Best Friends (16 page)

S
ummer's lazy heat brought the remaining faithful into the fold. Silva Lorraine was the last to make her way to the canyon, arriving on Independence Day in time for Nathania Gartman's Cajun beans and rice. Over dinner, the group filled her in on the new operation. A skeleton crew would stay at the sanctuary to take care of the animals. Everyone else would table for two or three weeks, return to the canyon for a few days' rest, then go out again.

Charity had taken it upon herself to call hotels in targeted areas. In a voice of milk and honey, she pled their case. “So if you have any rooms that are going vacant that you could donate for the animals, we would be oh so grateful.”

The positive responses the actress received amazed everyone.

“We could never in a million years afford to stay in some of these places,” Jana exclaimed in wonder as Charity rattled off the names of top hotels in a dozen cities.

“You've been keeping this incredible news to yourself?” Diana could hardly believe it.

Charity's Cheshire cat satisfaction was in full force as she basked in the glory of her triumphs. “I wanted to wait until we were all together,” she said demurely. “I do so love a full house.”

The smiles in the room almost matched her own.

Goldilocks, as always, had claimed pride of place next to Francis. Throughout the evening the golden-eyed dog fixated on the newcomer. Goldilocks stared from Francis to Silva, from Silva to Francis, getting increasingly agitated when neither understood her low whines. Finally the little terri-poo could stand it no longer. She bounded from the warmth of her person's thigh over to the new woman in town, snuffling her ankles, whimpering, until Silva, smiling, picked her up.

But Goldilocks wasn't satisfied. She squirmed out of Silva's arms and bounded back to Francis, then back to Silva, for all the world like a yo-yo on a string.

“Are we missing something here? Or do the rest of us have bad breath?” Charity inquired archly as the dog resisted all other efforts to pet her.

“She's making a nuisance of herself tonight,” Francis said. “Ignore her, Silva.”

“I wouldn't dream of it,” Silva protested, nuzzling the soft, chubby body. “She's darling.”

“She obviously reciprocates the feeling,” Diana observed.

Francis looked from Goldilocks to the Englishwoman to whom his shadow had deserted. “Since that dog goes everywhere with me, maybe you and I should team up for L.A,” he suggested to Silva.

It was near midnight before they had talked through all decisions and destinations. By week's end, the people of Best Friends would scatter to major metropolises west of the Rockies. Early mornings would find them ensconced in front of supermarkets or department stores. “Hello,” they would smile at the shoppers. “Are you an animal lover?”

If a passerby showed interest they would offer a simple brochure Michael and Steven had put together showing the awesome beauty of the canyon, stories and pictures of animals at play—all the good news from the sanctuary.

Late evenings, the tired pilgrims would report back to John Christopher with the amount they might deposit the next day so he'd know what bills he could pay.

“It's important: get names, addresses, and telephone numbers,” Michael reminded as everyone straggled to bed.

Charity Rennie clicked her heels and saluted smartly. “Yes, sir, Mr. Mountain, sir,” she said as she marched out of the room.

F
or the permanent staff of the sanctuary, sleep was a precious commodity. They dragged awake at dawn and fell into bed long after the moon had taken residence in the clear night sky.

Despite the long hours, as summer chilled to winter, Michael noted Faith was smiling again, happy to devote herself to the day's routines: prepare individual meals for 600 dogs; clean the areas of 600 hundred dogs; play, pet, walk, and talk to 600 dogs. Faith Maloney was taking back her life, reveling once more in being Big Mama to her beloved charges.

She still fretted over their constant scrambling to pay the bills. Like one of her dogs with a bone, she worried endlessly to Michael her fears for the animals if Best Friends didn't prevail. But this particular November morning, he detected a different tension in her voice. “I just heard from Frank Crowe,” she announced as soon as he picked up the phone.

Michael couldn't make out right away whether Faith was elated or distraught. Frank Crowe was the animal control officer in charge of education for Salt Lake City. Faith and the officer had established a relationship after Best Friends had taken in a problem snapping turtle from Frank's petting zoo.

