Best Friends (8 page)

“Can't remember.”

Michael and Francis exchanged glances. It was all too obvious that the doctor had been running on empty for the past few hours.

Diana took charge. “You need some food inside you. We didn't get around to eating much of our Thanksgiving dinner, so there's plenty left. Why don't you lie down in one of our rooms, and we'll call your wife and tell her where you are.”

“Just a glass of milk will be fine. And I want to sit with the cat a bit before I leave.” Dr. Christy pulled up a chair. He rested his head on the table and closed his eyes. “Just give me a few minutes.”

While the others went to bed, Francis stayed up to wake the veterinarian in half-an-hour, if he was still asleep. But when he came back to the kitchen, the doctor was so deep in slumber Francis hadn't the heart to disturb what he suspected was a desperately needed rest. He placed a pillow under their new friend's head, and tucked a blanket around his slim body to keep him warm.

Bill Christy hadn't moved when they walked in the next morning.

 

However, Sinjin the Pirate, as he came to be called, was struggling to be free of his bandages, meowing loudly into the ears of the sleep-deprived Dr. Christy. Francis opened a can of Fancy Feast and carefully held the cat upright over the food. To everyone's amazement Sinjin devoured not one, not two, but six small cans in rapid succession.

“We think he'll live, Doc,” Francis said as Bill Christy slowly came awake.

The veterinarian blinked sleepily, and gulped the hot tea Diana had brewed for him. He stared at the cat, who eyed him balefully out of his one good eye. “Well, I knew that B comp was great stuff, but this is incredible,” he said with a grin.

“You're
incredible,” Faith said. “And you're not going anywhere until you've eaten a good breakfast.”

 

Francis always said that nothing extraordinary happens by chance. He was meant to meet Dr. Christy at Lorelei's that afternoon. The veterinarian was to become near and dear to all of them—and a vital force in the progress of the sanctuary.

Sinjin the Pirate also had a role to play. He was to be the charter member of the TLC Cat Club. In the years to come he would welcome many felines with special needs who, like him, required the tender, loving care of the people of Angel Canyon.

F
aith snugged the last crate carefully into place. “Not long now,” she assured the two dozen cats already secured in the van. A cacophony of indignant “meows” told her exactly what the felines thought of that cheery pronouncement. Faith ignored the protests and took a last check of the interior.

Her eight dogs were behaving themselves amazingly well. They sat silent as sphinxes, eyes following her every move from behind the doggie barrier that separated them from the cats.

Their feline friends, on the other hand, had been loudly voicing their objections for the past half-hour, and Faith supposed they would continue their complaining for the entire journey. No matter. This was the day she had been awaiting for over two years—the day she was going home to Angel Canyon.

Faith paused for a moment before climbing into the driver's seat. There was no reason to delay her departure: most of the animals had been sent ahead over the past couple of months, making the shutdown of the ranch surprisingly smooth.

Yet she felt a strange reluctance to hurry. The rambling house and surrounding acres that had been her base for the past six years looked forsaken in its emptiness. Faith felt as if she were abandoning a precious resource. What did they say in real estate? “Seller's remorse. Buyer's regret.” Enough! She had to get going if she were to make the canyon before supper.

To Faith's surprise the felines ceased their caterwauling about an hour into the trip. She tuned in National Public Radio and relaxed into the soothing strains of
Swan Lake
.

Faith let her mind drift as the van left Prescott to climb the long, steep grade into the Coconino Forest. The black ribbon of road stretched endlessly ahead, and the monotonous drone of the engine had a lulling effect as it ate up the miles. Now and then she glimpsed Brunhilda's big head in the rearview mirror.

Most people winced when they first saw the bloodhound's mashed face where her skull had been clubbed with a rifle butt. But Faith didn't see any ugliness in the gentle dog whose lopsided, lugubrious expression always chased away her blues. Brunhilda's only fault was that within seconds of meeting any small dog, she would attack. Faith had learned to restrain the bloodhound until the momentary urge passed.

One of the occupational hazards of working with animals was that she wanted to take every one of them home with her. She wasn't alone, of course. All of her friends cheerfully shared their homes with rescued cats and dogs. Look at Francis. How many had he adopted? Eighteen? Twenty? She had lost count. Not for nothing did Michael call him St. Francis.

For no reason Faith remembered the goose. She was eight years old and staying overnight with a school friend. The classmate's mother had allowed the girls to feed the elegant white birds who were so tame they ate out of Faith's hand. After awhile, the woman came to watch. “Sweet things. We raised them from goslings,” she said. “Now which one would you like for dinner? Sarah or Jesse?”

Faith was literally sick. Years later she awoke with the vivid recollection of that childhood goose. From that moment on she never ate anything with a face.

