Best Friends (23 page)

T
om Kirshbaum knew when to get Michael Mountain's attention: that afternoon sliver of time the
Best Friends
editor would take time to be with his animals.

“Hello,” the familiar British voice answered on the third ring.

“Michael, got a few minutes?”

“Hold on, I'm in the middle of feeding the cats.” Tom Kirshbaum waited. “Okay, I'm all yours.”

“Do you know anything about CompuServe?”

Michael did. “I'm a member.”

“I have a contact in New York at Time Warner. They've set up a Dogs and Cats Forum on CompuServe to promote their animal books. Two of their authors are running it, but they're really too busy to give it their full attention. I suggested you guys might be interested in taking over.”

Michael took a few seconds to reply. A million possibilities swirled through his mind. He knew the TW Dogs and Cats Forum, had visited its bulletin boards more than a few times. He had been amazed at the way this fledgling online global medium was able to link hundreds of thousands of people with a commonality of interest. The idea of Best Friends interacting with this international community of animal lovers was staggering. “What did they say?”

Tom Kirshbaum laughed. “They didn't know who Best Friends were, so I took the liberty of sending them a couple of your magazines and a brochure. They love the whole warm, good-news feeling you guys foster. They'd like you to go to New York. Are you interested?”

Michael didn't hesitate. “Oh, absolutely. When?”

“Next week too soon? We could meet in Phoenix and fly together from there.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

 

The U.S. Open Tennis Championships were playing at Flushing Meadows the Thursday Michael and Tom Kirshbaum touched down at JFK Airport. Michael remembered the last time he had been in New York. Had it really been over a decade since he had picked up Sun, that crazy, whirling Doberman that had become his heart's companion?

A long limousine glided silent as a cloud to a stop at the curb beside them. A peak-capped, skinny chauffeur exited and stepped smartly to open the rear door. Michael smiled. The Cadillac's windows were as dark as the sunglasses he had donned to get Sun on the United flight back to Las Vegas. He ducked into the unfamiliar luxury of the soft, cushioned interior. This was certainly a different time, a different trip.

As the limousine wended its way toward Manhattan Michael was quiet. Even in the sedan's hushed interior he could feel the pulsing energy of the city, yet he felt strangely discombobulated. He was no stranger to the great metropolises of the world; he had been perfectly comfortable living in them in years past. It was unlike him to feel at a loss. Maybe it was the stranger-in-a-strange-land syndrome. He dismissed the impression from his mind as the car deposited them in front of the Time-Life building. He didn't have time to think as he and Tom pushed their way through the hurrying afternoon throngs into the imposing lobby.

The elevator whisked them skyward at dizzying speed to Warner Books, home of TW Electronic Publishing. An attractive, thirtyish woman waited to escort them to a corner office. The first thing Michael noticed as the secretary showed them into the president's domain were books, books everywhere.

Books stacked on the thick-carpeted floor, scattered on the deep-cushioned couch, crammed onto bookshelves, piled on the highly polished conference table that could seat twelve people without crowding. Books dominated every niche of the expansive space except for the endless wall of glass that afforded a stupefying view over Radio City. A few feet away from the impressive windows, three executives talked quietly among themselves.

Tom stepped ahead confidently, shaking hands, making introductions. For a split second, Michael was overwhelmed with an unaccountable sensation of acrophobia: his feet refused to take him forward. He mentally shook himself. This sudden fear of heights was ridiculous. The mesas of the canyon soared much higher than this building. He hiked them every day. Tom turned toward him, questions in his eyes.

Michael had already discerned the person to whom the others deferred. He swallowed his fear and strode toward the man. “I really like your Dogs and Cats Forum. In my opinion, it's the most intelligent animal site online,” he said extending his hand.

“We like your product,” the president responded as everyone followed his lead and sat at the table. From that moment the meeting flowed. For the next hour they discussed what Best Friends might bring to the table: a library, a “saying good-bye” section to offer sympathy and support for grieving owners, an education board, and much more.

The president listened, only occasionally injecting an observation as the ideas volleyed back and forth. As the business day drew to a close, the conversations trailed off into an expectant pause. The man at the head of the table spoke into the void. “We can sort out the mechanics tomorrow,” he said. “What I'd like you all to be thinking about is what Warner wants Best Friends to bring to the Forum. It's the upbeat, positive community spirit they project that will build an online following for us. I call it the Best Friends tone. That's what's important here. All the rest will come with experience.”

