshund Lily live a quiet life in Los Angeles. Ted hasn't had a boyfriend in years, but he and Lily watch movies, play board games, and talk about guys together. Everything is going along smoothly until the appearance of the octopus, Ted's name for the tumor that appears on Lily's head. Because of her age and prior medical history, Lily's treatment options are limited. Still, Ted is determined to save the life of his best friend. The fight gets more serious as Lily loses her sight and the octopus begins to talk to Ted. Ted reminisces about his and Lily's life together as he devises increasingly outlandish tactics in his war with this eight-armed invader. A long and almost mythic sojourn aboard a rented trawler leads Ted and Lily to the climax of their battle with the implacable enemy. VERDICT This funny and heartbreaking first novel will appeal to dog lovers, especially those who have had to face the harder aspects of giving their love to a creature who will return that adoration perfectly but for a far too brief time. [See Prepub Alert, 1/4/16.]—Dan Forrest, Western Kentucky Univ. Libs., Bowling Green

JUNE 2016 - AudioFile

This is an audiobook best appreciated by knowing very little about the plot before starting. The discoveries and realizations along the way make the listening experience exponentially more powerful. And if one is listening in a public place, they can also make the experience a little embarrassing. Listeners need know only that Steven Rowley's debut is a beautiful love story. Michael Urie narrates with a heartfelt passion that makes one giggle and laugh, nod in understanding and sob with sorrow. Urie's authentic emotion comes out in every character, whether it's Lily the dog's excitement, Ted the human's frustration, or the nameless octopus's apathy. This isn't an audiobook to take on your public transit ride, but it's one that should not be missed. J.F. Winner of AudioFile Earphones Award © AudioFile 2016, Portland, Maine

Kirkus Reviews

2016-03-15
A lonely writer and his aging dachshund confront a mythic enemy. If it wasn't for one thing, Rowley's debut novel might be viewed as a lightly fictionalized, heart-wrenching account of the author's last six months with his adored 12-year-old dog, Lily, who succumbed to a brain tumor. That one thing, however, is pretty big. It's the "octopus" of the title. "It's Thursday the first time I see it. I know that it's Thursday because Thursday nights are the nights my dog, Lily, and I set aside to talk about boys we think are cute.…We get into long debates over the Ryans. I'm a Gosling man, whereas she's a Reynolds gal." The thing Ted notices that fateful Thursday is an octopus. It "has a good grip and clings tightly over her eye." For almost all of this novel that thing over Lily's eye remains an "octopus," an evil eight-legged sea creature that snarks and schemes and wages battle. Even Ted's best friend and therapist give in and call it an octopus, and a good deal of plot is built around pretending that it is, in an elaborately developed, magical realist way. This is not the best thing about the book. In fact, it becomes a little much. But more than balancing it are the portrait of Lily in all her bedclothes-burrowing, ice cream-eating, stubborn dachshund glory and the intensity of this particular interspecies bond. The octopus talks to Ted, but Lily does too, for example when she's licking tears off his face: "THIS! EYE! RAIN! YOU! MAKE! IS! FANTASTIC! I! LOVE! THE! SALTY! TASTE! YOU! SHOULD! MAKE! THIS! EVERY! DAY!" As anyone who has a dachshund knows, this is exactly how they talk. If you have an older dog, or any dog, he or she is going to be licking plenty of eye rain off your face through the final chapters of this book. In his funny, ardent, and staunchly kooky way, Rowley expresses exactly what it's like to love a dog.

Product Details

BN ID:	2940171264512
Publisher:	Simon & Schuster
Publication date:	06/07/2016
Edition description:	Unabridged
Sales rank:	960,034

Read an Excerpt

Lily and the Octopus
It’s Thursday the first time I see it. I know that it’s Thursday because Thursday nights are the nights my dog, Lily, and I set aside to talk about boys we think are cute. She’s twelve in actual years, which is eighty-four in dog years. I’m forty-two, which is two hundred and ninety-four in dog years—but like a really young two hundred and ninety-four, because I’m 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 we’re both a little immature and tend to like younger guys. We get into long debates over the Ryans. I’m a Gosling man, whereas she’s a Reynolds gal, even though she can’t 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 doesn’t work that much anymore.) Then there’s 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 I’m 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. It’s when Lily suggests offhandedly we also include Chris Pratt that I notice the octopus. It’s not often you see an octopus up close, let alone in your living room, let alone perched on your dog’s head like a birthday party hat, so I’m 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.

“Lily!”

“We don’t have to include Chris Pratt, it was just a suggestion,” she says.

“No—what’s that on your head?” I ask. Two of the octopus’s arms hang down her face like chin straps.

“Where?”

“What do you mean, where? There. Over your temple on the right side.”

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. “Oh. That.”

“Yes, that.”

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! I’VE! EVER! SEEN! IT’S! 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. It’s 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 Lily’s 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. I’m not going to lie. It’s 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 couldn’t entirely make it out in form. Once you had seen it, you couldn’t really unsee it—even as you remained impressed with its ability to hide so perfectly in plain sight.

This is like that.

Now that I’ve seen it, I can’t unsee it, and the octopus transforms Lily’s entire face. A face that has always been so handsome to me, a noble and classic dog profile, betrayed only slightly by a dachshund’s 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 I’m still holding her snout. I let go of her, knowing she is seething at the indignity of it all.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says, tucking her head to gnaw at an itch on her stomach.

“Well, I do want to talk about it.”

Mostly I want to talk about how it could be possible that I’ve never seen it before. How I could be responsible for every aspect of her daily life and well-being—food, water, exercise, toys, chews, inside, outside, medication, elimination, entertainment, snuggling, affection, love—and 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 I’m letting myself so easily off the hook.

“Does it hurt?”

There’s 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 don’t 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:

“What sound or noise do you love?”

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 it’s possible to know another living thing, so I notice it. There’s a heaviness to it. A creakiness. There are cares in her world; there is weight on her shoulders.

I ask her again. “Does it hurt?”

Her answer comes slowly, after great pause and consideration. “Sometimes.”

The very best thing about dogs is how they just know when you need them most, and they’ll drop everything that they’re doing to sit with you awhile. I don’t 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.

“There’s a wind coming,” I tell her. Staring down the octopus as much as I dare, I fear there’s more truth to that statement than I’d 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: “I, 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!”

It’s a good effort, one she makes for me. But if I’m being honest, it isn’t 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.

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