She was glad that her children had naturally embraced her love for animals and the environment. David, her nineteen-year-old, had lived in the canyon for two years now and was never happier.

And Carragh, fifteen last December and a dog lover like her mother, would be joining them for summer recess. Faith wasn't sure if Eve, her blond, blue-eyed middle daughter, would be coming. She hoped so. It would be lovely for them all to be together. Besides, she could use help at Dogtown.

Ah, Dogtown! Of course, she and Paul Eckhoff hadn't even decided where to site it yet, but a month ago she had watched a program on an animal sanctuary in California called
Living Free.
She'd fallen in love with the octagon design of their kennels.

The concept was perfect. The octagons housed storage and feeding areas as well as indoor shelter for the dogs. Oversized runs fanned from each of the eight sides with doggie jungle gyms and roomy doghouses in which the fortunate residents could romp and snooze. And Faith really appreciated that from inside the octagons she would be able to see all the dogs at a glance and keep an eye on their activities.

Faith visualized her new Dogtown all the way to Utah. By the time she hit the dirt path to the bunkhouse, she'd planned, fenced, painted, and filled the many pens with happy canines.

The quiet was uncanny as she climbed out of the van in front of the low-slung structure. Nobody rushed to greet her; no shouts of “hello.” Even the usual muddle of dogs was absent. The rhythmic thud of hammers hitting nails echoed faintly across the mesa. That's where everyone is, Faith thought, working on The Village.

“Thought I heard a door slam.”

Faith turned at the familiar voice and smiled. Diana sauntered toward her from a nearby trailer that she had trucked in to quarantine their feline leukemia cats. “You're early.”

“Hi, Diana! Couldn't wait to get here.”

The two women hugged. “I've got a room ready for you over at The Village,” Diana said, “but let's unload the kids first.”

“Good idea. They've had a long drive,” Faith slid open the van door. Eight eager canines scrambled past their freshly offended feline companions and immediately ran in all directions to find a place to relieve themselves.

Diana's face puckered into a mock grimace. “Let's get these mewling monsters settled before they lose their voices,” she said, grabbing a cat carrier.

The bunkhouse's official greeter was waiting when the women stepped into his domain. As soon as the pirate cat spotted Faith, he leaped onto the kitchen counter, butted his head against the cabinet door, and let out a series of meows that put all his fellow felines to shame.

“He knows we keep the Fancy Feast on the top shelf,” Diana said fondly. “Sinjin's become an expert at inveigling at least one can out of everyone who walks through here.”

Faith hadn't seen the badly burned cat since Thanksgiving. Now all she could do was stare at a king-sized, expectant creature whose fur had grown in amazingly black and glossy with only a few patches of scarred, crinkled skin—grim reminders of his ordeal. Sinjin in turn fixed this new person with his one unblinking green eye.

“He's become head kitty around here,” Diana said. “Isn't it wonderful?” She walked over to the purring machine and scratched behind his ears. Sinjin immediately pushed his head into her hand. “He's coerced three Fancy Feasts out of us already today. I think he can last until dinner. Let me show you what Steven got together for us.” Diana proudly led Faith to a new, shaded enclosure, ready with litter boxes, water, feeding bowls, and cushioned orange crates for the travel-weary felines.

“They're going to love it here,” Faith enthused.

The late afternoon sun was shadowing the ridge top before the cats were settled to Diana's satisfaction. By now Faith was tired herself, and more than ready to see her own quarters. She and Diana were leaving the bunkhouse when a flash of sunlight reflecting off a window caught her eye. “What's that? Have I seen it before?” she said pointing to a huge boat of a car parked next to a tiny travel trailer almost hidden by tall scrub.

“That's Tyson Horn's.”

“I haven't met him.”

“He knows John from Dallas. Came to help out on his vacation a couple of weeks ago. You'll like him, Faith, he's great with dogs.” Diana shrugged. “Seems . . . I don't know how to put it exactly, but seems like one of them, if you know what I mean. And I didn't tell you. John's here, too!”

Faith's smile became a grin. She and John Christopher Fripp went back to the London days. He'd regaled her with stories of his two-year stint in the British army. “Almost reenlisted,” he confided, his sailor blue eyes rolling at the thought. “They stationed me in Egypt, and I did love that desert.”

At the age of twenty-three John Christopher had gone back to school and majored in history. “What a bloody, boring waste!” he said of it. He was good with numbers and figured accountants always made a decent pound or two, so he said good-bye to Napoleon and Henry VIII and took up a more modern vocation. John was the solid elder statesman of the group, the bookkeeper who kept them tightly within their budget, crossing all the
t
's and dotting all the
i
's on their charitable foundation's returns. Faith hadn't seen John in ages. She was glad he was in the canyon.

