As Lily aged and her reactions slowed and her eyesight became less crispy, Doogie's predecessor warned me that she might develop something he called Enclosed World Syndrome. I told him I hadn't heard of Enclosed World Syndrome, only New World Syndrome (the introduction of a modern, sedentary lifestyle to indigenous people, along with obesity, diabetes, and heart disease —— you're welcome, Native Americans.) I don't know if Enclosed World Syndrome is an official syndrome or something this vet made up, or who is even in charge of anointing syndromes officially. But Lily did rather quickly come to find comfort only in smaller and smaller concentric circles with our house at the center and, coincidentally, so did I. Or maybe Lily's aging coincide with the end of my relationship with Jeffrey and the stalling of my writing career. "How's Jeffrey?" "How's the writing going?" These were the questions that had irritated me to my core. Not because of their illegitimacy, but because I had no response. How was Jeffrey? We can't go two days without fighting. How was the writing? I haven't written anything in months. It became easier to avoid people than to have to explain that I was struggling. My Enclosed World Syndrome got a little better, partly out of necessity, when I became single again. Lily's never did.
Lily and the Octopus, P127-128
Steven Rowley
ISBN 978-1-5011-2622-2
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