“Frank just got a call from Alpo,” Faith elaborated.

“The dog food people?”

“Who else?” Faith laughed. “Michael, listen to this. There's sixty tons of dog food sitting in Salt Lake. It was en route to Japan from Alpo's distribution center in Nebraska but—Frank doesn't know why—the contract was canceled. Frank said Alpo needs to unload the whole shipment.”

“Why don't they just resell here in the U.S.?”

“I asked the same question. You know what Frank told me? The Japanese allegedly love pink, so Alpo only manufactures
pink
dog food for that market.”

“Did you say sixty tons?” Michael was still trying to get his mind around that much free food.

“Yes, and it's all in thirteen-ounce cans. Frank's given a lot away already, but there's still twenty-four tons left—about twenty thousand dollars' worth, he said.”

Twenty thousand dollars' worth of pink dog food.
What did American dogs care what the color was? What did Best Friends care? Twenty thousand dollars' worth of free food. Mixed with dry it would feed Dogtown for six months.

“There's one snag, Michael.” Faith's euphoria faded. “We've got to get it in the next ten days.”

“No problem, Faith. We can store it in the caves.”

“You don't understand. We've got to pay the freight—two thousand dollars.”

She didn't have to draw him a road map. The last time Michael spoke to John, they didn't have $200 to spare, never mind $2,000.

“Tell Frank we'll take it.”

“Michael?”

“Tell him,
yes
, Faith.”

 

Michael would say later that he didn't have time to think. The people who had asked to be put on their mailing list so far numbered exactly 420 stalwart souls. Yet when he hung up on Faith, Michael knew only one thing to do. He sat in front of his computer and let the words flow. . . .

Michael stared at the letter. What possessed him to write to people he had never met and ask for money? It was one thing to talk to someone face to face, quite another to solicit through the mail.

He was aware of a presence behind him and turned. Mommy the cat was in her usual place on top of the oven. It had been a natural name to give the feral black creature who had dropped six kittens under his trailer the year before.

Mommy, it appeared, had grown tired of fending for herself. She adopted Michael's stove as her permanent habitat and from that day forward was the silent chronicler of all his actions.

“What do you think?” Michael asked. “Is it okay?”

Copper eyes bored into his. Michael imagined he sensed a silent purr.

“I guess that's a yes, then?”

The letter went out that afternoon.

 

Exactly six days later the miracle happened—Faith always declared that “it was
so
a miracle.” The mailbag for Best Friends was suddenly heavy with envelopes: brown envelopes, blue envelopes, creamy envelopes that wafted the sweet smell of money. Michael and Steven sat at The Village in stunned silence as they read each note.

Letter after letter along the same lines. It was a whole new experience for Michael and Steven. “We have the freight,” Michael announced quietly as the afternoon shadows darkened the room.

“And a lot of goodwill,” Steven observed.

“Especially that,” Michael said and went to talk to Tomato.

The orange and white kitten had grown into a gregarious creature that shared dominant cat status in the TLC Club with portly Benton, he of the lame orchestra leg and one eye. Tomato immediately arched his back to be picked up when Michael entered the room.

“You all have a lot of guardian angels out there, little one,” Michael said, making the cat comfortable in the crook of his arm. Tomato sneezed in Michael's face, lest he forget to whom he was talking, then proceeded to nuzzle his person's cheek in compensation.

Michael hardly noticed, so intent was he with sharing his thoughts. “I'm going to write each one of those beautiful people a personal letter and tell them not only did they help get our free food, but there's a little left in the kitty. What do you think?”

Tomato squealed his agreement.

Michael had to take a walk a week later when he opened the first letter in reply to his thank-you—it wouldn't do for anyone to see tears in his eyes.

“The people out there are telling us what they want,” Michael said to Steven over a lunch of brown rice and broccoli. “They like to be kept in touch, and more than anything to feel they're appreciated.” He gazed through the window that afforded the view of their paradise. “We
will
survive, Steven. Then we'll show the world what a little kindness can do.”