Tom Kirshbaum was thoughtful on the way back to the hotel. “He really got it, didn't he?”

All day Friday, Michael, Tom, and the Warner executives battle-planned the takeover of the CompuServe site. The discussions were long and detailed, but as Tom had predicted, by 4:00 they shook hands on an agreement: Best Friends would be the online navigators for the Time Warner Dogs and Cats Forum.

From the first week messages were posted from Germany, Denmark, England, Japan, Canada, Mexico, all points east and west. Far up the Amazon River, Alberto Suarez was struggling to save a sick pink dolphin. A Sea World veterinarian responded, not only with conventional medicines Alberto might use, but also with the names of several plants native to the rain forest that might be more readily available.

The Greek Cat Welfare Society trumpeted that they'd reached their goal of spaying and neutering 1,000 of the multitudes of strays in their country. And by the way, if anyone was passing through Athens they could really use some extra hands to feed the homeless kittens that congregated in the National Gardens.

Ralph Donner wrote from the Netherlands that he was going to Zambia to study the dwindling elephant population with the hopes that his findings would spur more effective law enforcement against ivory hunting. He still needed accommodations if anyone could help. They could.

La Sociedad De Animales Felices
in Argentina shared their success with a newly implemented spay and neuter program and the unique methods by which they had involved the local neighborhoods.

On and on the messages flashed around the globe. Still the biggest eye-openers to Michael were those routed from the contested zones of Eastern Europe, Israel, and Northern Ireland revealing how people on both sides of the conflicts were coming together to help the animals.

Not everything was serious. They actually got downright silly at times. After several months of postings concerning cats throwing up had degenerated into endless jokes, Tom declared wistfully that he would like to notify the senders to “clean it up” but was reluctant to upset their online community. Flame wars were the last thing anyone wanted.

Michael had no such compunction and posted the following. “The new rule regarding cat vomit is that no one is allowed to download a file while their cat is throwing up—or, moreover, evermore discuss same.” To make sure nobody missed his point, he uploaded a sound clip of a cat throwing up.

The clincher that eternally cemented his curmudgeonly reputation was the missile concerning the bulletin board discussions of where to find the best ice cream in Europe.

“Please remember our principal subject is animal welfare. From recent postings somebody could easily assume that Best Friends is in fact an ice-cream store! A fun topic should be obviously labeled as such, e.g., ‘Today's Doggerel.' General conversations of no particular relevance should be posted in the lounge. So call me Grumpy! But if you do, put it under a relevant subject heading!”

To regular onliners' delight, from that day forward Michael would forever be known as “Grumpy!”

Then there was the long-haul truck driver who would plug in at rest stops, talk about his travels, and post the delightful cat fiction he wrote to pass the hours on the road. It wasn't long before Mike Blanche had his own following.

But perhaps the most touching connection within this international network was the candle ceremony brought by Marion Hale to the Pet Loss Support section of the Forum.

Under Marion's guidance, people wrote in for their sick pets. “My cat Sadie is very ill with cancer. Would you please add her name to your prayers.” At a certain hour every Monday night, the community of the world would light a candle and silently send prayers and best wishes for the recovery or passing without pain of the beloved animals.

In essence, Marion Hale became a shepherd of an international online healing circle that brought comfort to thousands. The simple sharing of prayers was so healing and powerful that the ceremony continues on the Internet to this day.

 

The TW Dogs and Cats Forum consumed everyone who participated, often demanding twelve-hour days to maintain. The service reached more people than Best Friends could have ever dreamed, and the experience and lessons learned were invaluable. When Time Warner decided to phase out their CompuServe Forums, Michael and his friends were ready for their own site on the fledgling World Wide Web—
www.bestfriends.org
.

But that would be three years in the future. Meanwhile, life at the sanctuary went on.

H
arriet tried. She really did. But the undersized black-and-white cat was too sickly when she was brought to the clinic. Diana Asher watched Dr. Allen remove the stillborn kittens from the young cat's belly. “She didn't have enough nourishment for them,” he said sadly, placing the sedated feline into a carrier.

“I guessed as much, poor little thing. You'd think I'd be used to sick, hurt, deformed kitties by now, wouldn't you? I've seen enough of them. But you never get used to it, do you, doc?” Diana lifted the carrier off the table. “I think this one could sorely use some of Bruiser's loving care right now.”

Diane took the skinny little cat to the bunkhouse and made up a bed in her bathroom where the patient could recover in peace. Then she fetched Bruiser. “This is Harriet,” she introduced.

