Normally, the few hours I get to spend at the animal shelter represent the happiest time period of my week. I don’t care if they need me to clean kennels, treat ear mites, or walk dogs. I’m always ready and willing, loving the sensation of using my hands almost as much as I enjoy working with the dogs and cats that find their way into the shelter.

Today is the exception.

Today I’m sequestered in one of the small quarantine rooms with a large mixed-breed dog. I sit cross-legged on the floor, the emaciated dog curled up in a tight, scared ball in front of me. I probe at its body, the gentleness of my hands masking the anger simmering under my skin as I carefully cleanse one open wound after another. The dog lies perfectly still as I work on him. The only sign he gives that he’s in any discomfort at all is when I have to dig into his abraded skin for another piece of gravel and he lets out a low, mournful whine that drives arrows through my heart.

“I’m so sorry,” I murmur over and over again, apologizing for all of humankind even as I wish there was a way to track down the assholes that thought that after trying and failing to starve the creature to death, they threw it out of a moving car onto a busy highway, assuming that either another motorist or the fall would be the final blow.

They hadn’t counted on a good Samaritan seeing the act and stopping to pull the dog out of danger. The good-hearted motorist wasn’t a pet person and didn’t know where any of the local verts were located, but they drove past this shelter every day, so they brought him here.

Due to my background in veterinary medicine, I was assigned the task of cleaning and treating the wounds and keeping the dog calm until the real veterinarian finally gets here.

The familiar sound of screaming hinges signals that someone has stepped into the front lobby area. I assume it’s the vet who was called as soon as this thin, shivering mess of a dog was brought to the shelter. Dr. DeWitt was busy at the time, but had promised to stop in as soon as her office closed for the day.

“Hi.”

My ears perk up at the sound of Caitlin’s familiar voice and my heart beats just a little faster, the same way it always does whenever she’s near. My mind and body find her more exhilarating than a shot of caffeine poured directly into my bloodstream.

In the three weeks that have passed since we signed the contract, we’ve spent every spare moment together. We’ve been doing the kind of things conventional couples do, like heading over to Aspen for an afternoon of skiing, going to the antique arcade in Manitou Springs, visiting a debut exhibition of an up-and-coming local artist Caitlin knows, meeting her parents, and planning our wedding. And making love whenever – and wherever – possible. It seems like the more I touch her, the more I want her.

I’ve grown so accustomed to her, need her so badly, that I can’t figure out how I managed to get by without her. She’s made the world a better, brighter place.

“I’m looking for Jeremy Caldwell,” I hear her tell whomever is manning the front desk. “He said he was coming here. That it’s his day to volunteer?”

“You must be Jeremy’s fiancée,” Sharilyn Byers, the shelter’s director, replies.

Caitlin hums a confirmation.

“It’s wonderful to meet you.” Sharilyn’s voice brims with enthusiasm. “He’s told me so much about you. C’mon, I’ll take you to see him, though I should warn you that he’s with a dog and it’s a bit grisly right now. So if you have a sensitive stomach, you might want to stay here until he’s ready to go.”

Despite straining my ears, I don’t catch Caitlin’s response, but a second later I hear the soft sound of footsteps in the hallway just before the door swings open.

Sharilyn pokes her head in. “Jeremy, there’s someone here to see you.”

Before I can respond, Sharilyn steps to the side and Caitlin enters the room. Her big green eyes widen with shock and she quickly closes the space between us and falls to her knees beside me.

“Oh my God,” she breathes out. “What happened to it?”

“Humanity,” Sharilyn says darkly. “That’s what happens to most of the animals that find their way into this place. The very people they love and trust do horrible things to them and we’re left to pick up the pieces.” She runs an experienced eye over the dog. “You’re doing a good job, Jeremy.” She reaches down and squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll wait outside. Dr. DeWitt should be getting here soon to look at its leg.”