T
he rain clouds that had threatened since noon finally delivered: a sudden mercurial deluge that within minutes turned the gutters of Los Angeles into rushing street rivers. It was only 4:00, much too early to pack up for the day; however, in the months he and Silva had made the city their territory, Francis had come to understand a lot about its citizens.

Los Angelenos had an almost fatalistic acceptance of the capricious fires, floods, mudslides, and earthquakes that nature visited upon them, but the slightest inconvenience would get them utterly bent out of shape—and rain was definitely not their favorite thing.

Francis watched them scurry to the sleek protection of Mercedes Benzes, Lexuses, and Jaguars in the Mrs. Gooch's parking lot. Other pretty people huddled inside the warmth of the upscale health food supermarket, waiting for a break in the downpour. Francis sat alone under an umbrella, watching the rain puddling around his table. There would be no more interest in anything animal today. He might as well go and pick up Silva.

It might be good for them to get an early night; Silva was nursing a miserable migraine, yet nothing he could say could dissuade her from going to Malibu. “It's the day before Thanksgiving, Francis,” she said. “It could be our biggest so far.”

He respected her common-sense assessment. But then Francis had come to admire a lot about the lady since he began working with her. Every morning at 7:00
A.M.
he could count on finding Silva in the lobby of the Holiday Inn ready to go, and she rarely quit before 7:00
P.M.
He remembered how, that first month, they had laughed about how much the muscles in their cheeks ached from smiling all day.

Francis liked her caring and gentleness. From the very first week, people stopped to ask advice and help with their pets' problems. Silva always listened with patient empathy. Then, no matter what kind of day she had had, when they dragged back to the hotel, Silva would stand by his side at the public phones—it was far too expensive to dial from their rooms—returning calls left on their answering service, often until after 9:00
P.M.

Many a night, they didn't get to eat until 10:00. Sometimes they were just too tired to bother. When they did sit down, it didn't hurt that Silva was even more cost-conscious than himself. Francis remembered smiling the first time she suggested they never spend more than five dollars on a meal. They ate a lot of storefront Chinese. He smiled a lot around Silva, he had come to realize. And Goldilocks positively adored her.

Francis accelerated onto the Santa Monica Freeway, ignoring the angry blare of horns as he shot into the stream of rush-hour traffic. Making time along Pacific Coast Highway would be even more of a challenge than usual with the rain this afternoon. He hoped Silva would be ready to leave when he arrived. He would pick up some soup and insist she go right to her bed when they got to the hotel.

 

A watery sun struggled victoriously through a black shelf of clouds as Francis slid into a parking space at Hughes Market. He spotted Silva immediately. She had set up shop under the covered colonnade that fronted the giant food store. Goldilocks sat by her side, as adorable as only a slightly scruffy golden rug of a dog could be.

Francis strolled up behind them as a child pulled her mother toward the terri-poo. “Hello,” he heard his teammate's cultured tones. “Do you like animals?”

The mother hesitated and averted her eyes while her daughter enfolded the stoic Goldilocks as if the dog were a stuffed teddy bear. “Are your pictures going to frighten my little girl?”

Smiling, Silva tendered a photo of Sparkles and Goatie trotting side by side in the meadow under Angels Landing. “We'd rather show you happiness than pain.”

The child suddenly popped her head above the table and grabbed a picture of Ginger. “Mommy, can I have this one?”

“Now, dear,” the mother chided. “You already have two dogs.”

“I'll send you a letter from Ginger if you'd like, and that way it will be like you've adopted her.”

The girl's mother studied the photo of the old mare and her goat friend. “I have horses,” she said. “I know how much a bale of hay costs.” She slipped a chic, miniature backpack with a discreet Prada insignia from her shoulders and rummaged inside. “This may help,” she dropped a rolled note into Silva's donation jar

As if on cue, Goldilocks threw back her head. “Oww. Oww. Oww.”

“She's saying,
thank you,”
Silva beamed.

“She's saying she spotted me,” Francis said, reaching her side as the mother and daughter pushed into the supermarket.

