Best Friends (5 page)

F
aith 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.

M
aybe 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.

Michael 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.

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.