Caitlin waits until the door clicks closed behind Sharilyn before speaking.

“What’s wrong with its leg?” Her voice is thick with tears.

“Broken,” I tell her. “But I don’t know how badly, and we’re not sure if there are any internal injuries.”

“And if there are, then what happens?”

“It depends on how bad the injuries are. If Doc DeWitt doesn’t think anything can be done, she’ll put the dog to sleep, but if there’s any hope at all, he’ll be taken to the emergency vet and patched up.”

What I don’t tell her is that rather than forcing the shelter to dip into its limited funds to handle the dog’s medical bills, I’ll pay for everything, just like I have every other time one of the shelter animals needed more help than the shelter could readily afford.

“What happened to it?”

I quickly tell the story about the dog getting thrown out onto the highway as I pick gravel and bits of asphalt from yet another wound—At least I think it’s another wound; it’s hard to tell what is a new wound and what are just long, continual ones.

By the time I finish the dog’s heartbreaking tale, tears are streaming down Caitlin’s face. As much as I hate seeing her cry, the tears act as balm for my soul. They’re proof that not only are there good people in the world, but that I’ve beaten the odds and managed to find one for my very own.

Caitlin reaches out, gently touching the dog’s brow. To my surprise, he lifts his massive head only to lay it on her lap.

“Wow,” I breathe out. “He must really like you. That’s the first time he’s moved since he was brought in. I was afraid that the lack of movement meant that something was really wrong inside of him.”

Caitlin bends low over the animal’s head, her tears falling onto its battered skin as she comforts him. A large, pale pink tongue slips out of his mouth and licks her hand.

The sight gives me courage to put words to the thoughts that have been dancing around my head since the dog was brought to the shelter.

“Can we keep him?” I say, refusing to look at Caitlin after asking the question, fearing that she’ll tell me no. That he’s too big, or that he will take too much care, that given the weird nature of our upcoming marriage, it isn’t fair to bring a dog home. “Like, adopt him. Giving Sasha a little brother.”

I look down at the dog. Even more than half starved and covered in road rash and gashes, it is easy to see that this dog is a mixture of several large breed dogs. I see some bull mastiff, great Dane, and Bernese mountain dog in its frame and the shape of its head.

“More like a big brother,” I tell Caitlin.

Caitlin purses her lips and strokes the dog’s floppy ear, not noticing how the gesture leaves fresh blood stains on her fingertips. She bites her lower lip. I can all but see the wheels turning in her head as she mulls over the pros and cons of the various options before her.

“Please,” I urge. “You don’t have to make any decisions right now. We don’t even know if he’ll make it through the night, and even if he does, it’ll be weeks before he’s healed up enough to live anywhere else. I’d just, I guess I’d appreciate it if you’d consider it. “

I can’t tell if Caitlin even heard me. She’s staring down at the dog, who has finally opened up its eyes. Her own are round as saucers.

“Jeremy.” Her voice is so low I almost don’t hear it. “Have you seen this?”

“What?” I lean closer, more than a little afraid that she’s found some new wound that needs to be cleaned and dealt with.

“His eyes,” she whispers. “Have you looked at his eyes? They’re the same as yours.”

Startled, I look at the dog’s eyes and understanding dawns. Like me, the animal has heterochromatica, but instead of having one blue eye and one that’s blue and gold like I do, its eyes are a warm chocolate brown and pale blue.

“So it does.” Heterochromatica isn’t very common. Even though I know there are other people out there who have it, I’ve never encountered anyone but myself, and now this dog, with the condition.

“We’re keeping him,” Caitlin says. Conviction strengthens her tone, even though she speaks mildly. “Clearly it’s meant to be.”

“Thank you.” Warmth bubbles up in my chest as I loop an arm around her shoulders and tug her in close to my side. I brush a light kiss to the top of her head and wonder how I ever managed to get so lucky and find a woman as remarkable, understanding, and compassionate as Caitlin.