Best Friends (11 page)

“He's a character in the murder mystery I'm reading.”

Everyone watched the majestic malamute. Tyson had escorted him past the Dogfather, down the lane, to see his reaction to the other residents. The big animal padded alongside Alpha Man, hips rolling slightly from side to side. He stopped once outside an enclosure and growled at two mongrels fighting over a tennis ball. The dogs glanced once in his direction and broke apart posthaste.

“Amra, Sheriff of Dogtown,” Faith declared.

The gorgeous malamute became part of the fabric of Dogtown. Everywhere he patrolled, unearthing hidden tennis balls, confiscating contraband feeding bowls, or just keeping the peace, plain, little Rhonda trotted by his side.

Soon a scruffy “Heinz fifty-seven” variety joined the couple. Feisty Cameron attached himself to Sheriff Amra and Deputy Rhonda, and it was obvious the trio were inseparable.

Rhonda did not divide her affections, however. Only Amra got daily grooming. Only into Amra's eyes did Rhonda gaze like a besotted teenager. Cameron was allowed to assist in their duties, but the Sheriff was her one and only love.

“S
pring is here, and the litters are coming in,” Diana said.

‘It's the same at Dogtown,” Faith concurred.

The two women watched the sizable orange-and-white cat patiently groom a scrap of black kitten that only wanted to cling to his face. Around him tumbled six assorted calico infants.

Diana had her Kitty Motel, basically a cluster of simple plywood rooms with lodgepole pines as the cornerposts for the chicken wire exterior play areas.

The setup wasn't what Chief Cat had envisioned the series of buildings of Catland would eventually look like, but everyone and everything was on a tight budget until they got the final balloon payment for the Arizona ranch.

That was only eighteen months away: December, 1990. Michael had already initiated discussions on how the funds should be invested, and he suggested a couple of business ideas to maximize operating income.

Meanwhile, the felines had plenty of room to roam and lots of tree limbs to scratch and climb, and John Christopher Fripp had conceived the innovative idea of roomy, insulated boxes in which they could curl up when it was cold. To soften the austere appearance of the sleeping quarters, David Maloney had carved fish, birds, and wild animals on their exteriors and painted the compartments in happy purples, emeralds, and bright, lemon yellows. Lined up against the inner walls, they looked like a giant set of child's Lego toys. The cats loved them. On more than one frigid morning Diana had lifted a lid to find a nest of kitties who hadn't moved during the night.

Faith looked at her watch and announced, “Doc Christy's about ready to spay and neuter.”

Diana gazed affectionately at the familial scene. “I thought I'd give the kittens a few more minutes with Bruiser.”

Bruiser was stretched on his side, his silken fur making a soft carpet on the fine gravel floor where his adopted charges now snuggled against his heavy belly. His large yellow eyes stared unblinkingly at Diana and Faith. One paw lay protectively over the snoozing babies. Five-year-old Bruiser had no nipples on which any kittens could suck, but in every other way he was a surrogate mother to the parade of orphans through Catland.

Diana sighed and picked up the carrying case she had brought in to transport the kittens. “I love that big, old cat.”

 

“Good morning, ladies,” Doc Christy's cheerful greeting made Faith and Diana smile.

“Hi, Doc. Francis. Judah,” the women nodded to everyone gathered in the kitchen.

The veterinarian looked as disheveled as ever and in need of a haircut. He kept blowing at tendrils of sandy hair that promptly fell back into his eyes as he bent over a sedated pup on the now infamous Formica table.

“Here,” Diana said, pulling a bobby pin from her own blond hair. Carefully she pinned back the doctor's tousled strands. “While I'm about it.” She smiled and whisked a Kleenex from a box on the counter. Bill Christy held still while Diana wiped away the grain of brown rice stuck to the corner of his upper lip.

“Francis insisted I have breakfast.”

Diana nodded. “Thought I heard you come in last night.”

“Dispatch called at one-thirty
A.M.
A dog got sideswiped on Eighty-nine. It looked bad. I had to call,” Faith explained.

She didn't have to say any more. Faith got summoned at all hours nowadays—not that she minded. The director of the sanctuary found that she liked her role as unofficial animal control officer. She enjoyed the growing respect of the town, and acceptance as one of their own by the police fraternity. These were perks she hadn't quite expected when she took on the job.

