My Thoughts on What It Was Like to Write My TAIL: The Emotional Process

Photo by Jenny Combs

I started writing in March 2018, two months after Tovi died, and it has taken me over seven years to be done. I intentionally use the word “done,” (not “finished”) because there isn’t any polished editing or neat ending that seals the story. After all that time, I arrived at a place where I was ready to let go of writing his story and tuck it away in my heart.

When I started this, I could barely write at all. I would become paralyzed by big feelings every time I opened my laptop, so I avoided it. I couldn’t stay present. I would just cry. But, I regret not continuing to write in some capacity -  even jotting down notes – as memories I thought I could never lose faded with the passage of time. Especially the ordinary little moments like the way he would whimper every time we approached a trail. This dormant memory only surfaced when I heard that same whimper come from another dog. It killed me that I had forgotten such an integral quirk to his personality.

Later, when I was more emotionally stable, I imagined this becoming a bestselling book about a girl and her dog who shared an extraordinary bond, and then, my obsession with editing took me away from simply writing in a way that secured the memories. I would pause writing for far too long to revise the way I described moments. I would get frustrated with my writing style and put it down for months, even years, at a time. Only recently did I realize that’s not what this type of writing was meant to be. Healing lies in the process, not in the final product. This wasn’t something meant to be baked to perfection for public consumption; it was for me. Plus, even though it felt that way, I was far from the only girl and her dog who share an extraordinary bond.

At times, writing this has felt like getting into an elevator, going down, and revisiting a time when I was someone completely different – the only constant, the witness to all of it was him. His body held every version of me. He represented people I loved and lost, and times in my life that were long gone. As I grieved, I realized I mourned not only him but a time in my life that he witnessed, so parts of the story go there. It didn’t start this way, but it became memoir-ish.

These days, writing about him doesn’t make me cry anymore – I've reached a point where I can look back on our memories and feel gratitude for everything we had. There is also something devastating about the tears drying up, though, because they felt like my last connection to him.  Of course, our connection remains; it’s just not as emotionally charged. The distance is probably for the best. It feels impossible to capture twelve beautiful years of my life with him, and I know parts will be missed because memories fade, but here's to trying.