Diana sat beside the tub watching the grand old pro sniff his new charge. Bruiser knew exactly what to do. He lay beside Harriet and cupped his bulk around her tiny frame like a spoon. Carefully, he began cleaning the matted fur.

The feline stirred. Her nurse continued to lick. Harriet twisted her head and Bruiser lapped around her eyes. Diana saw the female's claws extend. Bruiser paused, golden eyes meeting the female's green. She hissed. He waited, calmly matching his breathing to hers.

Slowly the black-and-white's talons sheathed. The cat seemed to disappear into the long fur of the protector she had never had. Diana caught a glimpse of Harriet's face pressed hard into Bruiser's neck. Once again she blessed this cat who loved all who came into his world. Diana eased to her feet and tiptoed out of the bathroom.

Bruiser nursed Harriet in the bunkhouse for three weeks. One afternoon, toward the end of their stay, Diana walked in to see the big cat stretched full length on the floor, purring, while Harriet crouched behind, grooming his ears. The little female looked at Diana. “Go away,” she seemed to say. “It's his turn for some love.”

Diana bought them a basket for two. Every night she peeked in the bathroom to smile at the sight of the orange and black-and-white bodies curled around each other as if they were one. When a new motherless litter was in need of Bruiser's ministrations, Diana moved Harriet back with him to the TLC Club.

Her king of cats now had a teammate. Harriet cleaned and played with the kittens along with Bruiser. Diana loved nothing more than to watch the surrogate father sit in a circle of kitties as if he were teaching the facts of life, his friend Harriet always at his side.

When their duties were done, the green-eyed feline would rasp her tiny tongue over her protector's long fur, grooming until he purred with contentment. Never a night passed without the two sleeping together, often with their latest brood piled on top of them. Diana was reminded of Rhonda's tending of Amra. “Thank you, Harriet, for making my old boy happy. Thank you.”

 

Tomato, investigative reporter par excellence of
Best Friends
magazine, stalked around the TLC Club for all the world like he was Sam Spade on a case. Michael's personal feline think tank declared to his person that he had waited long enough for an assistant. How was he expected to properly conduct his investigations if confined to the TLC Club? It was imperative that he have an outside undercover agent to sniff out the gossip. After all, he was getting his own mail nowadays.

Members not only wrote to Tomato asking about his fellow kitties and the latest intrigues; they sent toys and treats for him and his friends. Tomato reveled in the limelight. Michael thought the little orange cat was getting to be quite the prima donna. But nothing compared to Benton!

Benton must had gotten wind that the new TLC Club was to be named after hizzoner and in the not-too-distant future. He took wholeheartedly to the role of star of the show. He preened and pouted and insisted on being the first to greet any visitor, mainly by cowing the rest of the special-needs cats and waving his game leg. He would only give way to the rest of the crowd when he had gotten his required share of tickles and strokes. “What happened to that sweet feline?” Diana wondered out loud. “He's become a legend in his own mind.”

Tomato, however, would have none of it.
“I
am the investigative reporter. Only
I
know what really goes on,” his saucy, capricious little countenance seemed to communicate. “But I really need a sidekick to scout the scandal.”

He got his sidekick, but from a most unexpected direction. Tammy was of a breed that made money for mankind—as long as they were fast enough. But the underfed greyhound was too small to go up against her bigger brethren on the Tijuana racetracks. Tammy failed miserably to win purses for her owners. Well, there were other ways to get money from a living possession. Tammy would be donated to an experimental laboratory for a tax write-off.

But the Psychic Pet Network had other plans for shy Tammy. California Greyhound Rescue stepped in and paid the ransom for the dog, but her years of abuse made her too skittish for a home and she would bolt in terror at the mere sniff of a man.

“No problem. She can race into the trees if she sees Tyson or David,” Faith said when the rescue group called her in desperation. Tammy, however, was even afraid of her own kind—dogs, that is. Faith had a notion. Maybe Tammy should live with Diana for a bit. The dog couldn't be frightened of cats, surely. The investigative reporter smiled. He had a hunch about this hound.

Every day Tomato commandeered his favorite scratching post and watched Diana encouraging the jittery racer. Every week he would spy on the volunteers and visitors who parked at Catland, and woe betide them if they left a window down.

