Best Friends (12 page)

W
hat is it about these creatures that just seeing them, knowing they're all right, makes every petty worry fade?
Faith mused.
Is it because they give us back ourselves? That with them we are not judged, need not pretend, can allow the emotions we must hide in order to survive to emerge freely, in all innocence, without fear?

Faith brooded on these questions as she surveyed her slumbering menagerie. There wouldn't be many more mornings she could bring her coffee and smile at them, still warm with sleep in the wan autumn sunshine. The days were getting shorter. It would soon be time to turn the clocks back again.

Brunhilda the bloodhound lay snoring as usual, her legs splayed, her backside a toasty bolster for her canine buddies.

Wetherby's big woolly body was in its accustomed pride of place hard up against the chicken coop next door. The sheep had gotten fat and happy in the twelve months since a local couple had quit wanting him as a pet. At least they hadn't eaten him.

The only reasonable space Faith had for the black-faced Suffolk had been in with the brood of abandoned chickens found in an orange crate. The first time the wether had lain down, the hens promptly decided his wide, soft back was a perfect roosting platform.

Faith didn't really mind cleaning off the chicken poop, but she wished Wetherby wouldn't butt her every time she collected the breakfast eggs. She supposed it wouldn't be a bad idea to enlarge the coop for the winter. The sheep would definitely want to sleep with
his
adopted kin on frosty nights.

The cats were awakening, the first jug-eared feline sticking a delicate paw from the insulated shed David had built for them. Faith watched the elfin face emerge, screw up its eyes at the sudden assault of daylight, then stretch and yawn. Yes, the cats would be more than warm and cozy on the old sleeping couches she had provided—along with Wooster, of course.

Faith had put Wooster, the rooster, in with the cats because the hens had been rescued with a grumpy, old male of their own, called the Colonel. The newcomer wouldn't have lasted five minutes if Faith had put him anywhere near the Colonel's harem.

What had surprised her was to find the rooster at daybreak on the sofa, contentedly dead to the world in a nest of kitties. Faith shook her head at the improbability of animal bondings.

Now Wooster was awake. She watched him strut out of the shed, chest puffed, beak open, cock-a-doodle-dooing to the world that it was time to get up. “Beat you to it,” she called, and the rooster made an immediate beeline toward the fence and the handful of chicken scratch Faith always scattered for him. Wooster had certainly come a long way from the bloodied, feather-torn bird she had rescued from a pack of dogs this past summer.

The sun suddenly went behind an ominous black cloud bank, along with Faith's smile. Why would anyone deliberately loose a chicken on a back street where it was easy dog-kill, when one call to Best Friends would have scooped him to safety?

It wasn't as if nobody knew of them. Faith couldn't even go grocery shopping nowadays without someone accosting her in the aisles and complaining about a barking dog, or the yowling ferals that mated in their yards at night. “So what are you going to do about it?” was the all too familiar refrain. Then again, Faith blessed the courage of the crying child who had sobbed into the phone that “They're killing 'im in our front yard.”

Faith recognized that her tolerance for the unthinking behavior of her fellow man was beginning to fray at the edges. She had always been emotionally involved with the animals under her care: it came with the territory and had never been a problem. It was the face-to-face dealings with people and their everyday callousness and indifference toward the helpless and the innocent that was wearing her down.

Since working animal control, she had developed an even greater appreciation for the men and women who toiled in shelters around the country. No wonder the rate of burnout was so high. She wondered if they binged on ice cream and french fries, or indulged in crying jags as she had done lately.

The dogs were stirring. She would take them for a walk—that always cheered her up. She needed to get control of her emotions. Doc Christy was coming today to look at Madeleine, the twelve-week-old beagle mix pup she had found tied to the fender of a junk car.

As she changed into comfortable walking boots, Faith comforted herself that they
were
making a difference. Michael kept telling her of all the good things that were happening, the progress they were making. More people were coming for their spay and neuter clinic, and some in town were actually wanting to adopt animals.

The cloud cover had dissipated by the time Faith stepped from the trailer. It was going to be another beautiful, crisp, blanket-of-blue-sky day. Doc Christy and his ready smile would be here soon. And she had promised Diana to look in on the “Maggot Kids.”