“Francis, what are you doing so early? Did you see? She left us a fifty-dollar bill! Oh, I've had such a good day! Wait till I tell you.”

“Mine wasn't bad.” Francis knelt to hug a frantic Goldilocks pawing his thigh for attention. “So let's call it quits. You were feeling rotten this morning, remember?”

“Not just yet. Do you see those two women to our right?”

Francis glanced down the colonnade. “There's quite a few.”

“The beautiful one with the Latina woman.”

Francis knew immediately to whom Silva was referring. An elegant woman, courtly in the European tradition, stood silhouetted by the light two columns away. “The blonde?”

“Yes, and the dark-haired woman is Ilma. She's from South America. She's stopped by the table, given a donation, and picked up our literature. Her friend's been with her at least two or three times, but she never comes over.”

“I think she's gathered her courage,” Francis said, standing back as the two women approached.

The graceful female silently surveyed the photographs on Silva's table. She raised her brown eyes to meet Silva's gray, and Francis had an uncanny sense of some kind of special communication passing between the two Europeans.

“You already know about Best Friends, don't you?” Silva asked.

The woman nodded. “Ilma gave me your material.”

Francis detected an accent but couldn't quite place it.

“I have been hesitant to come over,” the woman continued. “I am helpless for animals.” Her shrug was more eloquent than words. “Ilma tells me you ask for names and telephones, but we haven't felt comfortable before.” Again the slight lifting of her shoulders. Silva nodded understanding. “Ilma also informs me you have put out a bulletin to help adopt animals in Los Angeles. My name is Maria Petersen, if you need any assistance.” She slipped a gold-lettered card into Silva's hand.

Petersen. Petersen.
Francis repeated the name in his mind. One of his favorite movies,
Das Boot,
had been directed by Wolfgang Petersen, a German filmmaker. No, that would be too much of a coincidence, even in L.A.

“We will meet again,” Maria Petersen said to Silva as she slid a check into the jar. “You have been here all day, have you not?” Maria turned to Francis. “You should take her home. She needs to rest.”

“I just met a sister,” Silva said, watching the sophisticated European walk away.

Francis was thoughtful. “I think she felt the same way. Now I'll get the car. You pack up. We've got a long drive to the canyon tomorrow. Come on, Goldilocks. You come with me.”

Silva smiled. “Home. It will be nice to go home for a bit.”

 

Outside a Whole Foods supermarket in Los Gatos, California, Anne Mejia watched a huge rig grind into the far end of the parking lot. A burly trucker with glowering eyes and legs like tree trunks climbed from his cab and strode toward the entrance of the store.
He looks like the price of gas just went up again.

“Now there's a man with a heart,” she called cheerily as the big man approached her table.

The trucker scowled. “I ain't got no heart, lady, so lay off.”

Anne Mejia jumped up and impulsively put her small hand on his chest. “Oh, of course, you do. I can feel it.” A curious knot of shoppers paused to watch the action. “He does too have a heart,” she informed everybody.

Spontaneous smiles passed around the group. Someone started clapping, and the rest of the crowd joined in. The trucker couldn't make up his mind whether to be embarrassed or angry. Good nature won out. He shook his head and pointed at Anne's display. “You have no idea how much I miss my dog,” he shared with the men and women who had surrounded him. “It gets real lonely on the road.”

His explanation was met with clucks of sympathy.

“You should bring your pet with you,” a woman advised.

“Do you carry a picture?” another asked.

The trucker immediately pulled a wallet from his jacket and proudly showed a dog-eared photograph of a happily panting retriever with a bandana around its neck. Then he extracted a ten-dollar bill and handed it to Anne. “You're all right,” he said and strolled on into the health food supermarket chuckling.

Others in the crowd followed suit. “Thank you. Thank you so much from the animals. Have a happy Thanksgiving. Thank you.” Anne Mejia beamed as each bill was pushed into her donation can.

What nice people, she thought, as she seated herself behind her table once again.

 

Maia Astor wasn't having the same good day. She had conceived the idea of putting donation cans inside supermarkets, her first attempts being at the giant Smith's grocery chain with its forty stores in the greater Los Angeles area.

