Best Friends Page 6

  Michael watched with interest as the woman struggled out of the sports car. She was hanging on for dear life to a leather leash that barely restrained the hyperactive beast.

  What had Francis said? That this was a show dog that wasn’t performing well? A gentle dog, trained, easy to handle? Ha! More likely he tried to eat the judge.

  He noticed the woman had a nervous tic that kept twitching the left side of her cheek. She was trying, with little success, to smooth the folds of her immaculate linen skirt and hold the creature at the same time. Suddenly she shoved the leash into Michael’s hand.

  “He’s really a good dog; has the best pedigree—just a bit overexcited at the moment.” She was jabbering as if terrified the savior would change his mind at the last minute. “He’ll be fine in the airport, you’ll see.” Before Michael could stop her, she jumped into the Porsche and gunned the engine.

  “His kennel . . . his ticket,” he yelled as she sped away. Too late. Michael was left choking on a cloud of exhaust fumes—again. He looked at the straining, whirling animal at the end of the leash. He had not expected such a frenetic dog. What happened to the planned delivery of a nice, well-behaved animal in a crate that he could then simply give over to baggage?

  Michael suddenly realized he had less than forty-five minutes to catch his plane. “Heel,” he urged, pulling the dog toward the elevator. To his surprise the Dobie’s cropped ears stiffened, his head lifted in haughty obedience, and he pranced alongside Michael—the perfect Westminster show dog.

  This was better. But Michael was still stuck. Obviously he couldn’t just leave the Doberman, and no way was he going to put such a hyper animal in a crate for five hours. Well, he’d just have to figure something out when he got into the airport.

  Michael and the dog had barely made it through the automatic doors when Sun suddenly stopped. The dark, wet nostrils twitched. Food! In a nanosecond a ravening, overwrought monster was dragging a helpless Michael through the airport.

  Michael didn’t pump iron, but he was no weakling. Still, he could hardly restrain the Doberman. He was aware of openmouthed stares as they tore by. He yelled a quick “sorry” as three people tripped over themselves trying to get out of their way.

  Maybe if he fed the creature he’d calm down. Michael jerked the leash and accomplished a momentary halt in the dog’s headlong rush. He pulled two sandwiches he was saving for his own snack out of his carry-on. “Hope you like veggies,” he grimaced. Sun took both sandwiches in one gulp. “Guess you do.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Michael saw a newsstand. But it wasn’t a magazine that excited him. Stacked in three pretty rows in the window were the biggest, baddest, black sunglasses. A terrible idea dawned.

  “Heel,” he ordered again, and steered Sun into the shop. “I’ll take those,” he said pointing to a square-framed pair. Michael walked out of the shop holding his arm stiffly ahead of him, allowing the Doberman to lead. Sun twirled in circles the entire way to the check-in counter, then plopped his haunches on the cool tile floor and looked around curiously.

  “One fifteen to Las Vegas,” Michael said staring ahead unseeingly as he deliberately handed his ticket into thin air. An attractive redhead gently pried the coach class reservation from his fingers. “Forgive us, Mr. Mountain, we had no idea you’d be needing special consideration.”

  Nicely put, Michael thought. He felt a movement by his feet. Be good, you crazy animal, he prayed. Keep still for once.

  “You’re all set, but you’d better hurry. I’ll let them know you’re coming.” She signaled a hostess, who immediately came over and took Michael’s arm.

  Michael jerked Sun’s leash. “Come,” he commanded. Sun took him at his word and lunged forward, pulling Michael behind him.

  “I thought guide dogs always had harnesses,” the hostess puffed, running to keep up with them as a galloping Sun flew ahead.

  “He was homesick and chewed through it,” Michael shouted. “I had to buy him a temporary.”

  The hostess opened her mouth, but thought better of pursuing this line of questioning. She hustled them through security and delivered them to the boarding area. “They’re all yours,” she said archly, handing man and dog over to the two waiting flight attendants.

  “Mr. Mountain, you almost didn’t make it. We were just about to close the gate. What a handsome dog. I’ve never seen a seeing-eye Doberman before,” the younger of the two women gushed.

  Michael forced a smile. Sun decided he liked the pretty female and jumped up and down like a yo-yo against her leg. “Sit,” Michael ordered through clenched teeth.

  They were half-way through First Class when the worst happened. Sun smelled food from the back galley. With a deep-throated bark he lunged again. Michael felt the leash slide through his fingers.

  “Oh no,” the attendant gasped as Sun hurtled down the aisle.

  Shrieks filled the plane as people saw a huge, drooling animal bounding toward them. Instant anarchy ensued. Passengers leaped onto seats. Children wailed. Men cursed and tried to grab the dog. The scene on the plane was straight out of a Mack Sennett movie. Michael stood in the middle of the uproar, trying hard not to laugh hysterically at the absurdity of it all. I’ll get you for this, Francis.

  Sun didn’t like the screaming. He looked disconcerted for once and decided to jump onto the nearest empty seat. A woman let out a high-pitched cry. Sun leaped to the next row. Passengers panicked, scattering to get out of his way. “Keep calm. Keep calm,” the attendants called as they dashed after the Doberman.

  Michael decided he’d better do something quickly or he and the dog would be thrown off the plane. He pushed forward. “He’s just finished training. This is his first flight,” he yelled. “Let me through.”

  Passengers parted like the Red Sea. Michael rushed down the aisle to see a happily slobbering Sun dominating an empty back row. “Where is my dog?” he said, suddenly remembering he was supposed to be at least partially blind.

  “Here,” the younger attendant guided Michael to a seat. Michael noticed that she was trying hard not to laugh. Then she winked. He pretended not to see.

  “You can control your animal now, Mr. Mountain?” she said, failing miserably at a stern demeanor. “You know he can’t sit there for takeoff.” She put her lips to Michael’s ear. “And if we don’t get off the ground NOW, we’ll have to put you off the plane.”

  Michael grasped the Doberman’s neck in a vice-like grip. One mighty heave and the dog was on the floor. Sun proceeded to howl and squirm. “Maybe these will help.” The attendant pushed packets of peanuts into Michael’s hand. “Thank you,” he said gratefully.

  Fortunately Sun was a perfect angel for the rest of the flight, although he did insist on sitting on Michael’s lap the whole time.

  The attendants hadn’t had so much fun in years. They kept sneaking filet mignon out of first class. “For the dog,” they said sweetly as they brought Michael the usual bland coach fare.

  On the drive from Las Vegas, Sun decided that Michael’s thigh was the only place to put his head, snoring all the way. Michael passed the time by lecturing the sleeping dog on his wretched behavior, and how he would keep Sun in a run all by himself, and how nobody would ever, ever adopt such a silly, silly animal. The Doberman would show his terror at these threats by occasionally waking and licking Michael’s hand.

  The saving of Sun (what else could you call bringing home that miserable creature?) was thoroughly unlike the rescue of Goldilocks. And yet both in their way showed to what lengths and with what good humor the men and women of Angel Canyon would go for any animal in need.

  They would need all the ingenuity and humor they could muster in the years to come.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Good Days/Bad Days

  There were good days and bad days, and sometimes they both came on the same day.

  When Mary Cram arrived at the bunkhouse with a fresh-baked apple pie, it was a good day. No explanation was given, but the gesture
broke the ice, and the men were pleased to have a nod of recognition and an exchange of pleasantries with Norm Cram when they passed his wooden house.

  It was both good and bad in the summer of 1984 when the rains came—sudden downpours that in seconds turned their dusty dirt roads into ankle-deep mud slides. The benign river that meandered slowly through the meadows below was suddenly a raging torrent of water that reminded them all too clearly of how the canyon was created. It was no wonder the descendants of the Kanab oldtimers still told the tale of the great flood of the 1890s.

  But of more immediate concern to the men in Angel Canyon was the deluge of saturated red earth that threatened to inundate their new home. They scrambled like ants to shove logs up-slope from the bunkhouse to stop the slow ooze, toiling two precious weeks to build a retaining wall. They spent more valuable hours laying two-by-fours on the paths to the county road so that their trucks wouldn’t sink, hopelessly mired until the rains ceased.

  But the rains taught them to build their future Catland and Dogtown on the highest ground of the mesa, well out of the path of flash floods, as well as giving a brief but gave blessed relief from the summer’s heat.

  When Steven Hirano was reunited with his first love, it was very good. “I received a letter from Mariko,” he confided.

  Michael was surprised. Mariko had been Steven’s childhood sweetheart, but she married another when Steven went to London. He hadn’t mentioned her in years.

  “She’s divorced,” Steven continued. “I’m going to Los Angeles to see her over New Year’s.”

  Mariko came to Kanab the spring of 1985. By the time the last of the potatoes were dug, the canyon’s first wedding was planned. It would be at the newly christened Angels Landing, the spectacular amphitheater to which Francis had first taken Faith and Michael three years before.

  The ceremony was Buddhist, the vows simple. Mariko was radiant in white chiffon, and parents from both families snapped many photos to remind them of the day. Mariko’s loving energy was embraced by all. Steven smiled more; he seemed lighter somehow.

  By the fall of 1985, they were ready to begin construction on the sanctuary’s headquarters. The Village was Paul Eckhoff’s first chance to show his genius as an architect. He designed a sparkling white Spanish-style structure with a central meeting room, offices, and two wings of living accommodations. For this major project, Paul hired a contractor from town, but Steven Hirano would be the supervisor on the job.

  On this fateful morning, fourteen-foot beams were painstakingly erected in place, framing a panoramic view of the red-rock gorge and endless mesas so loved by all.

  The men stood, quietly proud. The air was still, without a whisper of a breeze. Suddenly, as if from nowhere, a wind ripped, hard. The builders watched helplessly as the wall leaned, shuddered once, and slowly tumbled away down the hill.

  “Oh, Steven,” Mariko comforted.

  But Steven and the rest had already collapsed with laughter.

  Word of the sanctuary in the canyon was getting around. The trickle of animals was picking up momentum: litters of kittens; dogs dropped off with the repeated refrain, “We’ll shoot them if you don’t take them.” One day rangers from the Grand Canyon stopped by with a pup that had been dumped at the lodge. “It’s part coyote,” they said. The little dog looked more like a chubby shepherd mix than a wild predator, but Michael named him Coyote—what else? So it was a good day when Diana Asher left Arizona and moved into the bunkhouse. There were just too many critters to care for while the men were busy building.

  Everybody was happy when seventeen-year-old Judah Nasr came for a visit and decided to stay. Francis Battista’s son had inherited his father’s love of all creatures great and small, especially cats. He built his own dwelling, and became invaluable to Diana.

  Faith’s son David Maloney had naturally adopted her love for animals and the environment. The teenager shared his mother’s passion for dogs, and loved nothing better than to hike in the wilderness. After spending the summer in Angel Canyon, he declared that, he too, would stay on the land.

  Judah and David were the first of family and friends to make the trek to the sanctuary. People discovered that exploring the golden circle of National Parks—Zion, Grand Canyon, and Bryce Canyon—was somehow more satisfying when they could spend a few days scooping the poop, feeding, or just socializing with the animals.

  Early one Saturday, the crunch of car tires and the infectious peal of a woman’s laughter disturbed the breakfast rituals in the bunkhouse.

  “That’s got to be Jana and Raphael,” Virgil Barstad exclaimed, opening the door so the dogs could check out the visitors. The men smiled and followed their animals outside. A woman was bent over the passel of dogs that had gone wild in greeting her. Beside her a tall man, blond hair waving to his shoulders, smiled indulgently at the show.

  “Hi, guys,” Jana called.

  Jana and Raphael de Peyer had moved to Nevada earlier in the year from Atlanta, Georgia. Jana wanted badly to be closer to the fledgling sanctuary, but at the same time she and her husband needed a place to continue their photography business. Las Vegas was the logical choice.

  Jana had an idea for the sanctuary this weekend. “Raphael and I brought our cameras with us,” she told Michael and Francis. “We thought we’d take photos of the adoptables and see if any of our contacts in Vegas might be interested. If we can find good homes, we’ll take the animals back with us on our next trip.”

  “Absolutely. That’s a great idea,” Michael said.

  “And you might as well tell me what supplies you need, Francis,” Jana continued. “Raphael and I can bring the stuff back on our next visit. By the way, we haven’t checked in yet. Is there anywhere besides the Parry Lodge that’s halfway decent to stay?”

  Francis laughed. “There isn’t much choice.”

  The men walked out of the bunkhouse the next morning to see Jana on her knees, planting desert flowers. “You got up too soon,” she chided. “I wanted to surprise you.” She leaned back and studied her handiwork. “I picked them up at a roadside stand on the way here,” she said. “Makes the bunkhouse more livable—a bit of color, don’t you think?”

  Jana and Raphael took photos of the animals and went back to Las Vegas the next day. Two Sundays later, Jana had another surprise for the people of Angel Canyon. This time the men came outside to witness her staggering from her car under a huge flat of bedding plants. “Don’t worry,” she laughed a sound akin to chimes in a breeze. “I got the flowers donated.”

  The pink impatiens, yellow daisies, and sunflowers were not all Jana and Raphael had brought. “You tell them,” Raphael said to his wife as they sat around the Formica kitchen table after dinner.

  Jana smiled broadly. “I was ‘tabling’ at the airport and met Wayne Newton, Cher . . .” she began. Everyone smiled. They had all taken their turns sitting behind tables in front of supermarkets and similar locales to raise money for different charitable causes. But Jana explained that the Las Vegas airport was an awesome place. “So many winners.” Then a mischievous look crossed her face. She bent to rummage in the large carryall beside her.

  Suddenly a small raccoon dressed in a black tuxedo and bedecked with gold necklaces popped his head above the table. “Hello,” said the cheeky puppet. “My name is Rocky Raccoon. What’s yours?”

  Jana’s hand walked over to Paul Eckhoff and stuck the puppet’s nose into the architect’s shirt pocket. “Oh dear, nothing here, sorry.” The puppet moved on to Gregory Castle. “Ah ha!! I smell money. Now let’s have a look, Mr. Castle.” Without further ado he pulled Gregory’s wallet from his jeans and extracted three one-dollar bills. The disappointed slump of the puppet’s body had everyone around the table crying with laughter.

  “I don’t know how you do that,” Diana said wiping the tears from her eyes.

  “Well, I usually strike it a little richer than three dollars,” Jana giggled.

  “Jana and Rocky have no shame,” her husband dec
lared. “That raccoon has been known to pout until he gets a respectable sum.”

  “With Rocky, people drop ten-dollar chips, fifty-dollar chips, and twenty-dollar bills.” Jana grinned at her husband. “Your turn.”

  With the casualness of a rich uncle about to bestow a great fortune on a favored child, Raphael plucked a white envelope from his pocket and laid it on the table. “For the animals,” he said, smiling. The envelope contained a deposit slip for a few dollars short of $1,000.

  “This is incredible,” Michael said. He and Francis both knew how the influx of animals had strained their budget to the maximum. Jana’s contribution was a godsend.

  “We cashed the chips and put the money in the Foundation’s charitable account as soon as Jana came home,” Raphael said.

  “This is truly incredible,” Michael repeated wonderingly.

  Jana de Peyer blushed with pleasure. The friends had long ago set up a charitable foundation to be able to solicit funds for those causes dear to their hearts. Jana’s “tabling” efforts had been mostly directed toward raising money for terminally ill children. Now she was doing it for the animals.

  It was a good day when Jana and Raphael moved to Las Vegas.

  The week before Thanksgiving, they received the great news that the Arizona ranch finally had a buyer. The up-front money was frustratingly small, but monthly payments would cover the mortgage on Angel Canyon, and Faith and the rest of the animals could at last move to Utah. It was celebration time.

  Francis, however, was worried. “We’re holding sixty animals and taking in more all the time. Faith has got to be bringing in close to a hundred. We can’t keep caring for that many without a vet close by.”

  Michael shared Francis’s concern. They had gotten pretty good at taking care of any minor problems that might arise with the animals, but for anything more serious, there was no resident veterinarian in Kanab, and Francis had become increasingly frustrated with the erratic schedules of mobile vets who came to town maybe once a week. He and Diana had made the three-hour round trip to the nearest clinic so many times with a sick cat or dog, they could do it with their eyes closed nowadays.