About Vinny and Grieving The Sweet Boys (even the ones who roll in turkey poop)

In January, I bought two holiday dog collars that were on sale from Anthropologie. Anthro described them as “mosaic inspired,” (whatever the hell that means?) I’d describe them as a joyful mix of red, green, and white, intertwined in a festive pattern. In short, they were ridiculous and beautiful and I just knew Gunny and Vinny were going to look quite dapper in them next December. But before I clicked purchase, I hesitated. The thought crept its way in, what if Gunny wasn’t around next Christmas? It was a thought that had been making itself more familiar over the winter, as Gunny’s cough and mobility seemed to worsen.

I imagined myself getting the collars out in the fall, only to sigh heavily with a knowing sadness because in this morbid daydream that I had voluntarily walked into, Gunny was no longer with us. Luckily, this was the moment I heard Brene Brown somewhere deep in my mind shout, stop dress rehearsing grief, Taylor! And I quickly snapped myself out of it, shaking my hands as if I were drying them and cracking my neck because that’s always been a comforting (and probably bad) tick that I love. Thank you, Brene, thank you.

I clicked purchase on the two boujie dog collars, my message to the Universe that Gunny would be around. There was never a moment when I worried that Vinny might not be.

Today, before our house cleaners arrive for their monthly cleaning visit, I am chaotically cleaning (hiding) things around our house like a maniac. There are so many random objects out that my girls have found in God only knows what places and now I must (quickly) find a new God-only-knows-what-place to hide them once again. I open the cabinet above the fridge downstairs to shove a book and notepad inside, only to have a small plastic shipping bag fall to the floor. I pick it up and don’t recognize what’s inside so I flippantly tear it open, as one does when they have no idea the emotional bomb they’re about to set off. Why would they? It’s just a bag of dog collars, two mosaic-inspired holiday dog collars, to be specific.

I hold them in my hands and take a deep breath, preparing myself for the time travel wave that grief is about to take me on. I know that I’m about to be stuck, unable to move or think about anything else, for at least a few minutes. Will it be ten minutes this time? Or twenty? Or longer? How long it will take today? I’m not sure, because just when I think I’ve got grief figured out, it changes on me. I know that I will see the January -version of myself, I’ll think about her as she bought these collars, about how she (I) worried about Gunny, but not about Vinny. And then I’ll have to remind myself, for the millionth time, that Vinny is dead. That he is not here, but he was in January, but not anymore. Just like that, he is gone. And here comes the loop. The loop where I’m caught between acceptance, sadness and disbelief. I know he is dead, but when I get stuck in these moments that have nothing to do with the thing that put me in a trance (like the collars) I have to walk myself through it, hold my hand even, like I am small child not sure which way to go. Often, I’ll just sit down wherever I am, and stare at nothing at all until is passes. Until I let it pass.

As a visual thinker, this is when I see myself stuck on a trail I used to know well, but now it’s become overgrown and impossible to get through and I don’t like this or understand it, so I keep trying anyway. I will claw through the bushes and thorns even though it will get me nowhere, because it’s the trail I know and I don’t want to form a new one. It’s too hard and I am too tired. But eventually, I snap out of it and know I have to turn around. I have to get up and go the other way, because it’s the only way.

I don’t know if this is a correct way to describe neuroplasticity, but it’s how I envision it. During the brutal first days after we lost Vinny I told my therapist the grief I was experiencing physically hurt, it agitated me in a way that woke me up in the night and made me want to crawl out of my skin suit. I’d experienced this when we lost Harlow too and the feeling was unbearable. She explained that this was common and not unexpected because the brain processes emotional loss using the same neural pathways as physical pain. Now my brain had to completely rewire itself to find new pathways, because all of the old ones— all of the trails that were so familiar and safe feeling, involved Vinny. And now that he was no longer here, new paths had to be formed, which was (is) quite literally painful for me.

I am not a therapist or neuro… expert?! I’m just a person who really loves my dogs. I don’t know if what I explained above makes sense, or if it is factually correct, but it’s how I’ve made sense of things lately. This is the first time I’ve written about Vinny and I plan to write a lot more about him and dig a little (ok a lot deeper) into this grief because writing is how I process and heal. And selfishly, I miss talking about that naughty little fucker. I miss him so much.

I miss seeing his full body wiggle at the door, I miss saying “oh hello my sweet little angel baby,” or “Vincent Carlito!” when he rolled in turkey poop (again.) I miss all of it. I look at the spots he chewed on our chairs and our bed and I can only hear my screeching and see his ears folded downward and it pains me how angry I was at him for such trivial things. I was so angry about so much dumb shit for a long time because I thought I’d have at least a decade to make it up to him. I just assumed he’d always be the one who got to wear the Christmas collar until it became ratty and old.

I may spend the next few posts writing about Vinny and what happened. It feels like a way to honor him, or maybe it’s just a way to help me grieve, I’m not sure. I just know I’m craving to write about him because it makes me feel a little closer to him, a little closer to forming the new paths I know I have to form. So let this be your heads up that the next few posts on here may be all about the little red dog I am missing so much.