She had navigated the maze of paperwork and permissions needed for her operation through Smith's Anaheim office, and everything was going rather nicely, she thought. Maybe it was the adorable picture of the puppy that adorned the can. She didn't really know. All Maia saw was that people responded. Sometimes she collected $500 in a week.

Maia didn't know Los Angeles. Downtown, Watts, South Central were just neighborhoods to her. She would admit they looked a little more rundown than West Hollywood, and the people not as benevolent. But management had assured her she could place cans in every twenty-four-hour store in every neighborhood—and she did.

It was 1:30
A.M.
when she stopped for gas after the last pickup in South Central. She stuck the nozzle of regular into the tank and leaned against the pump, trying to figure how much she might have collected by the weight of the cans. Maia was aware of shouting in the convenience mart behind her, but she was keeping too close an eye on the scrolling dollars to pay much attention.

She shut off the gas nine cents shy of her ten-dollar limit. Carefully, she extracted the correct bill from her purse and trudged wearily into the brightly lit market.

“You ain't getting no cigarettes unless I see the color of money.” The bull-necked white man behind the counter defied the T-shirted African-American wrestler. At least he looked like a wrestler to Maia with his bulging biceps and shaved head.

The black man reached over and with one huge hand grabbed his antagonist around his thick throat. “You don't mess with me, m . . .”

Maia shut her ears to the profanity.

The men didn't seem to notice her. They snarled obscenities in each other's faces while Maia shrank back against the candy display. She thought of surreptitiously easing out of the store the same way she had come in—quietly. Somehow that didn't seem right. She had to pay for what she had taken. “Excuse me.”

It was as if she were a ghost. The giant black man briefly raked her with stony eyes and turned back to his sullen adversary.

But it wasn't all going his way. In that split second the night manager reached under the counter, grabbed a rifle, and stuck it in his opponent's gut. The wrestler slowly released his grip.

“Not so bold now, are we?” The shotgun muzzle moved slowly over the muscled chest. Now it was the black man's turn to feel uneasy.

Maia thought the situation was getting quite out of hand. She coughed and stepped forward. “Nine ninety-one of regular,” she murmured, pushing Alexander Hamilton's likeness toward the manager.

The two men froze. Maia didn't think it polite to repeat herself, but she really had no choice. “Ten dollars of regular at pump three, with nine cents change,” she apologized.

The wrestler leaned cautiously away from the gun barrel, backed up three steps, turned, and ran out of the store. The night manager stared at Maia in disbelief. “Nine cents change, thank you,” she repeated shyly.

Francis was beside himself when Maia told the story over Thanksgiving dinner. Only that past September the young woman had been tabling outside a K-Mart in Yuma, Arizona.

As fate would have it that sweltering 105-degree afternoon, a robbery was in progress inside the store. Outside, an uncomfortable Maia, with only five dollars to show for the day, figured it was a lost cause, dismantled her table, and returned to her car.

She turned the ignition. Nothing. She pumped the gas pedal.
Nada.
Maia sat sweating in the suffocating heat. Suddenly a skinny Hispanic kid sprinted across the parking lot toward the old jalopy parked in the adjoining space. Maia leaped out of her car. “Can you give me a jump start?” she asked in all innocence.

The teenager glanced back at K-Mart, but no one was following. “Okay, let's do it quick then.”

Five Arizona Highway Patrol cars screamed across the tarmac as a grateful Maia waved good-bye to the hapless robber. “Muchas gracias, amigo.”

“That's it,” Francis declared. “I don't care how much we need the money. You're not tabling anymore, Maia. I think something's trying to tell you to stay here and help Judah with the cats.”

“I'd like that,” Maia said.

 

Everyone else, however, was reporting some success. Anne Mejia and Jana de Peyer, with the help of Rocky Raccoon the puppet, seemed destined to be stars. They regularly phoned in $300 a day to their ecstatic treasurer. Yes, tabling was hard, grueling work, but the bills were getting paid.