Best Friends (14 page)

F
aith pretended not to hear the obstinate jangling on her bedside table. She rolled over and pushed her face into the pillow. The Ides of March were already living up to their name. It was a cold wind that blew outside. She was tired and her bed was warm. But whoever was calling wasn't giving up. Faith stretched an arm from under the blanket and picked up the phone.

“Sorry it's so late,” Officer Crosby's voice apologized.

Faith squinted at her watch in the darkness. “It's after eleven, Doug. What's up?”

“We've got an emergency here. You remember the breeding kennel you inspected last May?”

“How could I forget.”

“The guy pulled a gun on his wife and she called it in.”

“What?”

“We're on our way to pick him up. She's pressing charges. Can you get the dogs?”

“What do you think?”

Doug Crosby chuckled. “Atta girl.”

It took Faith less than five minutes to dress, pull on her boots, and knock on Tyson's trailer. “I need you to chum up some of the dogs and free up a run,” she said to the sleepyhead. “We've got a kennel full of Chesapeakes coming in.” She hesitated. “See if you can rouse Francis. I have a hunch we might need his help.”

A chaos of police cars and sheriff's vans awaited Faith when she arrived at the frame house. Blue lights inscribed flashing circles into the dark. Radios crackled incessantly.

Six officers tromped down the starved weeds in the frost-killed garden, and Faith was just in time to see the sullen breeder, his arms handcuffed behind him, being escorted down the steps of his porch by three deputies. The police looked most serious. Kanab didn't get much violent crime. A man brandishing a gun with possible intent to harm was a grave matter in these parts.

“How many can you take?” Doug Crosby asked as he walked her around to the backyard.

“I have nine kennels with me. I'll take the ones in worst shape and get the others tomorrow.”

“Gotcha.”

The Chesapeakes were frantic. They rushed their tiny pens to the limited length of their chains, shattering the night with their terrified howling. This didn't disturb Faith in the least, but something else bothered her.

“Where are the rest of them? I only count fifteen. There were twenty-five when I was here last. I know there have to have been some litters, and he couldn't have sold that many.”

“You sure?”

“I'd like to talk to the wife.”

“No problem. Come on.”

The wife cowered on a shabby sofa, flanked by police officers taking down the details of the assault. She was a different woman than the one Faith had encountered months earlier: abject, shrunken into herself like a dying flower, oblivious to the four sniffling children scrunched beside her.

“Oh,” she said in pathetic answer to Faith's question. “He couldn't sell a bunch and didn't want to keep feeding them, so he took 'em up some canyon and shot them. He does that sometimes. One escaped last year, and was he in a fury.” She turned poor-me eyes on Police Chief Bladesdale. “I tell you, he's bad. It's better for me and the kids that you're locking him up.”

The smallest child was bawling. “Take the youngsters out of here,” Chief Bladesdale wearily ordered a female officer. Faith was disgusted. So Bailey
had
come from this place. But his mates hadn't been so fortunate. She wanted to get away from this house of abuse. “Can you help me load up?” she asked Doug Crosby.

The choice of dogs to go to Best Friends this night was not easy. All of them were in poor shape. Faith walked the line, assessing each in turn.

There was one the woman had called Ginger, who appeared positively malnourished. The little female was the most underweight breeding Chesapeake that Faith had ever encountered. Her ribs showed through her curly golden fur and she was filthy. Ginger absolutely must be taken. Then Faith recalled a comment the pitiable woman had made on her first visit.

“Ginger's his best breeding bitch. Lucky she's alive, though. The old man put her in with that one over there.” The woman pointed to the scrawny hunting dog standing in two inches of mud three pens away. “She almost killed Ginger.” The woman giggled inanely as if it were a big joke.

But, as usual, there was “no room at the inn” at Best Friends for dogs who would kill each other on sight. However, both breeding bitches looked so poor that Faith, in all good conscience, had to take both. She wasted no more time making her selections.

Faith stood silent and still, allowing each growling dog to get her smell before removing their chains and slipping a simple collar and leash around their necks. She still had one kennel free when she came to Ginger's cramped quarters.

The Chesapeake dam set her front legs, standing her ground as if daring this stranger to estrange her from the two grown pups who slunk behind their mother's haunches. Faith didn't have the heart to separate the little family. “We'll put them in together,” she told Doug Crosby.

 

Not only Francis, but insomniac Michael, too, was waiting with Tyson when Faith drove into Dogtown amid a cacophony of barking loud enough to ensure that all four-legged residents were awake and ready to play.

Willing hands unloaded Faith's precious cargo from the back of her truck, and kennel by kennel, the frightened Chesapeakes were freed into a spacious compound. Even the older dogs roused themselves from their warm dreams and hobbled out from Octagon Three to investigate this unusual nighttime activity. Sheriff Amra gave his seal of approval to the proceedings by sniffing each cage as it was unloaded and wagging his tail in greeting.

Ginger's was the last. “We can't put her in with the rest,” Faith said. “We'll have a dogfight from hell on our hands with the other breeding female.”

Michael opened the mother Chesapeake's kennel and lifted the frail bitch into his arms. “First thing we need to do is give this lady some dinner.”

“Give them all some dinner,” Tyson echoed and quietly padded away to fetch some food.