Faith smiled. What an unfortunate name! But the tiny white kittens that had turned up at the dump were riddled with the wriggling white larvae. What else could they call them? Faith hadn't seen Diana in a week. Catland being two miles away was no excuse. She wondered how her friend was doing.

 

Diana Asher wanted to talk. “I was coming to find you,” she said to Michael, falling in beside him as he left the bunkhouse.

“Good timing. I'm thinking of stopping by Catland.”

Diana slid him a sideways glance. “Let me guess. Tomato.”

“I thought I'd see how he's doing.”

“You like that kitty, don't you?”

Michael answered carefully. “He's interesting.”

Diana laughed, a deep throaty sound that disconcerted him somewhat. Michael knew it hadn't escaped Diana's notice that he had visited Tomato almost every day since the orange-and-white kitten had been discovered, barely alive, stuffed in a garbage can. Just yesterday morning she had come upon him in serious discourse with the lilliputian tabby cradled in the crook of his arm.

“What's up, Tomato? Are they still giving you your disgusting, yucky medicine?” The little one kept up his end of the conversation with a series of surprisingly loud kitten squeaks.

“I see, I see,” Michael cooed. “A bit rough yesterday, was it? Let me look, then.” His sensitive fingers lifted the infant to eye level. Tomato immediately sneezed in his handler's face. Michael quickly turned his head.

“Time for his disgusting, yucky medicine. Shall I show you?” Diana said sweetly, holding out a small bottle.

“I know how to do it. I had Judah show me.”

With those few words Diana knew. Michael rarely revealed the sentimental side of himself. The discarded kitten had touched the quirky Englishman's heart.

They walked the last hundred yards to the quarantine trailer in companionable silence. From Diana's worried frown, Michael guessed she had something on her mind. He was equally certain she'd tell him in her own good time. From intimate habit Diana always confided in Michael. The two of them had remained close over the years. “We have tenure,” she often joked.

Now she paused in front of the trailer. “Be prepared for some changes since yesterday, Michael. And we need to move fast.”

“Fast?”

“You'll see.”

Diana opened the door a couple of inches, then quickly stuck her leg against the jamb. A round Tuxedo head immediately butted her boots.

“Blackjack,” Michael exclaimed with sudden understanding. The three-legged kitty was the most notorious escape artist in Catland, able to slither through an opening faster than water through fingers.

Diana nodded. “Back, back, Blackjack,” she urged, sidling sideways into the room. Michael followed her lead and squeezed through the inadequate space.

The twelve-by-fourteen-foot rectangle was crowded with cats, but Michael immediately spotted Tomato. “Has he had his medicine?” he asked, picking up the tabby.

“Right before his breakfast,” Diana promised.

Michael held Tomato against his chest, nuzzling the tiny head as his eyes swept the small area. “Aren't there an awful lot of cats in here?”

“That's what I want to discuss with you,” Diana said, pointing to the room's one sofa. “Let's sit down a minute.”

They nudged aside some of the snoozing bodies that had appropriated every available cushioned area and made themselves comfortable. A dozen cats immediately cozied onto their laps while more rubbed against their ankles, purring for attention. Michael couldn't help but notice that they were all special-needs felines.

“We're getting more cats from farther away because, somehow, people are hearing that we don't kill our animals,” Diana began. “Can you believe, a couple from Salt Lake called yesterday?” She shook her head and worry deepened the furrows between her brows. “Anyway, a lot of them have problems. I'm particularly seeing more upper respiratory sickness.” Diana eased the furry mass from her lap and stood. Michael waited as she paced the small space carefully avoiding any little body in her way.

“As you know, I've been keeping as many as I can manage in the bunkhouse with me. . . .” Diana winced as from nowhere a silver-gray kitty landed on her shoulder and dug his claws deep into her denim jacket. “And then there're the Blackjacks and Tongs of the world. Okay, Tong. Okay, baby,” she soothed, stroking the cat's head.

“What's the problem?” Michael prodded gently.