Like a homing pigeon, Tammy would be inside the car and out again with precious keys, clothing, or maps in her jaws. Other times Tammy would race past Tomato's lookout perch with coffee cups, purses, books, all sorts of stuff from who-knew-where. Only Tomato knew of Tammy's secret stash hideout down the hill until Diana spoiled the fun by following the dog one day. Chief Cat discovered items that had been missing for months.

Watching Tammy's predilection for crime, Tomato made his decision. The greyhound was a skittish, shy, paranoid kleptomaniac—the perfect assistant snoop.

“Hello,
” Tomato conveyed to the bashful black and white hound.
“How would you like to team up with me? The pay's good. Plenty of love and treats. I'm the boss, of course. And you'll have to get used to Michael, who takes my orders. But all-in-all, you could do a lot worse. What do you say?”

Tomato had engineered things very well when Michael thought about it. The feline journalist now had a reporter to do the work while he took all the credit. “You're bad, Tomato. Bad,” was all he could say.

 

However, there was nothing Michael could say to Sun. The twirling, whirling, impossible bundle of energy was looking thin and tired. No matter what vitamins, supplements, or changes of diet Michael tried, Sun was weary. Dr. Allen delivered the bad news.

“He's old and has cancer, Michael. You can either put him through some miserable treatments or let him live out his last months in dignity.”

By early fall, Sun was not up to their afternoon walks together. The Doberman that had rarely let Michael out of his sight since that hot, humid noon in Kennedy Airport only wanted to lie by his person's feet as he worked on the computer. Michael got to glancing from Mommy on the stove in her sphinxlike concentration on his every word, to Sun in his ever-drowsy somnambu-lence.

One cool morning, as the canyon signaled the winter to come, Michael noticed that his companion was not by his side. He felt a sudden foreboding. He ran from the trailer calling, “Sun, where are you? Sun, where are you, little one?” Sun did not run from behind a nearby juniper. Sun did not come trotting to Michael's voice. Sun was gone.

Michael called everyone in the canyon. “Sun is missing,” he said, and that was enough. Within minutes, John, Faith, Virgil, Sharon, Judah, David, and Tyson were at his trailer. In silence, they fanned out to search for the dog he loved.

Michael had the suspicion that Sun had made his way to the creek. Why, he didn't know. It was a long hike down the cliffs. At the bottom the river's curving banks lay swathed in cottonwoods and softened with the last cool grass of autumn.

It was only right that Michael should find his best friend. Sun lay asleep, hidden to all but the most insistent of searchers, in a thicket of sheltering willows. Michael knew why Sun had chosen to leave him. The Doberman had followed his animal instinct, knowing the time had come to go off by himself—to die.

Was it that he didn't want to bother me? Or is it just that as close as we are to our companions, there is a rhythm, a knowing in their genes of what must be done at the end of a life?
Michael's own animal instinct told him to leave Sun where he was in the willows—to honor his choice.

Yet even the creatures with whom we credit a higher understanding of the seasons of life are not infallible. Michael had observed that too many times. What if his best friend woke up, was hungry, cold, and needed Michael's comfort?

Judah and Virgil fashioned a simple stretcher. Michael walked beside his dog to the trailer, apologizing for doing what he thought was right, apologizing for possibly interrupting the Doberman's passage beyond this life.

Yet Sun was not ready to say good-bye. In the warmth of Michael's home, on his favorite thick fleece bed the Doberman slept, ate, and licked the hand that fed him. For two days, Michael never left his dog's sight.

On the third morning Michael felt something compelling him to go into town. He needed some food and supplies, but they could wait. Still, he felt he ought leave. He lay on the floor beside Sun until the early autumn afternoon came to call. “I'll be back soon,” he promised as he dragged himself away.

Michael closed the door of his trailer carefully behind him. Subconsciously he knew what to expect on his return, knew the silent agreement that had passed between him and his companion of nine years.

Sun died peacefully, in the place he loved best, in the privacy that all animals crave. He lay exactly as Michael had left him, curled on his favorite doggie bed.

Sun's friends, Mommy, That Naughty Girl, Snoozums, and Squeakypop, sniffed and paid their respects. Afterward, Michael hiked with his subdued dogs across the mesa, encouraged them to play, and gave them way too many treats. But humans and four-leggeds knew that this was Sun's wake. The dog that had loved and romped and lived in their circle of friends would not have wanted it any other way.

Michael buried the Doberman under a sandy mound near the trailer. “Good-bye, Sun,” he murmured. “You died happy, I think. What more can any of us ask at the end of a life?”