Best Friends (7 page)

“H
ot cider, everybody. Come and get it,” Jana de Peyer announced, stirring the contents of the big iron pot simmering on the stove. Michael bent over the bubbling amber liquid and sniffed appreciatively. “Get out of here. You'll have your nose in it in a minute,” Jana teased as she ladled generous portions of the clove-scented cider into waiting mugs.

Michael grinned and angled to be first in line. He took his mug and ambled through the “everything room,” as they called the open area adjoining the kitchen, and gazed out the window that afforded the endlessly enchanting, ever-changing view.

It had hailed during the night—huge stones that pinged like bullets on the roof of the bunkhouse. He had gotten up to watch jagged flashes of fire split the sky between warring thunderheads, bathing the craggy corridors of the canyon in luminous radiance.

Thanksgiving Day had dawned with the fenny smell of damp, dark earth steaming in the morning sunshine, glistening with freshness. Michael had watched Cyrus rush to capture the elusive magic of the scene on his canvas.

Now dusk was filming the afternoon, and in a few minutes they would sit down to a holiday feast of nuts, grains, and vegetables; blackberry and pumpkin pies, and custard.

Francis came over and stood beside Michael. “I think we found Montezuma's treasure.”

Michael nodded and thought of all the different definitions of treasure. The true riches of Angel Canyon were certainly very different from what Montezuma's men, or the Hollywood stars who'd come after them, had considered treasure.

Neither Michael or Francis had been listening to Diana Asher on the phone. She padded across the room toward them, her face anxious. “That was Nancy Hartwell.”

Nancy Hartwell was one of their favorite locals. The classic image of the little old lady in tennis shoes, Nancy was so excited when she heard what they were doing. She had sniffled and dabbed her eyes with the corner of her cardigan when they introduced her to the animals. “I've been rescuing these critters all my life. I thought I was the only person who felt this way. I'm so glad you've come. God bless you. God bless you all.”

“Nancy hates to bother us, but some woman called about a rotten cat in her driveway. Told Nancy her kids have been trying to kick it out of the way, but it won't move. Nancy's beside herself. She's in bed with the flu, otherwise . . .”

Francis didn't hesitate. “Let's go.”

“We'll wait dinner on you,” Faith promised as the man and woman sped out of the bunkhouse.

 

Francis parked on a scrubby grass verge outside the address Nancy had given Diana. The almost-full moon shed a silvery glow over the garden. They saw the cat immediately, an inert form curled on the weed-choked gravel driveway.

Diana dropped to her knees beside the feline. “Oh my God.” She turned her head away for a brief second at what was now clearly revealed. Someone had doused the tom with gasoline and set him on fire! Three-quarters of his little body was an oozing, suppurating mass of pus and blood. Diana gasped as the strong stench of charred fur and flesh hit her nostrils like an abomination.

Francis knelt and looked closer. Apparently it hadn't been enough fun to torture the animal with fire, an eye had to be gouged as well. Francis lifted a blistered paw. The cat's pads had been burnt to the bone.

No wonder the poor thing couldn't walk or move. He was immobilized with pain. Worse, he must have been lying in that driveway for a couple of days. Francis could see little white maggots wriggling obscenely between the tom's toes.

Instinct made Francis look up at the house. A woman and two children were silhouetted in the living-room window, staring at them. “Let's get him out of here,” he said in disgust.

The cat opened a singed eye. All the fear, pain, and torment one small creature could bear was reflected in his gaze. He struggled unsuccessfully to stand, mewing in pain.

“No. No. It's okay. It's gonna be okay,” Diana soothed. Together the two friends slid a towel under the tom's little body. Carefully, slowly, they lifted the corners of the material like a stretcher and carried the burnt offering to the truck.

On their way home, Francis stopped at a phone booth. “Dr. Christy,” he said. “Do you remember me? Francis Battista?”

“Of course,” the veterinarian interrupted.

“We don't expect to see you on Thanksgiving, but if you could tell us what to do . . .”

The doctor listened while Francis explained about the cat.

“I'll be right there,” Bill Christy said.