It was as if he had touched a hidden trigger. Diana lifted a pale face to his and let the tears waterfall over her cheeks. “I've got the feline leukemia cats in the next room. I've put all our upper respiratory and special-needs little ones in here together because I haven't anywhere else, and they really need to be kept more separate from each other, and . . .” Her words coursed out jagged, erratic.

Michael quickly transferred Tomato to his warmed spot on the sofa, and went to Diana. He took her into his arms and let her sob out the frustration against his chest. Little Tong teetered on her shoulder like the last drunk out of a bar, but Michael knew that trying to remove the Velcro'd-on rider would only cause the cat to dig his talons in deeper. He cupped the pint-sized body in his palm to keep it from falling and held Diana close. “Easy kid, easy. You just need more space.”

“I want more than just space. I want to build a nice, warm house for them. With individual condos, and cubbyholes, and climbing stairs, and a little foyer so there's a little kitty lock between them and the outside so . . .”

“So Blackjack can't skip,” Michael finished for her.

Diana pulled away carefully so as not to disturb Tong's balance. “Not only him. What if someone accidently leaves the door ajar and doesn't see Timmie wander out? Look at that poor baby. It would be a disaster if he got out.”

Michael couldn't find the little black male at first. Then he spied him behind the scratching post by the window. As always, Timmie plied his endless circumambulation, swaying uncertainly as if buffeted by a strong wind. Round and round, the undersized feline carefully placed one paw ahead of the other, milky eyes concentrating on every step of his chosen perimeter.

Timmie had a neurological disorder that stemmed from his mother having feline distemper when he was born. The brain-damaged Timmie would never walk like his peers, but he was the most affectionate cat and he always found his litter box.

As Michael watched, an enormous one-eyed gray-and-white with the longest whiskers stiff-legged over to hunker beside the diminutive Timmie. Michael had to smile. Benton could have been an actor in another life the way he played his walking-stick leg.

The portly male had been given away by a family who were leaving the area. Benton couldn't comprehend that they didn't want him anymore. He had wandered abroad to find his people and got hit by a car. The veterinarian thought he would have to remove the paralyzed limb, but Benton didn't seem hindered by the impediment.

On the contrary, he used his game leg with great charm, often waving it around like a conductor's baton. Benton got a lot of sympathy with that little display. Now he gently nudged the circling cat to the floor and proceeded to groom behind his ears. Timmie closed his eyes in quiet contentment.

Blackjack hadn't been so lucky. He had been struck by a van, but nobody thought to call a vet, or Best Friends, for two weeks. By that time gangrene had so rotted the thigh bone that Dr. Christy had no choice but to remove the leg.

Like Timmie and Benton, Blackjack was sweet, but he did have one minuscule flaw. He was an “affection biter.” The tuxedo cat would hook an unsuspecting person by the hand and calmly bring the fingers to his mouth and chomp down. Michael had painfully experienced Blackjack's loving feelings more than once.

“You see what I mean, Michael?” Diana dried her eyes with the back of her sleeve. “I can't bear making do for them any longer. . . .” Her voice trailed off as Tong shuddered abruptly on her shoulder. “Oh no, he's having an epileptic fit—but we're giving him his Dilantin. Michael, don't you see what I mean?” she cried distractedly, catching the cat as he fell.

With the utmost tenderness, Diana laid the puny body on the floor and crouched beside Tong. “How could anyone throw a perfectly healthy kitten into a freezing stream? For something like this to happen . . .”

Tong's spasms lessened as Diana took him on her lap. Michael thought she looked as forlorn as the depleted creature she cuddled like a baby. As if she were a magnet, two albino cats, the lame and half-blind Benton, crippled Blackjack, five sniffling kittens, and a cat with no ears converged on the compassionate woman in their midst.

Michael eased down beside her, struggling with the outpouring of emotion within himself. More clearly than ever in his life, he “got” the bond Diana created with her damaged creatures. The affectionate nickname Best Friends had bestowed on her was more true than any of them realized: Chief Cat was emotionally united with her beloved charges: their pain was her pain, their happiness her happiness. It was from this deep, subconscious identification that Diana understood everything feline.