Faith also had to admit she got a secret kick out of seeing the looks of wonder on the faces of Doug Crosby and Tom Cram, the officers who most often accompanied her on a vicious dog call. Faith would stand quiet and still next to the suspect animal. “Now that's a good boy. It's going to be all right,” she would soothe while the lawmen lagged behind. Within minutes the “ferocious” animal was wagging its tail. Faith had placed the paws of more than one intractable canine on the passenger seat, heaved its backside up and in, and driven away, smiling to herself as the officers stared at the backs of two heads, sedately side by side in the front of her truck. “She's a regular Mrs. Dolittle,” someone exclaimed once, and the nickname stuck.

Faith never disclosed that it was her smell that turned the ravening beasts into her friends. No matter how much she laundered her clothes and cleaned her boots, Faith was around mutts so much that the doggie odor permeated every article of clothing she wore. Within seconds of an animal sniffing her ankles, he recognized Faith as someone to whom he could relate.

Faith would only call Bill Christy if she felt it was an emergency life-or-death situation, and she had offered to drive to Panguich the night before. But the veterinarian had reminded her he was due at Best Friends first thing, so he might as well meet her at the bunkhouse and stay over.

She watched the doctor take the first of Diana's mewling kittens. Faith noticed that the pouches from fatigue under his eyes seemed permanent nowadays. She sighed. Bill Christy looked as haggard as she felt this morning, and he still had a fair number of operations to perform.

“Hello,” a female voice called. “Anyone home?”

All eyes turned to the screened door.

“Come in,” Faith called.

A stout, grandmotherly woman walked in carrying a cardboard box. Covered neck to ankle in a dun-brown dress, her springy gray hair forced into marcel waves around her face in forties fashion, her appearance immediately placed her as from the polygamous community of Colorado City, fifty miles away. “I'm looking for Faith. Oh, hello, Faith. Didn't see you right off.” The woman held out the box. “Rosie's been a bad girl again.”

Faith didn't have to open the container. She knew what she'd find. Diana pursed her lips and stalked over to have a look for herself. Six kittens lay on a piece of toweling.

Diana turned on the woman. “I know you, don't I? You've brought in three litters in the last eighteen months.”

Embarrassment colored the grandmother's face. “Well, you do tell everybody to bring unwanted animals here.”

“And we've asked you three times to bring in the mother.”

Francis stepped between the antagonists. “We have a new policy,” he said calmly to the grandmother. “We only take newborns if the mother is brought in to be spayed at the same time.”

The old face stared at him. “You won't take them if I don't bring Rosie? What if I say I'll drop them in the river?”

Francis put his arm around her shoulders. “You're too good a lady to do such a thing. Did I mention there's no cost?”

“But it's a trouble.”

“But Rosie will be so much happier,” Francis counseled.

“So you say.”

“I'm here till after lunch,” Bill Christy intervened.

The woman considered. “Well, for you, doctor,” she sniffed.

“That was genius, sheer genius,” Faith exclaimed as soon as they heard the woman drive away.

Diana was thoughtful. “It's something we should institute right away. But we can't afford to do it for free.”

The veterinarian stitched the last suture on a calico. “I'm willing to cut my fee in half.”

“But, Doc,” Francis objected.

Bill Christy sat down. “I don't suppose you've got another Coke?” he asked.

“Doc,” Francis repeated.

“If I had my druthers I'd be here every day,” the young vet stated wistfully. “But I got bills to pay too. So—ah, thank you.” He took the soda Faith offered. “Let me do what I want. It's my way of helping out. Okay?”

 

The veterinarian insisted on spending every Tuesday at Best Friends. “You're getting so many animals, I need a day just to keep an eye on everyone.” And invariably he brought his own special gifts: a litter of pups, an old cat abandoned on his doorstep. “They're better off here than anywhere else I can think of,” he said.

Best Friends thought it was a very fair exchange.

C
yrus watched Sparkles graze the lush grass of the meadow along the river. He sometimes wondered if the ancient dude-string horse ever missed toiling the trails of the Grand Canyon, day after day, hours on end.

Best Friends had decided that, apart from needed exercise, the horses that came to them should be free from the burden of bodies on their backs. Even if they hadn't been abused or abandoned, they had surely done their share of work for the human race. They had earned the right, in their last years, to just be horses. Cyrus patted the old gray neck and slipped Sparkles a chunk of carrot before continuing on his way to the ancient caves.

From the very first months, he had been fascinated by the rich fabric of history that imbued the canyon. Sometimes he tried to envision the massive red cliffs as a shallow sea trod by giant dinosaurs. Cyrus had spent many an hour in the dark coolness of a hidden grotto, running his fingers over the faint petroglyphs carved by Anasazi artisans over a thousand years earlier, wishing he could decipher their meanings.

He had been struck by the absence of any depiction of war, violence, slavery, or any other form of aggression in the rock art. The Anasazi had been a gentle people, and Cyrus felt Angel Canyon itself still carried this same peaceful spirituality.