 

The men and women in Angel Canyon this Thanksgiving night were not quite prepared for the veterinarian who came into their lives, but their first sight of him would forever remain in their memories.

An hour after Francis's call, Dr. Christy dashed into the bunkhouse, trailing the distinctive odor of cow dung and making strange smacking sounds. Eight pairs of eyes automatically dropped to his feet—the source of both noise and smell.

The veterinarian was wearing bright green galoshes over his shoes, but he'd forgotten to tie the laces. The rubber overboots flapped loudly against his calves, shedding flakes of straw and manure with every step.

Oblivious to their stares, the disheveled young vet carelessly flung his jacket over a chair and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Dried blood smeared his rugged blue denim. “I came as fast as I could. Had another emergency before yours. Had my arm up a cow's ass,” he announced cheerily.

It didn't seem to bother him that the only surface available was the speckled Formica of the kitchen table, or that his audience consisted of several curious cats and dogs, as well as their persons. Carefully, he lifted the light sheet that Francis had used to cover all but the head of the burned cat. He leaned close, sniffed, and placed two long, tapered fingers gently over the heart. A tiny mew of complaint rasped from the tom's mouth.

Dr. Christy frowned as he tenderly replaced the sheet. “Follow me,” he called and wheeled out of the kitchen. Not sure for whom the order was meant, all the people and several dogs dutifully filed behind him.

Dr. Christy couldn't have parked his veterinary truck any closer: the front fender was in intimate conversation with the bunkhouse wall. His van was a typical “vet box,” the sides paneled with drawers of all shapes and sizes, the tiny interior outfitted with a refrigerator and the necessary veterinary equipment. He pulled a flashlight from under a bucket of towels and gave it to Diana. “Would you mind shining this over my shoulder?”

The veterinarian couldn't seem to find what he wanted. He jerked out each drawer in turn and rummaged frantically among a jumble of bottles and jars that didn't seem to have any labels. He seemed totally unaware that as he shut one drawer another would jack-in-the-box open.

Michael's British reserve was having a hard time as each drawer would pop out, and Dr. Christy would absently reach over to shut it, triggering another drawer to bounce open. Diana finally took pity and closed each of the recalcitrants behind him. “Thank you,” he said gratefully.

The vet loaded his arms with bags, bottles, and syringes and scurried back into the bunkhouse. He dumped his cargo onto the kitchen counter and extracted a large Coca-Cola bottle filled with a blue liquid. “Somebody lift that animal. Careful,” he warned even before Francis moved to do his bidding.

Dr. Christy splashed the dark fluid over the Formica tabletop and wiped it down vigorously with a paper towel. “Novalsan,” he said. “Best antiseptic in the business. I'll leave you some.” He nodded to Francis. “You can put him back down now.”

Once again the veterinarian carefully uncovered the pitiful feline. Faith winced as she got a good look at the damage someone with a can of gasoline had done to a helpless creature. The cat was mewing continually now: small, hoarse cries of distress.

Dr. Christy fumbled around in his arsenal of medicines and picked up two small bottles of liquid, extracted an amount from each into a slender syringe, and quickly inserted the needle into the flesh of the tom's right thigh. “I'm giving him a shot of Ketamine and Valium intramuscularly to put him out. He doesn't need to suffer any more pain,” Dr. Christy said.

Again the veterinarian groped around in his muddle of medicines. This time he chose a plump, clear plastic IV bag and held it high above the cat's head, letting the four-foot tube the thickness of a cocktail straw dangle to the table. “With burns like these, this cat's got to be dehydrated. We must get fluids into him fast. This bag holds two hundred cc's of lactated ‘Ringers,' which should take about ten to fifteen minutes to drip into him.”

Dr. Christy looked perplexed as though he'd lost something. “That's funny, I usually have my stand with me. I didn't bring it in, did I? I must have left it at home.” He shook the IV bag. “Would somebody hold this?”

Michael obliged.

With familiar ease, the veterinarian briskly attached another needle to the end of the tubing, picked up a sliver of slack from the back of the tom's neck and slid the needle into the fold of skin. He squeezed the shutoff clamp halfway down the tube and a colorless liquid eased into the sedated body.