The dogs were suddenly alert, bodies tensed, eyes fixated uphill. Brunhilda assumed big-dog stance at the front of the pack, her bloodhound ears brushing the earth. Strolling toward them was a tall, lanky man. Faith couldn't see his eyes because they were shaded with dark sunglasses and hidden by a wide-brimmed Australian breeze hat. But she did note the passel of dogs that panted at his heels, among them one small terrier.

“Brunhilda!” she yelled, lunging for the bloodhound, but the hound was already on the scent and tearing toward her prey. “Oh no,” Faith groaned, puffing after her up the slope.

The lean stranger made a slight gesture with his hand, and his dogs bunched behind him. He squatted to eye level with the oncoming hound . . . and waited. Brunhilda stiff-legged to a dusty halt within inches of the man's face, all the pendulous folds of her disfigured head shuddering with the effort.

Faith stopped. This had to be Tyson. He was murmuring to Brunhilda words that only the dog could hear. The man stretched out his right hand and gently pulled the hound's one floppy ear, caressing the thin skin between thumb and forefinger, calming the big animal to the ground. With his left, he carefully eased his little companion mutt forward, all the time talking . . . talking.

The two canines cautiously sniffed each other from the safety of the man's body. The feisty terrier mutt craned her head closer to Brunhilda's crumpled face, and Faith watched the hound's curious acceptance. Tyson slowly retracted his right hand and Brunhilda rose, shook herself, and lumbered back to Faith.

“Told you he had a way with dogs,” Diana said as the man came to meet them. “Tyson Horn, this is Faith Maloney.” She paused and grinned. “Chief Dog.”

“Ma'am,” Tyson said and lifted his hat.

“Call me Faith.” She smiled. “You know dogs.”

“Seems that way,” Tyson said.

Faith could detect no bravado in his words. If anything he was shy. Faith also knew that the dogs who ambled with him so companionably were among the most difficult she'd had to contend with at the Arizona ranch. Yet the animals seemed docile around the man. “How long are you staying?”

Tyson didn't answer straightaway. He gazed into some imaginary distance, weighing his reply. “I work in a bank installing computers, ma'am,” he began, his Texas drawl wrapping the words like molasses.

“Faith.”

“Faith,” he acknowledged. “But it doesn't . . .” Tyson shrugged as if this woman would know what he meant. She did.

“I like what you people are doing,” he paused. “I'd like to stay on awhile if you've a mind. Help out some more. You need help,” he finished, nodding to confirm his observations.

“You have no idea,” Faith sighed, thinking of Dogtown.

“We're on our way to The Village,” Diana said.

“I'll take care of your dogs, if you'd like,” Tyson offered.

“Thank you, Tyson,” Faith said. “I'd like that very much.”

Faith was amazed at the progress that had come about during the past six months. The Village had taken the shape of a southwestern structure to rival any in Santa Fe. The whorled, whitewashed walls snaked respectfully around old-growth junipers, Paul's design allowing the ancient trees to dictate the flow of a building whose clean, spare lines rose in perfect juxtaposition to its sweeping, high-desert surroundings.

Hellos were called as they unloaded Faith's bags, but no one made a fuss except John. He held a ladder for Steven and yelled he'd catch her later. In contrast, the dogs, led by Goldilocks, flung themselves on their Big Mama as if she'd been away forever.

Faith's quarters were on the far end of the building from where the men were working. Diana had placed a vase of wildflowers on the table beside the bed in welcome. She left Faith alone to unpack in the sun-splashed quarters that would be her new home.

By the time Faith walked back to the bunkhouse for dinner, the air had taken on the coolness of an early spring evening. Mariko and Steven were cooking a delicious Japanese repast to which Faith wouldn't even try to put a name. After everyone had eaten their fill, the conversation turned naturally to the direction the sanctuary might take. John appointed himself the group's spokesman.

“Chief Dog, Faith, and Chief Cat, Diana, are now here and accounted for,” he declared, his ruddy English face alight with the dry humor his countrymen took for granted. “Let the proceedings commence. Wait a minute.” He held up a hand. “I think our Mr. Mountain's got something on his mind.”

Michael had gotten back to Angel Canyon only that morning. “To welcome you home,” he told Faith. He had been in Phoenix brainstorming with Richard Negus, of the Fund for Animals, about a newsletter for Richard's Western territory. Michael hadn't cracked a smile all evening. He seemed preoccupied, face stern, arms across his chest, one thumb and forefinger constantly worrying at his dark red beard.

“So tell us what keeps that moody countenance in the midst of such good company.” John wasn't letting his friend get away with anything this night.

“Actually I do have something on my mind.” Michael's clever eyes slid around the circle. “Has it occurred to anyone that we're the only animal organization I know of that doesn't have a name?”

“I wouldn't exactly call us organized,” John teased.