Best Friends Page 5

  So it was a happy crew who, in the first days of July, passed the word that 1,800 square feet of bunkhouse stood rough but ready for visitors.

  Faith was the first to call. “Michael, I can’t wait. It’s so exciting. Is it hot? I’m bringing dogs, and Diana’s following right behind with some of the cats. We’ve got Jasper, Brooke, Monica . . .” Faith rattled off the names of each of their pets.

  “Everything’s under control. We even picked up another trailer through the Thrifty Nickel for the feline leukemia cats.”

  “Thrifty Nickel?”

  Michael laughed. “It’s a free sheet. You know, a paper where it costs people nothing to advertise stuff they want to sell.”

  “Michael, that sounds great. We’ve got more and more animals coming in. I’d like to bring some of the unadoptables if possible.”

  “We can handle that, Faith. When are you coming?”

  “Diana and I plan on being there late Saturday afternoon.”

  “We’ll be waiting.”

  Francis’s Afghan, Jasper, was the first to hurl his golden body out of Faith’s old Ford Econoline when she arrived. “Oh baby, I’ve missed you so, so much,” Francis said, happily accepting slobbering kisses. The Afghan couldn’t make up its mind whether to bark with joy or rush around and bestow an equally crazed greeting on his other persons.

  The rest of the “upper body brigade” were engaged in mutual love-ins with their own dogs. Seventeen canines jumped, squealed, and licked in joyous reunion with their equally ecstatic owners. The cats were the next to be unashamedly kissed and cuddled.

  When men and beasts finally settled down, the women were proudly shown the bare-bones bunkhouse with its concrete floor, unpainted walls, and secondhand furniture. Diana particularly liked the wire enclosures that Francis had built so the cats could go outside and get some fresh air.

  “There is one small thing, though,” she said.

  The men waited.

  “Window ledges. You know what I mean? This place needs some nice, fat window ledges for the cats to lie on and look outside.”

  Francis laughed. “And I imagined I’d thought of everything. Consider it done.” Francis loved cats every millimeter as much as Diana.

  “I’ve got something to show you,” Steven said. “Come on.”

  Faith and Diana followed him out of the bunkhouse.

  Steven led them down the slope to a small clearing protected by a sapling fence. “You know, I’ve tried never to live anywhere without a garden. What do you think?”

  The women were quiet, looking at what Steven had wrought. More than a vegetable plot, he had fashioned a Zen garden that might have been transported from the old country.

  A statue of the Buddha blessed a tiny pond surrounded by budding edible flowers. Wind chimes hung from a gnarled juniper that shaded early lettuce and radish. None of them knew it then, but they were looking at the inspiration for a place to which one day thousands would make the pilgrimage to say good-bye to animals they’d come to know and love.

  “Where did you get the Buddha?” Faith asked.

  “I asked my parents to ship it to me,” Steven said.

  “This is what Steven did on his time off on Sunday afternoons,” Michael said as he joined them.

  “It’s so special,” Diana murmured.

  Michael saw that her eyes were creased with fatigue. A hank of long hair had worked loose from its ponytail and stuck damply to the back of her neck. “You look a little wilted.”

  “I think my clothes are permanently glued to my body after driving all day. I need a shower, and some food would be nice.”

  Michael grinned. “I was just coming to get you.”

  Cyrus and Steven went all out on the meal that evening. Cyrus complemented his famous tofu pot pie with a simple green salad from Steven’s garden, tossed with a special low-fat mayonnaise for Faith. He knew how she loved to smear it over everything, especially her beloved banana sandwiches. His fellow cook contributed tempura vegetables and apologized for the store-bought peach pie. All was satisfyingly washed down with the State of Utah government liquor store’s best red.

  It was in this sated after-dinner contentment, with dogs lolling at their feet and cats on their laps, that Kanab Canyon lost its name.

  “Kanab Canyon?” Michael sniffed as if he’d just smelled something rotten. “It doesn’t say a thing about what we’re trying to do here.”

  The others nodded agreement.

