Best Friends

Introduction by

MARY TYLER MOORE

KENSINGTON BOOKS

http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Dedicated to:

 

No more homeless pets

O
nce in a rare while in your career you might get lucky and connect with something or somebody . . . and magic happens. Little did I know when I accepted a spontaneous invitation to accompany a special friend to Best Friends Animal Sanctuary (thank you, Meredith Meiling), that it would be the beginning of a wondrous journey.

Like everyone who visits Best Friends, I too was touched by the many furred and feathered creatures, pleased to observe their playful well-being, and awed by the spectacular scenery of Angel Canyon. But it was the quiet tranquility of the land, the pervasive feeling of goodwill, and the kindness of the people who lived and worked at the sanctuary that tugged at my emotions.

I was taking a break from writing and had no intention of starting a new project when I emailed our tour guide, Cyrus Mejia, a few days later to ask, “Has anyone ever suggested writing a book about Best Friends?”

“Many,” he shot back, “but I'll pass this on to Michael.”

Michael Mountain, editor of
Best Friends
magazine, called that night. We talked a long time, the conversation ending with an agreement that I would revisit to meet everyone.

And so it began. As the work progressed and I got to know the men and women who founded the sanctuary, I felt as if I were being enfolded into a large, loving extended family. Now, I am not a Pollyanna kind of woman, and as the months went on, a part of me looked hard for the discrepancies, the phrase or action that didn't quite ring true. They were not to be found. Instead, I found normal, everyday human beings with an uncommon difference: these were people who truly lived and breathed their ideals and commitment to the well-being of the creatures of this planet and the land we all share; people who really “walked their talk” that kindness is the answer; people who made it a pleasure and a privilege to write their story.

One person in particular went above and beyond the call of duty in his tireless input to the manuscript. Thank you, Michael Mountain, for your endless hours of talking through the narrative, your attention to details, your often brilliant suggestions for more vivid portrayals. I shall never forget that you were always there for me when I needed clarification, were always a friend when I'd spent too many hours alone in a room staring at a computer screen. I will forever recall with gratitude your calm insights when frustrations arose.

Then too, I shall always thank my “simply the best” agent, Meredith Bernstein, for her advice when I first started writing. “Write about what you love—the animals. That's where your passion lies.” Her words changed my direction and began the journey to this book.

Different, but no less genuine words directed that I work with the marvelous Tracy Bernstein as my editor. At the end of our first conversation she said, “Samantha, I know other major houses want this book. I want you to know that, whoever you choose, I wish you the best of luck and success. Best Friends is a wonderful project.” My decision to go with Kensington Books was made in that moment.

I also wish to gratefully acknowledge the patient and perceptive advice of veterinarian Jim Lane of Incline Village and Katie Stevens of Reno Animal Control, and the input of my dear friend Mary Pesaresi.

Almost last, but never, ever least, thank you to my husband, Alan, and his infinite understanding when I just wasn't available.

And, perhaps most of all, my gratitude to the so-very-special furred and feathered beings that bring so much joy and comfort into our lives. My heartfelt wish is that every one of you will be part of a loving family—that one day there will be no more homeless pets.

W
hen I look into the eyes of my dog, Shadow, I see such love, such acceptance. Animals may not be able to communicate in our language, but their goodness transcends the barrier of words in a way that to me is spiritual.

Even as a child I felt this way, and over the years this love of animals has brought me into contact with many very special people, including Best Friends.

I'll never forget when Bernadette Peters and I were starting our own organization—
FIDO
NYC—to help homeless pets in New York, Francis Battista of Best Friends was one of the first people to call. “Our sanctuary is out near the Grand Canyon,” he said, “but we have a lot of members in your city. I'm sure that several of them would love to work with you, too.”

Francis suggested a kickoff benefit, and that was where I began to connect with a whole grass-roots network who felt the same as I do about animals.

The benefit was a huge success for our fledgling
FIDO
NYC and the beginning of my friendship with Best Friends. So when I heard about this book, I knew I'd be fascinated with the tale of how a group of men and women who wanted to make a difference took a piece of raw land in the wilds of southern Utah and turned it into one of the most beloved animal sanctuaries in the world.

If you're like I am, get ready to laugh and cry, be deeply touched, and fall in love with all the delightful creatures whose stories emblazon the pages and trumpet the belief of Best Friends that kindness is the answer: to the animals; to one another; and to the planet we all share.

Best Friends
is a wonderful book. I wish you joy in reading it.

—Mary Tyler Moore

T
he woman hugged her fleece vest tighter as she peered into the shadowy quiet of the alley. It was going to be unseasonably cold tonight; she could tell by the persistent twinge of arthritis in her left knee. She glanced over her shoulder one last time before venturing into the narrow passageway between the huge apartment buildings. Her husband had told her a million times that the streets of downtown weren't safe after dark anymore.

The rank odor of garbage almost made her gag as she moved deeper into the gloom. “Kitty, kitty, kitty,” she called softly. As if they'd been waiting, a dozen apparitions materialized from the shadows. Quickly the woman slid a Tupperware container full of food from her backpack and spooned the daily rations onto the ground. She smiled as she counted the hungry felines. Not many left now. She'd trapped most of the colony and miraculously found homes for them. But something was wrong. Two were missing. The brothers were always here by now. Where were Tommy and Tyson?

The woman skirted the feeding cats and hurried along to the front of the alley. She paused as she stepped out to the sidewalk, adjusting her eyes to the sudden onslaught of light from passing cars. Where
were
Tommy and Tyson?

Suddenly she saw them: two little cats, black as ebony, tails entwined like furled flags, picking their way across the street with agonizing slowness. She could hardly bear to watch. She wanted to run and grab them, but knew better. Tommy and Tyson had never felt the touch of a human hand. Any such gesture on her part would frighten them back into the street.

The woman felt an uncommon sense of relief as Tyson, two steps in front of his brother as always, nudged his sibling's front paw onto the safety of the curb. She remembered the first time she saw the two cats: skittish bundles of fur hugging the brick wall of the alley, freezing at every movement as they felt their way into alien territory.

She'd wondered why they walked so close together, attached like Siamese twins. It was only after observing them for a few weeks that she realized the smaller cat was blind and his brother was his guide.

Slowly the woman retraced her steps. This had gone on too long. It was time to call Best Friends. It was the only refuge she knew where the lame, the blind, the old and the ugly, those reject animals nobody else cared about, could live out their lives in a safe, loving environment.

She felt rather than saw the movement behind her as Tommy and Tyson melted into the alley. She scooped out the last of the food for the blind cat and his brother and walked out the way she'd come. She would call Faith in the morning.

 

The weary basset mother lay on her side, belly swollen like a pregnant pig, four pups suckling hungrily on her pendulous nipples. Faith Maloney noted with satisfaction that the filmy glaze clouding the dog's eyes had cleared up since yesterday. The family could be moved out of the clinic to Dogtown in a couple of days. Through the half-open door of the operating room she could hear Dr. Allen nattering to himself as usual. Faith smiled, took a last look at Mama Basset, and hurried to join him.

“You're going to be much happier without these big things getting in your way, you know,” the veterinarian earnestly assured a huge Rottweiler that lay sedated on the immaculate table in the middle of the room. The animal lay as dead, oblivious to the soothing patter of the man preparing to neuter him.

“You'll wake a bit groggy, but guess what?” Rich Allen hummed loudly as he picked up a gleaming scalpel. He held it to the light and critically eyeballed its razor edge, then continued his one-way conversation. “We're going to introduce you to the prettiest little girl. But no more unwanted babies,” he chided as if expecting the dog to argue with him.

“Morning, Doc,” Faith said.

The veterinarian looked up and smiled at the pleasing comfort-of-a-woman before him. Dr. Allen was very fond of Faith. The director of the sanctuary was the quintessential earth mother. Irish-born, with chestnut hair framing honest hazel eyes as quick to genuine empathy as to laughter, Faith was a female to whom you could pour out your heart. One of Rich Allen's treasures was the mandala that she'd painted to welcome him to the sanctuary. Her artwork reflected Faith's special spirit.

“You're just in time, my dear.” He nodded toward the formica-topped cupboards snuggled under a rectangle of windows. “I'm missing my music this morning. Would you mind?” The veterinarian held up his rubber-gloved hands in explanation.

Faith rummaged through the clutter of dressings, boxes, and bottles crowding the counter and unearthed an old boombox from beneath a mound of bandages. She pressed “play” and Dolly Parton's sweet contralto quavered achingly into the sunlit space of the operating room. “Don't leave me darlin', I'll die if you do.”

“Ah-h,” Dr. Allen sighed. “Can't beat a little country to soothe the soul.” He leaned over and lifted his patient's left eyelid. “Out like a light,” he drawled with satisfaction. He turned his attention back to Faith. “You want to scrub up and help me? Nothing like warming up with a neuter or two.”

Faith shook her head. “Not this morning, Doc. I just popped in to look at Lucy next door, and to tell you I'll be bringing Rhonda for her final checkup this afternoon.”

“You mean someone's going to adopt that plain little mutt?”

“She's not plain,” Faith objected, then caught the teasing in Rich Allen's eyes. “Okay. Okay. A member, Dr. Sharyn Faro . . .” The annoying buzz of an intercom interrupted her in mid-sentence.

“Faith, are you there?” The girl's voice sounded urgent.

“I'm here,” Faith answered quickly, her fingers muting Dolly's closing notes.

“Oh, good. I've got Lydia on hold from L.A. She says the blind cat Tommy's looking real bad. She doesn't think he'll last another week on the streets.”

Faith scrolled through the Rolodex of her mind. Lydia? Of course, Lydia Rice. She and Francis Battista were good friends. He was Lydia's liaison in Los Angeles for the feral cats program. Faith picked up the phone. “Hello, luv. What's up?”

Lydia had never been so glad to hear Faith's calm English accent. “I know it's early but . . .”

“No problem. What's with Tommy?”

Faith listened while the woman who saved cats recounted watching Tyson lead his brother through last night's traffic. “I'm sure that Tommy's totally blind now,” Lydia finished.

Faith didn't hesitate. “I think we can find room for both little ones, Lydia. Do you think you could trap them?”

“Well,” Lydia said, “I've had zero luck so far.” She paused. “Maybe if I let them go hungry for a few days. Oh, I'd hate to do that.”

“Could you give them just a little food for a night or two, then bait a trap with tuna?”

“I'll think of something,” Lydia replied.

Faith cradled the phone, then stood lost in thought as Dr. Allen bent over the Rottweiler, suturing the incision with practiced speed. “Something wrong?” he asked without looking up.

“We're about out of room at WildCats Village until the new addition's finished, and I'm expecting two very special newcomers.”

“They're all very special, and you always find a place.”

The director of Best Friends Animal Sanctuary smiled as she walked to the door. “We always do, don't we?”

 

Faith paused for a moment outside the clinic. The familiar essence of sage and piñon, perfumed with the earthy scents of horse, dog, cat, goat, and bird, wafted sweetly toward her. The sky above was so brilliant a blue, it almost hurt her eyes. Once again, as she did every morning, Faith gave thanks to whoever was up there for leading her to this place.

She strode the red-dirt paths that crisscrossed the sprawling enclosures of Dogtown, happy with what she saw. Dogs, dogs everywhere. Canines of every shape, size, and character barking their greetings as she passed. Even Ginger, the aging Chesapeake who guarded her stash of tennis balls with gallant zeal, hobbled from beneath her favorite juniper tree in welcome. Faith petted the grizzled head and acknowledged the slow licks to her hand as permission to navigate the last few yards to the kitchen.

The usual carpet of snoozing canines lay sprawled outside the pink-washed adobe building. As Faith approached, a small reddish terrier mix extricated herself from the mass of fur. With the built-in radar of the loved, the dog with the deep, strong eyes and soft, white muzzle padded purposefully toward her Big Mama.

After eleven years at Best Friends, Rhonda had earned the right to hang out with the old dogs around the kitchen. She even had a title—Volunteer First Class Official Greeter—and a job. It was Rhonda's solemn duty to meet all visitors as soon as they arrived, for the explicit purpose of evoking silly smiles and lots of petting before the company was allowed to tour Dogtown.

Faith squatted to receive kisses. “Hello, Rhonda,” she murmured, enfolding the common little mutt who was so very dear. “Now you musn't get your knickers in a twist—just listen.” Rhonda snuffled a moist nose into her special person's neck.

