Last Saturday was a day that called for celebration, and I completely forgot even though I marked my organizer. That’s what happens when you carry an organizer to write shit down but there is nothing to remind you to consult the organizer.

Last Saturday was Brandy’s gotcha day. I first laid eyes on Brandy 4 years ago on 5/10 around 2 or 3am. I was involved in a transport of dogs in death row from a shelter in Indiana to NE area where the rescues and adopters were waiting. We started the transport early in the morning the day before, but the schedule delayed repeatedly by unforeseen problems from the very beginning: the first leg’s car breaking down, the leg right before me dropping a wrong dog off, not to mention the last leg, me, getting totally lost finding the meeting place in the middle of the night. Oh and did I mention one of the dogs got loose while hand-off? Thankfully we got her back after running around for about half an hour or so – we were extremely lucky. Because a wrong dog was dropped off and because the one who ran that leg basically drove all day from Ohio to New York, I had to go back to the border of NJ and PA to exchange the dogs. That was when I first met Brandy. She was the wrong dog, meaning that she was one of the two that I pulled to foster and find homes for. I wasn’t looking for another dog myself, you see.

Within a week, the other dog I pulled, Bella, already had a great family who wanted to adopt her and was adopted in 2 weeks. However, nobody was interested in Brandy. She was an odd looking puppy with disproportionately short legs and a tail which looked like it belonged to another dog that somebody jokingly attached to her body somehow. She was one of those all too common Shepherd mix, nothing but a dime a dozen mutt, a strange looking one at that. I wasn’t in a hurry to adopt her out though since she seemed to be “throwing up” a whole lot, and I wanted to find out what’s wrong with her and get it taken care of first.

After three visits to the vet, we found out that Brandy has congenital megaesophagus. Her esophagus has zero motility and whatever goes into her mouth just sits in her esophagus and comes back out when she lowers her head, jumps down from sofa or even just lying down. She wasn’t throwing up, she was regurgitating her food. There’s no treatment but an operation, the failure of which results in a much worse condition than before and the success rate too low to consider. The vet told me that she needed to be held upright to get her body perpendicular to the ground so that the gravity pulls the food down to her stomach every time she eats or drinks.

I stopped my effort to adopt her out and decided to keep her. I gave myself an excuse that nobody would adopt her anyway and even if somebody did, they’d get sick of her ruining the couch or carpet with her regurgitation and she’d be dumped again. But the truth is that I was already so deeply in love with Brandy. She’s the embodiment of gratefulness, appreciation and loyalty. I could always feel it looking into her eyes looking back at me with such devotion.

Sometime last week, I was talking to my friend who used to pet-sit for me and also lived in my livingroom for a month to help me take care of Brandy when I had my shoulder surgery. It was about Brandy’s current problem having soft stool, and I said, “It’s so fucking unfair! She’s the most loyal, most grateful one and she has to suffer so damn much.” And his reply drove me to tears. “Yeah, I know. She would die for you in a heartbeat.”

Yes, I know she would.

Happy belated gotcha day, Brandy! I suck moose’ ass for forgetting.