I divided the price tag—$925, good lord!—by 30. It came out to a little less than $31 a year. I could always bequeath it to my daughter, who wears the same size, if I croaked before 82. The first outdoor-gear site I tried didn’t have my size. The Canada Goose site was sold out as well. So I did what almost any internet-connected American consumer would do: I went on Amazon and typed in Canada Goose Kensington. There I found the mother lode of Kensington jackets in many sizes, all available through a seller listed as “by Canada Goose,” which I assumed was the company itself.

This is where my story goes from wild Goose chase to goosed.

I chose dark green (“volcano,” they called it) in a size small, placed it in my cart, and then spent two more days debating whether to pull the trigger. Aside from my children’s college education, monthly rent, various medical procedures, and a few pieces of long-lasting furniture, I don’t generally spend that kind of money. I don’t own a home. I’ve never owned a car. Could I really walk around with that white Canada Goose patch on my arm? Maybe I could just cut it off.

One of my favorite activities is crossing the Williamsburg Bridge into Manhattan on foot, a windy journey on even the sunniest day. The coat would be an investment in my own warmth and physical well-being, even if I never travel to the South Pole.

Click! Buy.

I had zero buyer’s remorse until the next day, when I got the confirmation email with the tracking information. My new Canada Goose coat was on its way from Singapore, by way of Hong Kong. Wait, what? Wasn’t the whole point that the coats were made in Canada? I checked the small print, and the seller of my coat was no longer listed as Canada Goose, but as someone named Greg Adamserft. I clicked on the name, which took me to an Amazon seller’s page. At that point, Adamserft had only three reviews, all with five stars. (Now, weeks later, the page is riddled with one-star complaints.)

When the coat arrived, it was army green instead of the forest green I had ordered. It was heavy, not lightweight. It didn’t fit. It smelled of chemicals. And the white Canada Goose patch? It looked off; it’s the patch on the right at the top of this article. On Canada Goose’s website, a page dedicated to the dangers of counterfeiting explains that every one of its products has a hologram label with a polar-bear image, proof of authenticity. With a $925 pit in my stomach, I checked my coat. It had a hologram sewn into the seam but, sure enough, no polar bear.

Read: Amazon may have a counterfeit problem

Canada Goose’s website also has a search tool where you can type in the URL of an online retailer to check if it’s an authorized dealer. I typed in “amazon.com.” Immediately, a big red X appeared: “This is not an authorized online retailer.”