  A cooling breeze wafted the cinnamon scent of nightflowers through the screened front door. Fireflies danced in the darkness outside. The guardian presence of a hooting owl was the only sound in the night.

  “Angel Canyon,” Cyrus said. “It should be Angel Canyon,” he repeated, not knowing where the name came from, but knowing it was right.

  “Of course,” Steven whispered. “Of course.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Goldilocks

  Faith and Diana left for Prescott Thursday morning. Nothing the men could say would dissuade them. “You know we have volunteers lined up for adoption day in Phoenix on Sunday,” Faith admonished. “You don’t think we’re going to let them down, or miss a chance to find a kind home or two for our little ones?”

  It was a good thing really, because Faith was becoming increasingly irate when she returned from town. “Do you know I counted six different signs in windows? Litters of dogs and cats, for anybody who wants them! Don’t these people know about spay and neuter?” She slammed her groceries on the kitchen table. Ignorance where animals were concerned was one of the few things that could get Faith’s dander up.

  Yet she was pleased to meet the man who had befriended the guys over the last few months. He introduced himself when she stopped for gas on her last afternoon in Kanab. “It’s so nice to see ladies,” Kelvert Button said.

  “Thank you,” Faith replied, strolling over to his truck. The goat’s gentle face nudged into her hand, and she felt the softest touch of velvet under her fingers. “That’s the most beautiful goat I’ve ever seen.”

  Kelvert watched closely. His nanny, perfectly content to be stroked, made no attempt to eat Faith’s blouse. He nodded approvingly. “I’d like to invite you to church services this Sunday. Can’t do much with those boys of yours, but ladies have better sense, don’t they?”

  Faith smiled. “Kelvert Button, you’re as full of the blarney as any Irishman I ever met. But I’m a Catholic gal. It doesn’t seem right to worship in your church.”

  This seemed to inspire Kelvert to even greater persuasion. He took a deep breath. “I understand, but I’d like to explain—”

  “You know, Kelvert,” Faith interrupted, thinking this was a strange conversation to be having in a gas station. “I’m leaving tomorrow, so I couldn’t come Sunday anyway. But I really respect your religion because it’s full of teachings about kindness to animals. Maybe we can discuss it further when I come back.” Her words had the softness of dandelion puff concealing the stubbornness of steel. Kelvert retreated before her conviction.

  Francis was also thinking about religion as he drove back the next week from buying construction supplies in Las Vegas. The nearby towns—even St. George—were woefully lacking in some of the necessities. Now that they were starting a bigger building project for the sanctuary, he was having to make the seven-hour round trip ever more frequently.

  As the highway blurred past, he was musing on the many religions in which they’d all been raised. Jewish, Catholic, Protestant, Buddhist, Baptist—their group pretty much covered the spectrum. It amazed him how they had all been searching for a better way to live their lives, and how simple was the basic philosophy they had adopted: live with kindness and compassion toward all living things. It was as godly and spiritual to them as any of the recognized faiths.

  He thought next about money and Michael’s concern that the ranch hadn’t sold, how they would need to raise funds when everyone finally came to Angel Canyon.

  Most of all he considered the
fact that there was no veterinarian in Kanab. A mobile vet came once a week if they were lucky; otherwise, the nearest clinic was in Panguich, sixty-seven miles north. What would they do in an emergency? Certainly they weren’t ready to rescue any animals yet.

  Francis was so preoccupied, he almost missed the rest stop. He pulled the steering wheel hard right, and the blue truck screeched into the parking area.

  The semis were lined up like tankers at a dock as Francis cruised through looking for a free slot. The place was crowded at 10:00 P.M., with truckers taking advantage of the few degrees’ relief from the searing heat of the day to stretch their legs. Francis didn’t envy the truckers’ lot: the hours of endless blacktop, the loneliness. He knew that some of the drivers were husband-and-wife teams, and he wondered if any of them took a pet on the road.