While the “Ringers” did its job, Dr. Christy deftly extracted three more IV bags and a half-gallon bottle from the heap on the counter. “You can manage this now, right?” he asked his audience.

Everybody nodded solemnly.

“Good, because I'm leaving you some fluiding. If the cat's not eating or drinking tomorrow you've got to repeat this.” The veterinarian pushed his IV bags onto Diana. “Give one hundred cc's a day.”

Dr. Christy paused and eyed the men and women watching his every move. “Francis, and you, young man.” He pointed at Judah. “You two pick those maggots out of his feet. Gently,” he said, handing each a pair of tweezers.

The veterinarian turned to Michael. “You can put your arm down now.” He smiled at Michael's gasp of relief. “And remove that needle and get rid of the bag, if you wouldn't mind.”

Dr. Christy stepped back to the counter and quickly washed his hands in the sink. “Now for the hard part,” he muttered.

The doctor worked with total focus, deftly snipping away the blackened skin and dropping it into a bowl Faith had placed on the table.

He turned the cat over and repeated the operation. Finally he was finished. “Pass me the Mountain Dew with the brown liquid in it,” he ordered, thrusting out his hand. “And some cotton.” Diana rushed to help.

“Thank you,” Bill Christy said, twisting off the cap. He suddenly noticed that Diana was staring at his Mountain Dew soda bottle. He smiled, embarrassed. “Don't take any notice of my containers here. I like to consolidate stuff. Makes it easier. This is Betadine soap to wash the skin.”

Diana shrugged. “Works for me.”

Dr. Christy's attention was already back to the cat. His hands were fluid magic as, little by little, he cleaned the feline's wounds. He reached behind him to the counter and somehow found the tube of antibiotic cream. With utmost tenderness, he smeared a thick coating of the custard-yellow medicine over the tom's mutilated body.

“Furozone. You need to apply this every day,” he instructed before finally bandaging the cat loosely from head to toe.

Dr. Christy stood back and admired his handiwork. “Could pass for a little Egyptian mummy, don't you think?” he said, looking at the anxious faces around the table.

The tension was broken, but nobody was ready to smile yet.

“Do you think he'll make it?” Francis asked.

Dr. Christy lifted the cat's singed eyelid. “He's got a chance. And I've got something else that might give us an edge.” Yet again he rummaged in his heap of medicines, this time finding a bottle that actually had a label. “This is five percent dextrose.”

“For energy?” Francis said.

“Excellent. Now watch carefully.” The veterinarian extracted the required amount into a syringe, flicked his finger against the plastic, and watched the bubbles rise to the top. He pressed the plunger gently until satisfied with the droplets of fluid squeezed out of the needle, picked up another millimeter of skin between thumb and forefinger, and glided the needle into the fold.

“Okay, one more,” Dr. Christy said. “This poor creature gets everything I've got.” For the last time that night he filled a syringe and explained its contents. “I'm using a B complex liver extract blood builder. I'd better order a bunch of this for you, too.” He handed the syringe to Francis. “Your turn.”

Francis wasn't sure. He'd given shots before, but not to an animal in such critical condition.

“Come on, it's easy,” Dr. Christy encouraged. “You've got to learn these things. I might not be available next time.”

The veterinarian nodded approvingly as his pupil eased the needle into the skin and pushed the plunger slowly until the syringe was empty. “Perfect,” he said. “That's all we can do for now. Oh, remind me to give you some penicillin. He'll need a half-cc daily for seven to ten days. But I'll look in on him before then.”

Dr. Christy suddenly appeared to crumble. He slumped into a chair next to the cat and cricked his neck from side to side. The crack reverberated through the small room.

“Are you all right?” Faith asked.

“Tension, that's all. Nothing to worry about. Does anyone have an idea of what time it is?”

“Almost ten,” Michael said.

Bill Christy stood wearily. “I'd better wash up and be getting home. I've been gone since seven this morning. My wife's gonna be mad as hell.” He smiled faintly. “I'm always doing something like this. She doesn't like it much. Says I love the animals more than her.”

Seven o'clock this morning? On Thanksgiving Day?
Faith thought. “Have you eaten?”