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Rhys

T he bride wears white.

With guidance from the staff at Pawsitively Perfect, Rush Creek’s dog-lover’s boutique, Eden attached a ring of white roses flowers to Cressie’s collar.

The groom is dapper in a black-and-white plaid bowtie collar that’s too loose (I was in charge of tightening the collar. I have many skills, but it turns out I’m not great with slider buckles.).

Apparently—go figure—you can become ordained online in minutes, for free. It was not difficult to find a willing officiant in the person of my brother Shane, who has never missed an opportunity to be in the spotlight.

Hanna’s favorite organist cues up for “Here Comes the Bride.”

When Cressie appears at Eden’s side at the end of the aisle in the Hott Springs Eternal wedding barn, Milo, who had been exercising great patience but straining at the end of his leash, slips his bow-tie collar and runs down the entire length of the aisle to lick Cressie all over her face.

“I didn’t say, ‘You may kiss the bride,’” Shane grouses, barely audible over the laughter of the attendees.

We get Milo dressed again and lead both the bride and groom to the altar.

“If anyone objects to this union, speak now or forever hold your peace,” Shane intones.

“I’m still not sure this is legal,” I hear Weggers mutter, but everyone, thankfully, ignores him. Well, except for Nan, who mutters something back that luckily I can’t hear.

When it comes time for Milo to say his vows and Shane says, “I, Milo,” Milo barks back at him.

“Did you teach him to do that?”

Eden’s eyes are huge. “No. Did you?”

I shake my head.

When it’s Cressie’s turn and Shane says, “I, Cressie,” Cressie barks back at him. Eden and I stare at each other, until someone in the audience bursts out laughing. I turn to find Sonya and Quinn, dissolved at their own hilarity.

“Very funny,” I say.

“Shocking what these two will do for peanut butter,” Sonya says, barely able to get the words out through her laughter.

When the exchange of dog tags is complete and it’s actually time for the groom to kiss the bride, there’s a lot of tongue and a lot of hooting and hollering from the audience.

In the spirit of the original event (and the law), we sit down for the catered meal that Eden and I originally planned—with one addition. Eden has asked the caterer to include hot dogs as a menu option. (“In keeping with the theme,” she says.)

Cressie and Milo eat their (dog-friendly) meals at the bride and groom’s table. Well, the bride and groom’s dais. We had to remove the table and chairs. There are limits to everything.

Using a recipe from Pawsitively Perfect and lots of additional guidance from Eden’s vet—who’s also in attendance at the wedding—Nan has baked a dog-friendly, all-organic wedding cake for the canine attendees.

They gobble their slices up like high-powered vacuum cleaners.

She’s also baked a huge human-friendly version, and she serves up slices to the guests.

We eat ours at a more measured pace and take to the dance floor.

I’m dancing with a buoyant Hanna when Milo uses his teeth to tear the white rose necklace from around Cressie’s neck. The flowers go flying into the midst of the dancers. To keep Amanda Wilder’s daughter Anna from being struck in the face, I shoot my hand up in the air and catch the flying flowers.

Everyone in the room turns to look at me and my handful of bridal…bouquet.

The Hott brothers and their significant others wear knowing looks.

I don’t harsh their mellow. Let them believe whatever they want to believe. That Grandfather is a magical matchmaker, that Eden and I will get married and have thirty-seven children, that I’d actually even invite them to my wedding.

No way they’re invited. If I get married, I’m doing it in secret in an exotic location and I’m not telling anyone. Can you imagine the shit my brothers would give me if they knew I’d succumbed?

Not gonna happen.

Eden and I also dance. A lot, since Paul and Eden had booked one hell of a DJ. We might as well enjoy her talents to the utmost.

Eden slips into my arms with perfect ease, like there’s never been a question that she belongs there, like her bare skin was always meant to be warm and alive under my hands, her body pressed to mine.

Between slow dances, we dance with Wilders and Hotts, with my siblings and Hanna’s friends and their kids, with neighbors and Nan and, yes, even Weggers.

The dogs eventually flop themselves at the edge of the dance floor and regard us over their noses, like exhausted professors.

The music slows again, and Eden sidles up to me. “May I have this dance?” she teases.

She settles her head against my shoulder. I draw her close and lower my nose into the strawberry scent of her soft hair.

And it’s not my wedding, but holding Eden in my arms before God and all those assembled feels pretty damn good.