Happy Gotcha Day, You Demanding Little Dog

December 23rd. Two years ago today, Biscuit came home.

I didn't plan anything elaborate. Honestly, I almost let the date pass without marking it, it's Christmas Eve-eve, everyone's busy, and Biscuit himself has no concept of anniversary. But I woke up thinking about it, and then I thought about the shelter we got him from, and then somehow I was texting to ask if they needed extra hands sorting the holiday donation drop-offs. They said yes before I even finished the sentence.

So that's how I ended up spending three hours in a supply room that smells like industrial cleaner and, faintly, dog. Sorting through donated towels and zip-lock bags of kibble samples and labeling boxes by size.

mid-laugh at the front desk, Biscuit's gotcha day errands

It wasn't glamorous. My back is mildly complaining. But there was a moment in the hallway carrying a box that was 40% too heavy where I thought: this is exactly the kind of thing that does not look like anything from the outside, and that's actually the whole point of it.

hauling the last box, gotcha day logistics

Biscuit was at home the entire time, completely unbothered. He had no idea I was out there commemorating him. He probably slept on the couch in a patch of winter sun and thought about nothing. Which is, honestly, the ideal existence. Happy gotcha day, buddy. You owe me one.