  A vacant spot beckoned between two eighteen-wheelers and he pulled in, then hurried to the facilities. Coming out, he punched up two Coca-Colas from the vending machine, nodded to a couple of guys sitting on a bench smoking, and climbed back into his vehicle.

  Francis took long swallows of his Coke, quenching his thirst. He was bemused by the kaleidoscope of lights flashing into the darkness beyond as one truck eased in and another maneuvered out.

  It didn’t register at first, but after the fourth or fifth time he realized that two golden eyes kept blinking in the headlights. Was it a fox? A coyote? He didn’t want it to be a dog, although he knew only too well that rest stops were favored areas to dump animals in the hope that somebody might pick them up.

  Francis sighed. He finished the Coke, got out of his truck, and walked slowly toward the eyes. Of course, they disappeared behind a Dumpster as soon as Francis got within a few feet. Must be a wild animal scavenging for food, he thought gratefully. He walked around the Dumpster just to be sure. From out of nowhere, a body flung itself against his legs. Francis stopped, startled. At his feet was a shivering, shaking, filthy little dog.

  Francis bent and quickly picked up the pitiful creature. He tried to hold the dog at arm’s length, but the small canine had already desperately wrapped its paws like a child around its savior’s neck. Francis could feel the little heart beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings against his chest. Instinctively he knew the dog had to have water.

  The chance of the trembling animal belonging to anybody at the truck stop was slim to none. Judging by its condition, the matted creature must have been there for at least a week. But Francis had to try. He walked into the lighted picnic area behind the facilities where a half-dozen truckers were taking a break.

  First he cupped water from the fountain and watched the dog gulp thirstily. Then he soaked a paper towel and squeezed the excess over the animal’s head and body to cool it down. Looks like a cross between a terrier and a poodle, Francis thought as patches of curly hair emerged. “I don’t suppose anyone knows anything about this dog?”

  Heads shook in unison. “No.”

  “It’s not the first mutt I’ve seen here,” one man said.

  “Maybe they figure if they take them to the shelter they’d just get put down,” offered another.

  “Or they’re too damn lazy,” opined a third.

  Francis looked down at the terri-poo. The dog had Velcro’d its wet body against Francis’s leg and was trembling uncontrollably. Francis knew they were pressed for space to accommodate all the animals Faith had brought in from Arizona, and more were on the way. Nobody needed to bring in anymore at this time . . . but he knew what he would do.

  He gathered the mutt in his arms and felt the dog’s panting breath hot against his cheek. He hesitated, debating for a minute before turning to the watching men. “There’s a place, the locals call it Kanab Canyon, only an hour from here, eight miles outside of the town on the way to Zion National Park. It’s an animal sanctuary.” Was he crazy? “If you see a dog or cat like this here again, and you’re going that way, stop by. We’ll take the animal.”

  Six tired faces studied his. The first man stubbed out his cigarette. “Might do that. I got a soft spot for dogs.”

  When Francis got back to the bunkhouse, the starving canine inhaled three large cans of dog food. “What a beautiful little thing,” Michael exclaimed as a gentle bathing revealed softly curling golden hair and a sweet, pointed poodle face.

  The terri-poo was a she, and Francis named her Goldilocks. As far as Goldilocks was concerned, she’d found her man. She shamelessly flirted with Francis’s big Afghan, Jasper, until he relented and acceded snuggling rights on the bed of their mutual person. Daytime, while the other dogs sprawled sleeping under chosen trees, Goldilocks would sit wherever her person was working, patiently following his every move with her golden eyes.

  Goldilocks became Francis’s barometer on the world—even, he joked, picking out his future wife. He liked to say she was so intelligent that if she had known of Angel Canyon, she would have found her own way to him.

  For Francis, the saving of Goldilocks was nothing extraordinary—to him it was just a routine, everyday extending of compassion to a vulnerable creature. But in its way, it heralded the birth of “Best Friends.” This was the first rescue for the fledgling sanctuary. It would be far from the last.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sun

  Maybe it was the morning the farmhand drove up and unloaded a cowering black Labrador pup, which he declared he would have to shoot if they didn’t take him. “Word is you’re accepting unwanted animals, and this one’s gotten to like eating chickens.”

  Maybe it was when Francis was asked if the men would like to let Bucky and Jazz out to pasture on their land in return for which they could ride the two former rodeo horses. Or when they were tipped off about Sparkles, who had been one of a dude string in the Grand Canyon but was abandoned to starve when he got too old to work.

  Michael was not alone in seeing that their plan to build more shelter for both people and animals before taking in any more critters was mere wishful thinking. The animals were coming—and much sooner than anyone had expected. Michael knew that meant his time, thoughts, and energy would be taken up even more by this place that he now knew would be his home forever.

  That may have been why he was thinking about his family in England lately. His father had died when he was two, his mother when he was sixteen. The rest of the clan had been expecting him to come into the family businesses, of which the crown jewel was Granada Television.

  But the family’s way was not Michael’s, and when he dropped out of Oxford University, dashing all their hopes and plans for him, the break was deep and bitter. His preferring to work with animal groups was the final insult as far as the family were concerned, and they washed their hands of him.

  Distance, and the passage of years, had mellowed Michael. If he could, he wanted to heal the breach with his family—to make things right before embarking on what he considered to be the most important work of his life.

  Francis had a favor to ask before he left. “You’re coming back through New York, aren’t you?”

  “That’s my plan. Why?”

  “I’ve kept in touch with some friends who work at the local shelter. They’re very upset about this woman who breeds show dogs.”

  Michael grimaced.

  “I know, I know. My friends have been trying like crazy to find a home for one of this breeder’s Dobermans. He’s a gentle, sweet animal, but the woman complains he’s not performing well. She doesn’t want to keep him, and they can’t find a home for him.”

  Michael knew what was coming.

  “The woman is willing to meet you at Kennedy with a kennel and money to ship the dog. I said we’d help out.”

  “Francis, we’re not set up yet. Besides, that’s not the kind of animal we said we’d take. It’s healthy, a purebred. She should try to find a home.”

  “She’s talking of putting it to sleep, or taking it to the city pound.” Francis had that stubborn bulldog, “I’ll-argue-til-you-capitulate,” look on his face.

  M
ichael sighed. “You’re such a soft touch.”

  “Only when it comes to the four-leggeds.”

  Loitering on Row B2, Level 5 of the parking garage at Kennedy Airport on a Saturday in August wasn’t exactly what Michael had in mind when he agreed to bring the Doberman home with him.

  He had been waiting like a sweating idiot for over an hour for the breeder to show, and his feeling of suffocation was fast turning into claustrophobia. Michael didn’t even like being in a room with the door closed, let alone shut up with a million cars in a building where he couldn’t even breathe the air.

  The roar of yet another sports car blasted his ears as it screamed up the ramp and flew down the aisle toward him. Michael winced and jumped back hurriedly as a Corvette accelerated into the parking space next to him.

  Try to get a little closer, fella, he scowled, almost gagging as the acid bite of gasoline fumes hit the back of his throat. He’d kill Francis for this one. Where was the woman?

  He looked at his watch for the tenth time. She couldn’t have missed him. Francis had told her to look for a tall, skinny Englishman with big, curly hair. Well, he supposed she couldn’t guess he was English.

  He turned as a fire-engine red Porsche Carrera rounded the far corner and burned rubber toward him. The driver hit the brakes and the Porsche screeched to a stop. A window opened in a billow of perfume and a woman with a chic, short Vidal Sassoon haircut stuck her head out. “Michael? Michael Mountain?”

  “Melissa?”

  The woman smiled. “The traffic, and it’s so humid. . . .” she stopped as a glossy, pointed brown head reared up from the floor. Michael and the Doberman eyeballed each other. The dog made up its mind and flung itself across the woman to get at the stranger.

  “Sun, Sun, it’s okay. Be nice, he’s a friend. He’s going to take you to a wonderful place.” Her words had about as much effect on the dog as telling a New York cabbie not to honk in traffic.