For most writers, when shit goes down, we need to write it out. Whether it’s morning pages, a too-long to-do list, or an essay, writing becomes a way of processing. It helps us organize our thoughts and see our feelings reflected back at us.
Plus, for whatever reason, turning the inward outward is cathartic.
Writing Good Boy, Dewey was hard but necessary. I knew the best way through the shock and overwhelming grief of losing my once-in-a-lifetime dog would be through words. A day or two after his passing, I started a private note in my phone with all the details I never want to forget about him, including the dozens of nicknames he accumulated over the years.
E.g. Dewey = Lord of Breathington County, which turned into Lord Breathington, then became Breathington, and eventually settled into just “Breath.”
The behind-the-scenes of Good Boy, Dewey is less about technical changes and more about how you write a single piece that does something, or someone, that important justice. As I started writing, I felt like I was airing just one sliver of our story. I even said, “I feel like I could write an entire book.”
Dewey’s death just felt, and still feels, too big to be filed down to one essay or one highlight reel. I have a highlight reel for every place, every season, and every perfectly timed fart.
And so, the main difficulty with this one was writing through the emotion (and hearty dose of trauma), knowing it would never feel complete, and accepting that incompleteness could be part of something still worth publishing.
Changes from Early Draft to Published Version of Good Boy, Dewey
My first version of Good Boy, Dewey was less of a draft and more of an attempt to get as much of Dewey down as possible. It was a lot of bullet points and raw typing through the tears (thank god there’s no video footage).
I wrote the opening in a free flow, which read mostly as a frantic inventory. Then, I began to organize the sections into something another person could read. The opening line, “Dewey came to us from grief,” was a gift from the shower, and I knew I had a jumping-off point.
As I shaped the essay, I had to accept the exact thing I was struggling with: not all of Dewey could ever be captured.
So, with some self-talk and the reminder that I could write an entire book about dog grief if I wanted to, I agreed to let one snapshot be enough for now. This shift alleviated the pressure and let me write an essay that wasn’t just for an audience of one.
Here’s how I turned the dumping ground into something habitable:
