Best Friends (10 page)

T
he leaves were turning. The cottonwoods in the canyon spread a vivid canopy of scarlet and ocher along the river, and painted itinerant splashes of brilliant Vermont orange across the mesas. It was Faith's favorite time of year. She loved the earthy, autumnal smell, the bracing shock of morning air. She noticed the squirrels were harvesting piñon cones and leaving the stripped husks beneath the trees—reminders that it would be a cold winter.

Yet nature had fooled them this year. The canyon took on an East Coast palette too soon. A sudden, scorching heat wave sent Faith running to the local thrift store for summer overalls and T-shirts for herself and Tyson.

Faith's daughter Carragh had reluctantly returned to school, and Michael elected to give Faith a hand with the chores. She had been distracted this morning, scanning each compound, lifting up the overhangs of bushes, checking inside doghouses.

“There's someone missing,” she explained finally. “Jenny, the Sheltie. I thought she was playing games last night, but she didn't turn up for breakfast.”

When Jenny's familiar hungry face wasn't to be seen by lunchtime, Faith was frantic. She enlisted Tyson's aid, and together they searched the canyon.

“I called Lorelei, Kelvert, and Nancy, but no one's seen her,” a worried Faith announced to Francis as the day slid away. “I can only think the police picked her up and didn't know she belonged to us.”

“They would have taken her to the pound, Francis frowned. Nobody at Best Friends had ever actually been to the pound yet. It was out by the airport, but no one seemed to know much about it.

“I'm going right now,” Faith declared.

“I'll come with you.”

Kanab's airport was a few miles out of town on the way to Fredonia. “Airport” was perhaps a grand designation for one short runway in the middle of a field. The only building Francis and Faith could see as they drove around the area was a lean-to hard against the inside of the wooden perimeter fence. From what they could glimpse of the structure, it consisted of three sides of chainlink covered with a tin roof.

The sun was low in the sky, gathering its last hour's strength before retreating into dusk as Francis parked the truck. The late afternoon heat rose up from the scrubby pasture like a smothering blanket. Faith stood on tiptoe to see over the fence. “That can't be it,” she exclaimed. “The sun's shining right into that thing.” But she'd already spotted three small runs attached to the hut and knew better.

Francis scanned the fence. “There's an opening,” he said, pointing 100 feet farther along. “Let's take a look.”

Even before they got close, Faith was angry. She had guessed right. There was not one scrap of shade under which the dogs could escape the baking sun that poured down on them with pitiless intensity. She started to run. “There's Jenny,” she shouted as she reached the pound.

The sheltie lay on the dirt, her tongue lolling, eyes closed. Three other dogs sprawled against her, unmoving. “Jenny, Jenny,” Faith called, pulling frantically at the latched gate.

“It's locked,” Francis said.

“She's not responding. She's not even lifting her head. She may be suffering from heat prostration. We've got to get her out of here. We've got to get them all out of here.”

“Stop this,” Francis grabbed Faith's arm. “It's not helping. We're going back to town.”

Faith was suddenly calm. “I'm not leaving her here. We'll break the lock.”

“We're going back to town,” Francis repeated, pulling her away.

Francis drove straight to the police station. A round-faced officer was on duty, his trim, brown moustache looking strangely out of place on his schoolboy face.

Francis got straight to the point. “Our names are Francis Battista and Faith Maloney. You're holding a dog of ours by the airport. We need to get her right now.”

The policeman look shocked at the abrupt demand. “Would you mind waiting? I'll be right back,” he said and disappeared.

Francis drummed his fingers loudly on the front desk as they waited. Faith stared at the closed office door as if willing the boy to return.

The young officer reappeared ten minutes later. “I'm supposed to escort you,” he said. “Why don't you follow me in your truck?”

The rookie had to be the slowest driver on the face of the earth. He took even longer to unlock the gate, fumbling through a large bunch of keys, trying to find the one that fit the lock. Finally the gate swung open, and Faith pushed past him to Jenny. She lifted the sheltie's head and pushed back her lips. The healthy pink of her gums was splotched a deathly gray.

Francis had already twisted on the faucet. He allowed the water to splash full force onto the bare earth until the sun-heated water ran cold. Quickly he knelt and dribbled a cooling stream over each of the dogs' bodies in turn.

Faith's overalls were soaked, but she didn't care. She sat on the dirt next to Jenny, her fingers under the runt's armpit. She nodded to Francis. “Her temperature's dropping.” She checked the other dogs. “They're going to be all right.”

The officer had waited outside. Faith took a few minutes to compose herself before joining him. “How do these animals get here? What happens to them?” she asked quietly.

The policeman couldn't look at her. “They're usually unclaimed strays. If nobody collects them, the vet comes once a week and puts them down.

Faith breathed deeply. She enunciated each word slowly so there could be no mistake. “I'm taking these animals with me.”

The officer finally lifted his eyes, and Faith could see hurt in their brown depths. “I'm sorry, Miss Maloney, but they're government property. I can't let you. . . .”

“He's right, and we're wasting our time here.” Francis strode out of the hut carrying a sagging Jenny. “Let's go.”

“But,” Faith protested.

“Let's go. Thank you, officer,” Francis said.

 

Faith draped a wet towel around Jenny's neck and head to keep her cool as they drove home. Francis's lips were a thin line of anger. “I'm thinking we should take over animal control,” he said as they passed Norm Cram's house. “Kanab has, what—three thousand people? How hard could it be?”

Faith stared through the windshield. “If I'd known what that place was like d'you think I'd have waited? We have no choice.”

Francis knew that stubborn tone. Soft, yielding Faith was a stranger to all reason when animals were suffering. He knew all too well that nothing would dissuade the lady once her mind was made up. The truck rasped in complaint as he downshifted and headed up the hill. “We'll run it by the others,” Francis said. “We need everyone's okay.”

 

The mayor was the one to see. Francis had some passing acquaintance with the man, so it was unanimously agreed that he should be the one to conduct the delicate negotiations.

An hour later Francis found Mayor Jenkins watering his lawn. “Mr. Mayor?” he said.

The mayor jumped as if he'd stepped on a nail, and a gush of water poured onto his shorts and splashed his sneakers. “You startled me!”

“I'm sorry.”

Mayor Jenkins wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and resumed his watering.

“Mr. Mayor,” Francis repeated, “we've met. I'm—”

“I know who you are.”

Francis plowed on. “You're aware, then, of our place in the canyon? Best Friends? We take care of animals?”

The mayor nodded amiably. “I've heard something like that.”

“Well, we're volunteering to take the animal control problem off your hands.”

Mayor Jenkins didn't miss a beat. “Sure.”

“Sure?”

“Yes. Okay. It's yours.”

Francis spoke carefully. “Do we need to sign any papers?”

“Not for me.”

“Then we can pick up the animals right away?”

“Sure.”

 

It wasn't as simple as that, of course. It rarely ever is. But within forty-eight hours of talking with Kanab's Police Chief Bladesdale, Sheriff Maxwell Jackson, and Marshall Johnson of the nearby city of Fredonia, and obtaining the requisite permits, the dogs were safely at Best Friends. Faith felt especially protective of a reddish terrier mix pup with timid, sorrowful eyes. “You look like a Rhonda,” she said to the common little mutt. “Now don't you worry anymore. I'll find you a good home; you'll see.”

And so she did—just not in the way anyone imagined.

M
ichael watched the familiar routine with interest. Sun trotted ahead, ears erect, happy to be walking with his person. The Doberman ignored the three aged canines sprawled in his path, bounded straight up to Victor, and promptly belly-flopped.

The Dogfather settled on his haunches and gravely surveyed the visitor. Sun panted happily and made no attempt to venture farther. Michael strolled up to Victor and smiled down at the dog. “Hello, old thing.”

The guardian of Dogtown rose slowly, tail wagging in greeting, head lifted for his customary scratch behind the ears. Michael had to remind himself that Victor wasn't really old, but that being chained up for the first five years of his life had taken its toll. With his creaky movements and graying muzzle, the Dogfather was the epitome of a patriach.

Michael gave Victor one last tickle before crossing the invisible line down the lane to where John Christopher Fripp was nailing the roof on a new doghouse.

 

“She is a plain little thing, isn't she?” Michael observed of the red terrier mix that lay on the sandy soil of her enclosure, head snuggled between her paws, one sad eye watching his every move.

John hit a nail with a satisfying whack. “There, that should hold for awhile.” He dropped the hammer into his carpenter's belt. “Don't let Faith hear you say that.”

Michael laughed. “I wouldn't dare.”

The two men watched the muddle of dogs snoring soundly in the summer sunshine. Rhonda lay under a bush, away from the others. She was a delicate thing, the smallest mutt in her run. Even after a year of the safety and freedom of Dogtown, even showered with Faith's special attention, Rhonda was still a sorry specimen. The mutt's rough coat just missed the charming color and curl of a Dandie Dinmont. Her slender tail was no match for the proud, upstanding flag of the scottie, and Michael had never seen her ears not glued to the back of her neck.

The clink of metal on metal rang through the afternoon like a siren song. The doggie sounds of sleep immediately erupted into a cacophony of raucous, joyous barking. One hundred, twenty dogs were immediately awake and alerting their mates: running in circles; rushing the fences; chasing tails. Feeding time!

Even Sun, who had flopped outside Victor's line in happy fatigue after his hike, was up and whirling around in the dirt, panting in happy anticipation.

“Down—down, you silly creature,” Michael called. “I've got yours at home.”

“Tyson's mixing rations,” John said. “Wonder where Faith is.”

Faith never missed a feeding. Twice a day, sun or snow, she and Tyson would religiously open the cans, rip open the bags, and stir the wet and dry dog food into an appetizing mixture before spooning the required amounts into stainless steel bowls.

“I think she just got here,” Michael said, catching a blur of motion as it flashed by the piñon pines lining the county road. Within seconds, Faith's Nissan bumped into Dogtown.

“I'd better get back to it,” John said. “At the rate the animals are coming in, I'll be banging nails for the next fifty years.” He grinned and squinted at the flawless blue above him. “Beats crunching numbers any day.”

“I'll go give Faith a hand,” Michael said. He paused and looked at Rhonda. She was the only dog not rushing around in frenzied anticipation. “John, why don't you hand her over to me. Maybe she needs a little Big Mama time.”

Rhonda was a rag doll in Michael's arms as he carried her to where Faith was unloading outside Octagon Three. He set the terrier next to Sun, and she immediately scuttled away.

Faith sighed. “She eats well enough. Loves being cuddled. But she's got no spark. You'd think she'd have gotten used to being with us by now, wouldn't you?” She reached for a sack of ground meal.

“Let me get that for you.” Michael hoisted the forty-pound bag. He knew Faith had spent days and nights with the traumatized little dog but somehow hadn't been able to reach that sad place inside. “You'd think so,” he murmured, following her inside. Faith put a case of Alpo on the counter. “Hi, Tyson,” she said. “Sorry I'm late.”

Tyson looked up briefly and smiled behind his dark glasses. “I'm about finished mixing,” he said putting his arm around a red plastic bucket to hold it steady before punching down a mass of beefy-smelling wet food into kibble.

“We'll get started,” Faith said, opening a cupboard crammed with metal bowls.

“I'll catch up,” Tyson said.

On their way out, Michael slipped Sun and Rhonda their supper. To his surprise, the terrier showed no shyness when it came to eating. She slurped with the same enthusiasm as the Doberman, delicate legs squared to the ground in determination.

Michael followed Faith's instructions as they entered the enclosures. “Sadie appreciates hers in the corner. Jenny will eat anywhere. Jamie likes his
under
the sage bush. Paulie will only eat if you spoon it on
top
of his doghouse.” Faith rattled off every dog's preference in turn. But apart from informing him where to feed, Faith had little to say.

“Something wrong?” Michael asked as they cruised the Nissan back for a third stack of bowls.

Faith eased to a halt in front of Octagon Three and sat with the engine idling. “Nothing.” She abruptly killed the motor and jumped down from the truck. She hesitated as Michael climbed out after her. “Dammit. Yes.”

Michael waited.

“I was in Zion Pharmacy today. Kortney Stirland took me aside.”

Michael had a mental image of a man about his height with the lean, long-muscled body of a marathon runner, and the aquiline nose of an ancient Roman aristocrat. Michael liked Kortney Stirland, as did Faith.

“He wants to adopt one of our dogs,” Faith continued.

“That's great.”

Faith looked worried. “I quizzed him a little bit—you know how we do?” Michael nodded. “He doesn't have a fenced yard, so I had to tell him we couldn't.”

“You told him why?”

“Of course. I explained that if he didn't have a yard he would either have to keep the animal chained or allow it to run loose. I told him as nicely as I could that chained dogs were usually miserable, and loose dogs in town were roadkill. He wasn't very happy.”

Michael knew why Faith was upset. The pharmacist had always been very open and accepting of all of them. They had developed a mutually respectful relationship with him that they liked to cultivate with all the townspeople.

“I told him we wouldn't even adopt to Dr. Christy because he didn't have a fenced yard.” Faith absently walked over to Victor as they talked. “Hello, boy,” she said, bending to rub the Dogfather's backside. “Did Tyson feed you yet?”

A throaty growl from Sun made Michael and Faith look up. The Doberman stood staring toward the road. A huge, red-coated animal was purposefully making its way toward them. “What a gorgeous malamute!” Faith exclaimed.

The enormous dog kept coming, its powerful muscles propelling it forward like a well-oiled machine. Sun growled again. “Easy, Sun. Easy,” Michael cautioned his pet. The Doberman's chest puffed like a pigeon's as he affected a protective stance in front of his person.

“Tyson—Tyson!” Faith called urgently.

From nowhere Tyson was beside her. Without a word, Alpha Man walked slowly to meet the intruder.

The great canine and Tyson halted a few yards from each other. Tyson squatted. The dog padded closer. Michael and Faith could hear Tyson's soft Texas drawl above the last slurpings of the dogs behind them. They saw the malamute listen, cocking his broad head in the man's direction.

Tyson waited, talking, talking continuously. A watchful Sun lowered himself to the ground beside Michael. Rhonda slunk from the shade of a juniper and took a position behind Faith, her brown eyes also watching.

Suddenly the little terrier darted forward. “Rhonda,” Faith shouted. Rhonda ignored her. She rushed between Tyson and the animal that dwarfed her like the beanstalk giant and gazed up in adoration. The malamute slowly lowered his head and Rhonda strained to cover the white-furred muzzle with tiny kisses.

The two canines paid no mind as Alpha Man cautiously slid a hand around the perfect wedge-shaped ears and found the malamute's collar. “There's no tags, no name, nothing,” he called back.

John had strolled over to see what was going on. “What a magnificent animal,” he said, echoing Faith's words. “He won't need much of Doc Christy's attention.”

“Look at Rhonda,” Faith said with a wondering half-smile. “Look at that little mutt put her curlers in.”

The scrawny terrier was preening for the handsome newcomer, prancing back and forth like a showgirl. Suddenly she stopped and barked. The malamute looked askance, his plumed tail fanning a red blur in the sunshine. The terrier yipped again and pawed the earth beside her. Slowly the big dog slid to the ground and rolled on his side.

Rhonda went to work. Her little pink tongue probed the recesses of her new friend's ears, cleaning thoroughly. The immense creature's dark, intelligent eyes were next for attention. Rhonda licked and licked and licked. The malamute yawned in contentment. Rhonda stalked around the sprawled body, sniffing every inch. Finally, satisfied that not one mote of dust had missed her attention, she gave him one final love lick on the nose and paraded back to her persons.

The terrier made straight to her empty feeding bowl and nudged it against Faith's foot. Her doggie eyes stared intently, alternately up at her favorite person and back to the malamute.

“She wants me to feed him,” Faith said.

“I'll get it,” Tyson offered.

All the lines of worry had smoothed from Faith's skin as she smiled down at the little red dog that had never been happy. Sun just stared, as if he wasn't sure what to make of this strange new behavior.

“I think she's found a friend,” Faith said.

“More like she's in love,” John pronounced as Rhonda watched the malamute's large white incisors wolf down Tyson's food.

The dog had to weigh at least 145 pounds, powerfully muscled, straight-backed, feet like snowshoes. As they studied him, the splendid animal worried the last scraps from the sides of the bowl, lifted his head . . . and belched.

Faith clapped her hands in delight. She stepped forward and cautiously took the malamute's head in her hands. Gently, she rubbed her cheek against his moist, black snout. She was rewarded with a long, lazy lick. “Oh, you lovely thing, you. Welcome.”

Rhonda had one more introduction. She rubbed herself against her new friend's leg and trotted off toward Victor. The Dogfather had seen all . . . and was waiting. Rhonda stopped two feet in front of him, head slightly inclined in deference.

The malamute looked puzzled. He came up beside the little terrier and looked from Rhonda to the Dogfather, as if uncertain of the etiquette to be followed here. Victor lifted his head to meet the huge dog's gaze. The malamute craned forward until his nose was within inches of the gray eminence. Victor didn't budge, a stone statue on its pedestal.

Rhonda whined and snuffled her nose in the dust, glancing sideways at her new love. The malamute cocked his head, then, friendly-like, passed an enormous pink tongue over the Australian shepherd's nose, around his ears, and down his face.

Victor jerked his head back in surprise. He wasn't quite sure about this unauthorized liberty. After all, he had his “capo” position to uphold. Yet this immense creature offered no threat. He could even be an ally. Victor made his decision. With regal dignity he eased to his feet and nuzzled the malamute's great jaw in return—royalty acknowledging royalty. The malamute dropped to the ground, panting happily. Victor settled once more on his haunches, his Dogfather authority intact.

Tyson had made phone calls while the little charade was in progress. “There's only one dog like that around,” he informed Faith. “His owners left town last night. The last the neighbors saw was a truck pulling away with the dog in the back.”

Faith's shoulders slumped. No matter where one lived—city, suburb, small town, farm—the story was always the same. Somebody moved and couldn't be bothered to take the animal with them.

“At least they thought to dump him close by,” Michael consoled.

“Too embarrassed to bring him in,” Faith retorted. Still, she was smiling. “But Rhonda's going to be all right now.”

“Faith, once they're here, they all get to be all right,” John said. “Look at them.”

The four humans studied the scene around them. John, Tyson, and Faith's son, David, had fashioned a small paradise for unwanted canines in the past year. The first octagon—for some reason dubbed Octagon Three—was rough-finished, with comfy rooms for the old dogs to come inside and keep warm in the winter.

The eight-sided building was the heart of a great fan of runs extending like mini-meadows from its windowed sides. Each was close to a quarter-acre, fenced to afford trees and scrub for shade and plenty of red dirt in which canine buddies could dig all day if that was their pleasure.

Two wide lanes separated more spacious enclosures dotted with roomy doghouses that the canines could call home. More than a series of kennels, Dogtown resembled a doggie Boys' Town: a friendly, rustic place where dogs could learn to be dogs again. Which was exactly what Best Friends had in mind.

“So what do you think?” John asked. “Doesn't it remind you of an old cowboy town?”

“You're thinking of all the Hollywood westerns they used to shoot here,” Faith teased.

“No seriously. With the dirt lanes, rough wood and all . . .”

“So all we need is a sheriff,” Michael joked.

“Maybe Amra will just fit the bill,” Faith said.

“Amra?” the men chorused.