He sat with his back against the mouth of the cavern and contemplated the ring of stones at his feet. The wall above the rock circle was scarred with the black soot of thousands of fires burned into the porous sandstone, and shards of rough clay bowls had been found buried in the earth.

Cyrus reflected on his wife's last visit. When she wasn't helping Faith or Diana, Anne Mejia loved to hike the secret places of Angel Canyon. She got as excited as a little girl at the profusion of healing and nutritional plants she discovered.

Sundown was her special time. This was when the multitudes of flittering bats, the loping coyotes, and the bobcats would show themselves.

“Every time I come, it gets harder to leave,” she'd said on her last afternoon. “As soon as we get the final payment for the Arizona ranch, I'm here, Cyrus.”

They sat mesmerized by the shifting waters of the underground lake and discussed the prospect of future tours to Angel Canyon. Cyrus thought that combining visits to the animals with tours of archeological sites could bring needed operating money to Best Friends.

Anne had become increasingly aware of the workload involved in taking care of the animals. “I was helping Faith yesterday,” she told her husband. “Did you know we're over three hundred dogs now? I don't know how Faith manages. She really only has Tyson full time. We could hire some help if we could supplement our cash flow.”

Still they dismissed the idea for the time being. Everyone valued their privacy too much. Besides, they were far from set up for such a venture. And the possibility of their sanctuary being overrun by inquisitive tourists was daunting.

As Cyrus retraced his steps to the horse field, he pondered the damage that had been inflicted on the canyon in the past few decades. You couldn't see it, but it was there—an invisible psychic wound on the land. Grant Robinson had shared with him that there was a powerful Paiute medicine man on the nearby reservation. Cyrus determined to contact the Indian and ask him to perform a ceremony to cleanse and bless their place.

He heard Sparkles before he saw her: the long, frightening neigh of an animal in pain. Cyrus started running. As he crossed a fallen log over the river, he saw the horse, buckled to her forelegs on the far bank. “What is it?” he called uselessly as he came near.

Sparkles had stumbled into an unseen mudhole. Cyrus winced at the injury. The tendon in the mare's left foreleg was swollen badly, arcing away from the bone like an archer's bow. Cyrus stripped off his shirt and wrapped it tightly around the damaged leg, then somehow shouldered the horse to her feet. “This will have to do until I walk you home,” he said. “Just thank God it's Tuesday.”

 

“First she needs an anti-inflammatory shot,” Dr. Christy declared. Fortunately, Cyrus hadn't had too far to walk the mare to her barn before driving to the bunkhouse to fetch the veterinarian. Bill Christy jumped into his vet van straightaway. “You come too,” he yelled to Francis and Michael.

Now the three men watched the familiar Charlie Chaplin routine with the doctor's drawers. By now however, they knew what to do. As the doctor yanked each compartment open to find his medicine, Michael firmly latched it shut before it could play peekaboo with the frustrated vet.

“Ah,” Bill Christy said with satisfaction, flourishing a bottle of elephantine pills. “Phenylbutazone—‘Bute' for short. This will also help the pain.” He wrested a formidable-looking aluminum balling gun from Drawer Number Seven and rapidly pushed a tablet into one end.

He offered the scary instrument to Francis. “You've got to get this into the back of her mouth over the tongue. Want to try?” Francis shook his head. Dr. Christy grinned. “Well, I'll let you off this time. But you've got to learn, you know.”

The men took mental notes as the veterinarian talked them through the procedure. “You've got to wrap the bandage tight to bind the tendon to the bone. And make sure you put a fat wad of cotton underneath. Like this, see.” The veterinarian demonstrated. “Helps ease the pressure. You keep the leg wrapped and Sparkles confined. She shouldn't move around. Not that she'll want to—she's hurting. And give her two grams of Bute twice a day.” Dr. Christy took the horse's reins. “Come on, old girl, we need to get you into your stall,” he coaxed.

“When can she walk around again?” Cyrus asked.

“Not for ten days. Then you can lead her for a month. But an injury like this takes at least three months to heal.”

“Poor old Sparkles, you're going to be lonely,” Cyrus nuzzled the gray neck. “But I'll come see you.”

“I'll look in on her before the end of the week,” Dr. Christy promised, leading the way out of the barn.

 

Faith saw the “thing” first. While in Zion Pharmacy to get a prescription filled, she thought she glimpsed Dr. Christy's vet van going by. But it couldn't have been the veterinarian's vehicle, because it was pulling this dilapidated Airstream-type trailer, and Faith couldn't imagine what Bill Christy would want with such a piece of junk.

