We Love You Very Much 

“So there was this woman and she was on an airplane, and she was flying to meet her fiancé seaming high above the largest ocean on planet earth. She was seated next to this man she had tried to start conversations, but the only thing she had really heard him say was to order his Bloody Mary. She was sitting there and she was reading this really arduous magazine article about a third world country that she couldn't even pronounce the name of, and she was feeling very bored and despondent. And then suddenly there was this huge mechanical failure and one of the engines gave out, and they started just falling thirty-thousand feet, and the pilots on the microphone and he's saying, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, oh my god...I'm sorry," and apologizing. And she looks at the man and says, "Where are we going?" And he looks at her and he says, "We're going to a party. It's a birthday party. It's your birthday party. Happy birthday darling. We love you very, very, very, very, very, very, very much.” - Bright Eyes

The storm hit on Monday, and I lost Nadia at 1:00 am. I looked for her, posting up signs on the front and back door of every stairway, all thirty-eight floors. On the 39th hour, I was taping a poster to the outside of the building, where the doormen had set up a makeshift headquarters.

“Oh no, you lost a dog?” says the Mexican man by the brick.

“Yes, have you seen her? She’s three pounds and is colored like a little deer – fawn and tan – she has a pink collar, and her name is Nadia, have you heard anything?”

Every voice is a lead, I keep waiting for someone to say, “Oh yes, she’s in apartment 602, the people couldn't find her owner but she’s safe. Let’s go get her.”

Instead, I hear Spanish (or is it Portuguese?) spoken to the man beside my new interviewee.

“What?” I say. “What did you say to him?”

“It’s nothing, no, it’s nothing.”

But I could tell it wasn't nothing. “WHAT did you say? Tell me, please?” I look at the man in the eyes.

“It’s probably nofing, but our fiend, the guy who clean the tash, he said one you rich kids trow a dog in de trash Monday nite. He found it. But he sed it was bigga. Like dis big.” His hands were wide. “Prally not yer dog.”

“What do you mean, he found a dog in the trash? Who is he? Can I please talk to him?” My heart was sinking, my voice was quivering, but I needed answers.

“He come at for tirty tamorrow. That his shift. Vladamier.”

I came at three thirty the next day, thighs aching from posting signs on every floor of our sky rise, just to make sure I could talk to him.

They spoke Russian, and it took a while to find him. I had my iPod, and I started showing him pictures of her.

The first photo.

“Yes, that her. I’m sorry. That her.”

No, no, no, no, no. 

Happy Birthday!

“Are you sure?” I cried and I showed him more and more until he walked away from me. “Not her right? Are you sure?”

“The collar,” he finally said. “I’m sorry girl. It the collar same.”

Then, I ran.

I ran as fast as I could away from there because I knew she was in the trash and they already took the trash away and I’d never find her and I hurt so bad my outsides hurt. And after I ran, I threw up on the sidewalk, over and over, crying and crying, because I couldn't believe she was with all that trash, and I was stuck in this lousy situation, and most of all because Nadia was dead. And people kept asking me if I was okay, and I kept saying no, because I wasn't and I kept throwing up and crying. And then I kept walking uptown as far as I could go, because there was no cell phone service downtown, and I needed to tell my mom. So once I got there, I threw up again and I just cried and cried, lying on the concrete, because Nadia was not only loved by me, but also by my parents, and they were trying so hard to grieve Nadia while at the same time trying to forgive me.

And at that point, I felt I had had enough sadness in New York City, and after I put the doggy shaped flowers by the trash (the best I could do for a memorial), and left her favorite baby, and cried cried cried, I was ready to get the fuck out of New York City. So I asked these random “Harold and Kumar” fellas to drive me to New Jersey so I could try to find a rent-a-car. I paid over a grand for a car that should have cost me $300. But do you know what? I drove almost the whole way through. I stopped in Iowa, for one night, and it only cost 70 dollars. But the rest of the thirty hours? I went straight through, crying the whole time.

I guess sorrow makes a road trip a whole lot faster, because it didn't feel like thirty hours to me. Maybe it’s guilt that keeps you crying too, because I've never felt so sorry my whole life for not keeping Nadia safe. There’s very few memories in this world that you will remember forever. I’ll forever remember my Nadia, and I hope she forgives me for letting her get lost in the storm. I hope she is with my Auntie Lisa, because I think she’d be the best one to have her. I’m so sorry about everything. I’m sorry Nadia.