I Will Always Love You (Meet Cute in Minnesota #3)

Chapter 1

ONE

COLBY

Dog moms are a little bit like human moms—most everyone thinks their little one is a special snowflake.

And I’m no exception. But my golden retriever, Kona, really is different.

I’m not a violent person at all, unless of course a ref makes a terrible call during a nail-biter Minnesota Lynx WNBA game.

But if anyone dare disagree that Kona is the best dog floated down to me from dog heaven, I might be tempted to throw down.

“Right, girl? Would Mama kick some butt for you?” I ask, bending down to rub the soft spot behind Kona’s ears, which over the years has become as much of a calming mechanism for me as for her.

And my poor girl; along with her upcoming CCL (ACL for us humans) surgery, she might have to get a fur replacement behind those ears, too.

Alongside me, Kona’s paws crunch through the freshly fallen snow.

Snapping twigs and branches are the only other sounds in my forested plot.

The northern Minnesota winter air is dry and crisp, laced with the scents of pine trees and fresh snow.

Sitting just outside of Duluth, I live in a pocket of what’s considered some of the cleanest and most pristine air in the country—which is part of why I moved here six years ago, at a time when I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

Minnesota offered me a fresh start, a place to shed my past, to help me move on. As a native Floridian, though, perhaps I should have done a little more research on exactly how cold and how much snow this place got before I settled on buying a secluded cabin in the woods.

Kona’s sniffing the snow and trees, following the scent of whatever wildlife may have roamed my property last night.

Despite the limp in her leg, she’s happy.

I swear if I could bottle up some of this doggie joy and sell it on eBay or something, I’d be a millionaire.

How my girl can be in pain and happy at the same time, I’ll never know.

A few weeks ago, I tweaked my back from chopping wood and was in a funk for a week.

Kona’s been dealing with a torn ligament and still looks like she’d lick to death anyone who may come our way.

Five years ago when I took in Kona, everyone warned me that she’d probably, eventually, need this surgery.

They said that golden retrievers are likely to develop arthritis, hip issues, ear infections, and a bunch of other things that I absolutely didn’t listen to.

I didn’t need to, because there was no way I was keeping the dog.

My former in-laws had to practically force me, kicking and screaming (not actually kicking, but yes, definite screaming), to foster the puppy until they found her the proper home.

I needed something to love, they said. Something to take care of, a purpose.

I disagreed but caved and said I’d take her for a month and not a second longer.

And then this dog that peed everywhere, and chewed the wood frame on my bedroom door, and disrupted my sleep for months, became my everything.

Literally, my everything. I took up crocheting so I could make her blankets, I cook her all fresh organic food, I bring her everywhere with me.

I even refuse to reframe the door, keeping her puppy chomps as a memory piece, probably the way a human mom keeps the little notches on the wall where they measured the child’s height.

Kona’s not classified as an emotional support dog, but I swear she could be.

“Okay, girl, stay.” I pop open my Jeep’s tailgate and lug out the ramp. “Pretty soon, you’ll be able to hop up there just like me in my college days when I used to hop up on stage and belt out a karaoke song to win free beer. What? I never told you that story?”

Do I know it’s a little weird that I talk to my dog this much?

Sure. Probably. I’ve never even had so much as a hamster before this, so I’m not really sure of the standard protocol of human–dog relationships.

But besides wandering into town and chatting with the owner of Zoey’s Bakery during my once-a-week cupcake run, thanking the cashier for ringing up my groceries, or the few times I bump into a delivery driver who’s dropping off a package, Kona is my only interaction.

And I don’t mean that figuratively.

I live alone, purposely. When my wife unexpectedly died six years ago, ripped from my arms in a snap, it changed everything in me—including the want or need to get close to anyone.

The heartache was indescribable. The emptiness so sudden, so stark, so drastic, that weeks passed before I realized she was actually gone.

A darkness invaded me. The kind that burns into your skin, etches into your soul, leaves you lifeless and steals your breath.

Everything changes in a moment like that. The way you sleep, eat, live… all gone. The person I was no longer exists, she died along with my wife. And the person I am now has a five-layer steel protective shield around her heart.

