Steven Rowley Quotes

Somewhere, sometime, I stopped really living. I stopped really trying. And I don't understand why.

There's no shame in surrender when it's time to stop fighting.

The distribution of loss is inequitable. That's just the way it is. That's just the way the world works. There's no one handing it out. There's no one making sure everyone gets a fair share.

We bring champagne to Franklin and Jeffrey, and I offer a final toast, 'Wishing you all good things in your life together.' Short, simple, to the point.
I look at Meredith, relaxed in her ivory gown, my sister is all grown up. I'm grateful we did our growing up together.

Everyone dies. Not everyone really lives.

If you spend your entire life trying to cheat death, there's no time left over to embrace life.

I gently lift her up and study her Frankenstein scar. it's like she's now assembled from two differnt dogs:the puppy who will always want to play, and the senior dog who must come to understand her limits.

What do you think of when you think of mourning?' Jenny asks.
The question snaps me back to attention. I answer without really thinking. "I guess 'Funeral Blues' by W.H. Auden. I think it was Auden. I suppose that's not very original.'
'I don't know it.'
'It's a poem.'
'I gathered.'
'I'm just clarifying. It's not a blues album.'
Jenny ignores my swipe at her intelligence.
'Does your response need to be original? Isn't that what poetry is for, for the poet to express something so personal that it ultimately is universal?'
I shrug. Who is Jenny, even new Jenny, to say what poetry is for? Who am I for that matter?
'Why do you thin of that poem in particular?'
"Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, / Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, / Silence the pianos and with muffled drum / Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.'
I learned the poem in college and it stuck.

She taught me everything I know about patience, kindness, strength, and unconditional love. For that, I am forever in her debt. Lily, you were, quite simply, the greatest to me.

I always thought Peter Pan was death. An angel of death who came to collect children.

Okay.' I can feel the letters vomit off my tongue.
O.
K.
A.
Y.
I watch the vet insert the syringe into the catheter and inject the second drug. And then the adventures come flooding back:

The puppy farm.
The gentle untying of the shoelace.
THIS! IS! MY! HOME! NOW!
Our first night together.
Running on the beach.
Sadie and Sophie and Sophie Dee.
Shared ice-cream cones.
Thanksgivings.
Tofurky.
Car rides.
Laughter.
Eye rain.
Chicken and rice.
Paralysis.
Surgery.
Christmases.
Walks.
Dog parks.
Squirrel chasing.
Naps.
Snuggling.
'Fishful Thinking.'
The adventure at sea.
Gentle kisses.
Manic kisses.
More eye rain.
So much eye rain.
Red ball.

The veterinarian holds a stethoscope up to Lily's chest, listening for her heartbeat.
All dogs go to heaven.
'Your mother's name is Witchie-Poo.' I stroke Lily behind her ears the way that used to calm her. 'Look for her.'
OH FUCK IT HURTS.
I barely whisper. 'She will take care of you.

I wish I was curled up on the floor in the sun beside Lily. I wish I could lay my hand on her like I did when she was a pup, to let her know that all that worried her would be okay so long as I was there. It's where I belong instead of here.

Most of all, I am thankful for Lily, who, since she entered my life, has taught me everything I know about patience and kindness and meeting adversity with quiet dignity and grace. No one makes me laugh harder, or want to hug them tighter. You have truly lived up to the promise of man's best friend.

It's natural, as our loved ones age, to start grieving their loss even before we lose them.

What's wrong with Tuesdays?" Trent asks. "Everything. Monday's always Monday, but at least it's the start of something new. Wednesday is hump day, Thursday's almost Friday, and Friday brings the weekend. But Tuesday? Nada.

Dogs, on the other hand... dogs have pure souls. Look at me." I grab her chin and look straight into her eyes. "Dogs are always good and full of selfless love. They are undiluted vessels of joy who never, ever deserve anything bad that happens to them. Especially you. Since the day I met you, you have done nothing but make my life better in every possible way. Do you understand?

We're too often guilty of thinking that our parents arrived on this planet as fully functioning adults on the day that we were born. That they don't have pasts of their own prior to our birth. That the father is not also a son, that the mother is not also a child. My mother had a tough beginning, enduring things I know little about. And yet I more often discount her pain and overvalue mine.

A Complete List of Lily's Nicknames
Silly
Little
Lil
Monkey
Bunny
Bunny Rebbit
Mousse
Tiny Mouse
Goose
Silly Goose
Mongoose
Monster
Monster.com
Peanut
Penuche
Pinochle
Sweet Pea
Walnut
Walnut Brian
Copper Bottom
Crazy
Baby
Puppy
Guppy
Old Lady
Crank
Cranky
Cranky Pants
Squeaky
Squeaky Frome
Tiger
Dingbat
Mush
Mushy Face
Hipster
Slinkster
Slinky
Bean
Dog

I don't understand how my life got so empty, or why the octopus came, or why everyone eventually goes away.

We get in the car, and someone signals their blinker for my parking spot but I emphatically wave them away like they're after my soul and not just my parking spot. And so we sit there for twelve minutes until the meter runs out. Lily silently crawls from the passenger seat into my lap and curls up into a little ball. She lets out an enormous sigh.

But until this night, she had never once actually wet the bed. And now that she has, we just lie there in the accident, and the minutes of the clock keep changing, and the love I have for her keeps growing, and we both keep drawing breath.
What was so horrible about it? Why had I always been so angry? What was my need to always be right? To win every argument with her? To out-stubborn a dog?
And just like that, all the anger is gone. Released like the emptying of a bladder into soft cotton sheets as we lie in the wetness.

Jenny and I once talked about how we manage to live despite the knowledge that we are all going to die. What's the point of it all? Why bother getting up in the morning when faced with such futility? Or is it the promise of death that inspires life? That we must grab what we can while there's still time? Is it the not knowing if today is the day that keeps us going? But what if this is the day? What if the hour is here? How do you stand? How do you breathe? How do you go on?

To focus, I think of how dogs are witnesses. How they are present for our most private moments, how they are there when we think of ourselves as alone. They witness our quarrels, our tears, our struggles, our fears, and all of our secret behaviors that we have to hide from our fellow humans. They witness without judgment.

When I held my new puppy in my arms, I broke down in tears. Because I had fallen in love. Not somewhat in love. Not partly in love. Not in a limited amount. I fell fully in love with a creature I had known for all of nine hours.

At first, his charisma made it addictive to be around him; but over time I recognized it was also a façade. There was a wounded boy inside of him. He had grown up without a dad, so it made sense to me that he sought constant validation. I found it endearing, humanizing; until he started to indulge that little boy. There were tantrums, there was acting out, there was his need to control things that he no business controlling, but he was still that boy, and I loved him.



So I stayed thinking it would get better, and then one morning I woke up to one of life's clarion calls. I deserved better than this. That night I said I was leaving.

Dogs are always good and full of selfless love. They are undiluted vessels of joy who never, ever deserve anything bad that happens to them.

Since I am in this pain, the pain of having what is special taken from me, I look inside myself and I don't like what I see: a man who is broken and alone. I think of all the time Lily and I spent together, just the two of us - the talks about boys, the Monopoly, the movies, the pizza nights - and I wonder how much of it was real. Dogs don't eat pizza; dogs don't play Monopoly. I know this on some level, but everything feels so true. How much of it was an elaborate construct to mask my own loneliness? How much of it was built to convince myself the attempts I made at real life - therapy, dating - were not just that: attempts?

After a pause Lily looks up at me. "Sometimes I think of you as Dad." My heart rises in my throat. That's the only term of endearment I need.

Q: What sound or noise do you love? A: Puppies sighing.