“I love you. We all love you. But we know things haven't been the same for you since your mate died.” Faith rocked the terrier like a baby as she talked.

“Remember when you first came here I promised that one day I'd find you a lovely home? Well, Rhonda, a nice lady from Atlanta read all about you in the magazine and wants to give you just that—a wonderful home. She has an enormous garden, three older dogs for you to play with, and . . .” Faith wasn't doing too well with the stiff upper lip bit. She buried her face in the scratchy ruff of fur tickling her chin.

It never changes,
she thought
. We get so attached, especially to the most needy.

“Come on, Rhonda,” Faith groaned as she straightened up. “My thighs are killing me. Let's save the good-byes until later.”

 

Lydia was stiff. She sat with her back against the Dumpster, knees hugged to her chest, wondering what she'd come to. Three nights now she'd waited. Three nights Tommy and Tyson had paused at the lip of the trap, then turned away.

It was frustrating. The usual cage baited with food at the rear wasn't built to trap two cats bonded like Siamese twins. Lydia thought she'd been very inventive in fashioning a tight-woven net like a party tent over the mound of tuna bait. If the brothers would just venture inside, all she had to do was pull the light thread that held up the retaining pole and they were hers.

She'd fed the other regulars and shooed them away. Tommy and Tyson should be here soon. Was that them? Yes! Two blended bodies, blacker than pitch, were wending their way down the alley.

Lydia held her breath, afraid they would intuit her presence by the very air she breathed. But something was different. Tyson had no hesitation this night. The bigger brother drew abreast and turned two glowing yellow eyes in her direction. If Lydia didn't consider herself a pragmatic woman, she'd say the little feline was sending her a message: that he knew—that it was time.

Tyson guided his brother toward the food they'd rejected for three nights, into the trap waiting to be sprung. They screamed when the net fell upon them. Lydia rushed forward, carrier and gloved hands at the ready. She had an edge: Tyson, with Tommy slowing him down, could not move fast enough to escape the enveloping mesh. She had them. “It's okay. It's gonna be okay,” she soothed the yowling felines as she sprinted toward her car.

Lydia had it all planned. Las Vegas was an easy shuttle from Los Angeles. She'd take the first flight, grab a rental, and, if all went well, be at Best Friends the same morning. She smiled as she eased the cat carrier onto the back seat of her car. Tommy and Tyson would never be in harm's way again.

 

By 6:00
A.M.
Faith had stopped asking herself why a blind cat and his brother would keep her up worrying half the night. She knew. Faith could name every one of the over eighteen hundred animals at the sanctuary, and she carried their histories and quirks like biographies in her head. They were all special in some way.

She thought of Rhonda for the hundredth time that morning. Yes, they were all special, yet there were always those who took your heart, those whose bravery, spirit, sweetness, even irascibility made you smile and promise they would never be hurt again. It was the same for everyone at Best Friends. All the humans had their secret favorites among the animals. The happiness when one went to a good home was always tinged with regret at losing it.

She would miss Rhonda. It had been a joy to watch the forlorn little mutt discard her doggie depression. Eleven years was a long time. Come to think of it, eleven years was longer than her three marriages had lasted.

Faith Maloney laughed. The universe had funny ways of working things out sometimes. Rhonda was gone, and in a few hours Tommy and Tyson would arrive.

Faith stood and stretched out the kinks in her back. She tightened the belt around her thick flannel bathrobe and, taking a cup of her favorite decaf with her, padded barefoot through the trailer. Eight old dogs rose stiffly in greeting as she slid on her slippers past the door. Smiling, Faith bent and stroked each one back to dreamland. Tiptoeing carefully over the last snoring bloodhound, she let herself outside.

A warm shed abutted the sixty-footer Faith called home. She had but taken a step inside before a dozen felines were curling their bodies around her ankles, purring with pleasure. Faith repeated the petting routine, assuring each it would be fed soon, before opening the door to the outside compound.

Faith scanned her own personal sanctuary. In the adjacent enclosure a fat, white sheep snored, head on his hooves in the thin winter sunshine. Three hens roosted comfortably on his broad back. As always, there would be chicken poop to wash off later.