Meanwhile she was a little nervous because Kortney Stirland wanted to talk to her. Faith never knew quite what to say to the man ever since she had refused to let him adopt a dog.

“You know, I've really been watching you people.” The pharmacist passed Faith's medicine across the counter. “I see the dedication, time, and yes, the money, too, that you spend on the animals. It's made me rethink my whole relationship with them. You're making a difference, you know.”

Faith stared at the tall marathon runner, who was smiling broadly at her confusion. “Thank you; I think that's wonderful,” she finally got out. “You've made my day.”

“Anytime, Faith. Anytime,” Kortney Stirland called as she floated out of the drugstore.

Faith was humming as she drove home, still digesting the full input of the pharmacist's remarks. She wasn't prepared to be blinded by the sun's rays reflecting off some long, metal object as she turned into Dogtown. She hit the brakes.

It was the silver clunker she had seen in town. And it
did
belong to Dr. Christy. The “thing's” front bumper was hitched to his vet box along with a fat Billy that was chewing voraciously on a squat sage bush.
What was the veterinarian up to now?

The murmur of masculine voices drifted through an open window as Faith gave the trailer the once-over. It really was an ugly, dilapidated piece of equipment, she decided—even older than the mobile homes she had found for Tyson and herself. The “thing” reminded her of a gross silver bullet on wheels with its snub-nosed front end. As for the goat? Only dear Dr. Christy would think to cap the animal's wickedly curved horns with yellow tennis balls to protect the tips while he drove.

A light breeze wafted the unmistakable aroma of moist manure in her direction as Faith strolled toward the trailer. The veterinarian had been working with cows again.

Michael poked his head out of the door. “There you are. We've been waiting for you. Come on up.”

Faith mounted the three rickety steps and stopped. The inside of the twenty-five-footer had been completely stripped. In the middle of the denuded shell, Francis and Dr. Christy stood grinning like two guys who had just won the lottery.

“I thought it was about time.” Dr. Christy's overboots flapped a welcome as he stepped to meet her. “The interior needs work—paint, basins, power—but we've got our operating table.” The veterinarian directed Faith's attention to the end of the trailer. Francis stepped aside, and now Faith could see what looked like an Ob-Gyn table under the window behind him.

“Is that—?” she began.

The veterinarian nodded shyly. “We'll take the stirrups off, of course. Can't see any doggie bitch balancing her paws in those things while I examine her.”

“Dr. C's just brought us our new clinic,” Michael explained.

Faith suddenly envisioned pristine white walls, counters, shelves, a gleaming metal sink, overhead lights. Their first clinic! No more bunkhouse kitchen. Oh, what a beautiful silver bullet this was! Why hadn't she seen the possibilities immediately? She blinked to hold back the tears. “It is so perfect, Doc. Where did it come from? How did you get it?”

“Let's just say someone's been owing me money for a
lo-ong
time. Thought I'd take some of it in trade. Figured this old trailer could be put to better use here than sitting behind a barn. Now where do you want it?”

The men followed Faith outside. “If we could just maneuver it back a spot,” she said, pointing to a grove of junipers a few feet to their left. “The trees would deflect the glare.”

“Done,” Bill Christy jumped into his vet van, turned the ignition, and started to back up.

“Wait, wait a second. Let me untie the goat,” Francis yelled.

“Oh, yes, forgot about him, didn't I?”

Faith held the billy's lead while Michael and Francis helped the veterinarian guide the silver bullet into position. “He's not a very good driver, is he?” Michael commented.

“He gets here, doesn't he?” Francis said.

“There, that should do it.” Bill Christy sounded happy. He glanced at his watch. “Looks like I'm late again. Gotta go.”

“What about the goat?” Faith asked quickly before the vet could drive off.

“The goat? Didn't I tell you? He's to keep Sparkles company in the barn while she's recovering. Same farmer who owned the trailer was going to have a goat roast this weekend. I said if he threw the goat in the deal, I'd forget he owed me anything.”

Faith gave the billy's string to Francis and leaned in the veterinarian's window. She saw the young doctor's face with new clarity: the topsy-turvy, sandy hair that looked like he'd cut it himself without a mirror; the place under his chin where he invariably nicked himself in a hurry to shave; the blond lashes that women would die for, framing eyes that couldn't hide a nuance of emotion.

Dr. Christy looked nonplussed at Faith's scrutiny. She lightly touched the rough growth of two-day beard with her work-calloused fingers. “We love you, you know.”

The veterinarian looked down at his jeans and blushed. “See you next Tuesday,” he called as he drove out of Dogtown.