Kona waddles up the ramp and nestles into her blanket. Guilt flushes through me that she probably thinks we’re going to Zoey’s Bakery for doggie treats or into town on some fun adventure, but really, I’m taking her in for a procedure. A routine procedure, the vet said.

But I know a little something about routine procedures.

“It’s gonna be okay, girl. Don’t you worry about a thing,” I say to Kona, but I know I’m saying it to myself.

My pulse quickens, and I quickly pet her behind the ears.

The slam of the tailgate echoes against the trees, and I rest my forehead on the window for just a moment, trying to regulate my breathing.

We bump down the long windy gravel drive with a layer of fresh snow, and before I reach the edge, I skitter to a stop as a family of deer hop along.

One turns and looks at me with large brown doe-eyes, and I swear it’s looking into my soul.

Amelia? I see signs like this, or what I think are signs, from my wife all the time.

A butterfly resting on my arm. A deer peering at me.

A peek of a rainbow through parted clouds.

But, then sometimes, I think it is what it is—part of nature that means nothing.

Signs. For years, we missed the signs. Us, the doctors.

No one knew, they said. No one could have known, they said.

Amelia would joke that she was out of shape when she got fatigued or ran out of breath too quickly.

We’d laugh about the days as teens when we could tear around the soccer field, but once we hit our late twenties, we were done and needed more rest.

You couldn’t have known…

On the country road heading towards Spring Harbors, my lifted tires easily plow through the snow.

I flip on the radio, look at Kona, try to take in the serene surroundings, but it’s useless.

No matter what I do, I cannot distract myself from what happened six years ago.

The thoughts of that day invade me, stick into my skin like a webbed thorn.

The doctors did all the pre-op tests. Amelia was a young, healthy, thirty-year-old woman with a torn rotator cuff.

That morning, we’d gotten dressed, and she complained that she couldn’t have her skinny vanilla latte before the surgery.

At the hospital, she snapped a selfie in her hospital gown, told me I had to film her after surgery so she could see what she was like coming out of anesthesia, and made me promise that before we left the hospital I’d steal the wheelchair and whip her around in circles like we were at the teacup ride at Disney World.

I teased her that I was going to hop over to Disney World while she was in surgery.

Which of course, I would’ve never done because one, Amelia would’ve killed me, and two, Disney World is not my thing at all.

I used to joke that if anyone ever questioned my love for my wife, all they had to do was look at the yearly photos of me at Disney wearing the most embarrassing—and tight—red-and-white Minnie Mouse ears.

But Amelia loved it, so it was a small sacrifice.

When I pull up to the red light, I adjust my rearview mirror to look at Kona.

She’s so content, resting on top of her blankie.

Ugh. Maybe we don’t have to do this today.

I mean, she looks happy. Why would you put an animal through surgery when they’re happy?

Selfishly, I’ve already held out longer than I probably should’ve getting her this surgery.

Putting Kona under the knife felt extreme.

I’d talked to the vet in Spring Harbors, got a second opinion, then a third.

I read every article on canine pain meds, physical therapy, light therapy, vitamins.

I increased the fresh salmon and eggs in her diet, kept her walks to a minimum, but nothing changed.

Routine surgery.

Shaky, unsteady breaths release with each mile.

When we finally pull up to the clinic, my hands are so fatigued from gripping the steering wheel that they start to tingle.

“Ready, girl?” I say, shaking out my grip.

But I’m not ready. Maybe I can reschedule.

Get a fourth or fifth opinion. Is there some sort of acupuncture they can give dogs?

Could I sacrifice something to the gods?

I mean, really, how often do I use my pinkie?

I pop open the tailgate and give her a rub behind the ears.

“Okay, girl, we got this,” I say to my unsuspecting, innocent dog as I lower and adjust the ramp.

“You be brave and I’ll be brave, and in a few hours this nightmare will end.

And you’re going to feel so much better, okay? There is nothing to worry about.”

The leash feels so natural in my hand, the leather band worn down to a soft, smooth surface. My heartbeat locks in my throat. If something happens today, do I just spend the rest of my life walking alone? With nothing in my hand, with no purpose?