Why Is 'Lily And The Octopus' Considered Emotional?

Lily in 'Lily and the Octopus' is a dachshund, and her breed plays a huge role in the story. Dachshunds are known for their long bodies and short legs, which makes them both adorable and prone to back problems. The book captures Lily's playful, stubborn personality perfectly—traits common in dachshunds. Her breed's quirks amplify the emotional stakes when she faces health issues. The author doesn't just mention her breed casually; it shapes her behavior, from her burrowing instincts to her fierce loyalty. If you love dogs, this book hits harder because it nails the dachshund spirit: courageous, quirky, and full of heart.

The heart of 'Lily and the Octopus' beats through the voice of Ted Flask, a lonely, mid-thirties writer who wears his emotions like a frayed sweater. His narration is raw, oscillating between gut-wrenching vulnerability and bursts of manic humor. Through Ted’s eyes, we experience his bond with Lily—his elderly dachshund—not as a pet owner but as a man clinging to love in a world that feels increasingly transient. His metaphors are wild yet precise: the “octopus” (a tumor) becomes a monstrous invader, a metaphor so visceral it blurs reality. Ted’s voice isn’t just a storytelling device; it’s a lifeline. He talks to Lily like a confidant, argues with the octopus like a mad philosopher, and drowns in memories of past relationships. The prose swings from frantic exclamations to quiet, aching reflections, mirroring the chaos of grief. What makes Ted unforgettable isn’t his wit—though he’s hilarious—but how unflinchingly he exposes his flaws. His narration doesn’t just tell a story; it’s a confession.

'Lily and the Octopus' is a heart-wrenching yet beautiful journey that doesn’t shy away from the raw emotions of loss. The ending is bittersweet—Ted, the protagonist, doesn’t get a fairy-tale resolution, but he finds closure. Lily’s battle with the 'octopus' (a metaphor for her tumor) ends, but the love they shared lingers. It’s happy in the sense that Ted learns to cherish memories rather than cling to pain. The book’s strength lies in its honesty; it doesn’t force joy but lets healing feel earned. Some readers might crave a happier twist, but the realism resonates deeper. Ted’s growth from denial to acceptance is its own victory. The final scenes are tender, focusing on gratitude for the time they had. It’s the kind of ending that stays with you, not because it’s cheerful, but because it’s true.

I recently read 'Lily and the Octopus' and was struck by how real it felt, but no, it's not based on a true story. The author Steven Rowley crafted this emotional rollercoaster from his imagination, though he clearly drew from universal experiences of pet ownership. The bond between Ted and his dachshund Lily feels so authentic because Rowley understands how dogs become family. The octopus metaphor for illness is heartbreakingly creative—it turns a pet's struggle into something visceral and surreal. While the specifics are fictional, anyone who's loved a pet will recognize the raw truth in their relationship. The book's power comes from how it channels real emotions into a unique narrative framework, making fictional events resonate like personal memories.

The way 'Lily and the Octopus' handles grief is raw and real. It sneaks up on you like the octopus in the story—something you try to ignore until it’s impossible. The protagonist’s bond with Lily, his dog, mirrors how we attach to those we love, making her illness feel personal. His denial isn’t just about losing her; it’s about facing loneliness. The octopus becomes this monstrous metaphor for the creeping dread of loss, the way grief can feel like an invader. What sticks with me is how the story doesn’t offer tidy solutions. It shows grief as messy, cyclical, and sometimes absurd—like arguing with a hallucinated octopus. The book’s magic is in making you laugh through tears, especially in scenes where love outshines the pain.

An octopus is pretty impressive when it comes to the brain department. They actually have nine brains in total - one central brain and eight additional brains, one in each arm. It's a fascinating set-up that helps them control their complex movements and remarkable behavior.

The protagonist in 'The Benefits of Being an Octopus' is Zoey Albro, a seventh-grader navigating life’s chaos with quiet resilience. She’s the kind of kid who flies under the radar, shouldering responsibilities way beyond her years—helping care for her younger siblings while her mom works multiple jobs. Zoey’s voice is raw and real; she observes the world like an outsider, comparing herself to an octopus (her favorite animal) because they adapt to survive. Her journey is about finding her place, whether it’s dealing with school debates, her mom’s unstable boyfriend, or poverty’s daily grind. What makes Zoey unforgettable is her gradual shift from silence to speaking up, especially when she joins the debate club and realizes her words have power. The book’s strength lies in how Zoey’s struggles mirror real issues—economic insecurity, family dynamics, and self-worth—without ever feeling preachy.

I've been following 'The Benefits of Being an Octopus' since it came out, and as far as I know, there's no movie adaptation yet. The book's unique blend of middle-school drama and deep social commentary would make for an incredible film, though. Imagine seeing Zoey's struggles with poverty and family dynamics brought to life on screen—her using octopus facts as metaphors for survival would be visually stunning. The closest thing right now is the audiobook, which captures the emotional tone perfectly. While we wait, fans should check out 'The Thing About Jellyfish'—another book that mixes science with personal growth in a similarly touching way.