Because Dogs Live in the Present

　　“Do you want water? You can drink mine.” I indicate the glass of water I always keep on the nightstand.

　　Lily shakes her head no.

　　“I'm so sorry,” I say. “For all those other nights.”

　　“Wh-y-y-y-y?” The panting continues.

　　And this makes me cry even harder. All those nights she had no idea that I went to bed angry at her. Or if she had known, she has forgotten. Because dogs live in the present. Because dogs don’t hold grudges. Because dogs let go of all of their anger daily, hourly, and never let it fester. They absolve and forgive with each passing minute. Every turn of a corner is the opportunity for a clean slate. Every bounce of a ball brings joy and the promise of a fresh chase.

　　She wants to know why I'm sorry. I don't want to tell her about my anger. I don't want to tarnish my image in her eyes. Not now. Not with the octopus listening.

　　So when I respond, I lie.

　　“Because I'm going to have to give you a bath.”

Lily and the Octopus, P133-134
Steven Rowley
ISBN 978-1-5011-2622-2