Michael carefully placed Ginger at his feet. The dog didn't seem to know what was expected of her. She toddled a few cautious steps, piddled a long, steady stream, then slunk back to the truck to cower under the tailgate.

Amra wasn't having any of this behavior. The Sheriff bounded under the Nissan's wheels and nudged the Chesapeake's backside out into the open. The stunted female offered little resistance as, covering her little face with his signature sloppy licks, Amra tried to assure her that she'd arrived in a canine Camelot.

Ginger was in no way threatened, but Michael scooped the bewildered dog away. This animal had no social experience and wouldn't know how to relate to others of her kind. Meanwhile Amra, having done his job, trotted back to his waiting Rhonda.

Michael held the bitch at arm's length, studying the squirming dog who cocked her head at her tall rescuer as if taking his measure. “You know what?” he said, folding the dog against his chest. “In spite of all she's been through there's an inner happiness here—something that won't let her give up.”

Faith watched his protectiveness of the Chesapeake. “What are you thinking?”

Michael looked up at a sky bright with stars. “All she's ever known is being chained, continually force-bred, and her pups taken away. I say we let her have the run of the place with the older dogs. Let her taste what freedom's like for once. Our way of saying F.U. to puppy mills everywhere.”

“What if she runs away?” the practical Francis asked.

“She won't run away,” Faith said quietly. She scanned their moonlit surroundings and pointed under the shielding branches of a young juniper two trees away from the Dogfather's invisible line. “Let's put her over there. She'll be away from the other dogs, but close to Victor, and that could be a comfort. Oh, thank you, Tyson,” Faith smiled and took the heaping bowl of food.

Michael put the Chesapeake down, and all of them watched the dog tentatively pick at the food while cautiously watching the people's reactions. Then she wolfed it down as if she had never eaten in her life. Tyson placed more food and water nearby and brought her pups to eat alongside their mother.

“Well, let's get to it,” Francis said. “I don't know about you lot, but I need some sleep tonight.”

Within an hour they had knocked together a great doghouse for three and placed it out of the wind under the juniper. Michael drove to get blankets from his own bed to make sure Ginger would be cozy. He was delighted when she pawed a place for herself inside her new home and stared back at him from the dim interior. “She's not sure yet,” he pronounced with authority.

“Yes, Michael,” Faith smiled.

“Well, you get some rest now,” he addressed the unmoving Ginger. “I'll come and see you in the morning. You'll need a nice bath, and how about treats? You don't know what treats are, do you? You will.”

 

As Faith had foreseen, Victor took Ginger under his wing and they became close doggie pals. Even so, in all the years to come, the Chesapeake never violated the Dogfather's protection by crossing his boundary unaccompanied. While Best Friends was to find safe homes for most of the other Chesapeakes, Ginger was no youngster, and her offspring, Cheshire and Mace, both had health problems.

Still, nobody could tell Ginger that life might be any better. Before long cowering was a foreign behavior to the dog whose sun-burnished coat grew in so thick and curly and who, Michael declared, “simply grinned” every time a person walked by.

Soon her corner of Dogtown was dubbed Chesapeake Bay in her honor. The juniper tree was called the “Federal Reserve” to acknowledge her undying devotion to the retrieval and deposit of tennis balls. Ginger and her pups, like their canine colleagues Victor and Amra, definitely had their job: to keep the economy of Dogtown humming by keeping tennis balls in circulation.

Every afternoon they could be seen trotting side-by-side down the lanes, scrabbling under bushes, pawing behind trees, gathering up every mutt's lost and stolen favorite toy. The other dogs paid homage to the importance of Ginger's role by visiting the “Federal Reserve” tree every day to withdraw from the tennis ball bank.

It was the beginning of another of the many legends of Best Friends.

F
aith was behind this morning, dragging herself out of bed too late to enjoy her early morning walk with the dogs. It didn't help her mood any to find Michael, impeccable as ever in his pressed chinos and cotton shirt, personally bribing Ginger with treats while he sneaked tennis balls to hide for her to find later. Faith hadn't had the energy to wash her overalls last night, let alone iron them.

“What do you think, Faith?” Michael was apparently without a care in the world this morning. “Shall I stash them at the Great Temple of Food or under Amra's favorite bush?”

The Great Temple of Food was a silver-blue corrugated-tin structure that Raphael de Peyer had brought to Dogtown. Jana and Raphael's July yard sale had become an annual event to raise money for Best Friends. Last year it had attracted Joby and Judy Swanson. Joby was in the steel frame business, supplying the big Las Vegas casinos. “My wife and I are very supportive of animal causes,” he said. “Is there anything you need?”

Two weeks later the tall, good-looking contractor appeared at 6:30
A.M.
on a Friday morning with six of his crew. Thinking it was feeding time, the dogs went crazy, barking, whirling, and raising a cloud of red dust that drifted over everything. Joby smiled knowingly. “Just as I thought. You need a clean place to keep food,” he said to Faith. “I have the materials with me. But you work with us,” he insisted to Raphael. Four weekends later, the Great Temple of Food stood on the outskirts of Dogtown in all its gleaming glory.

“Tennis balls behind the Great Temple of Food or Amra's favorite bush?” Michael repeated.

Faith only half heard the question. She felt tired and blowzy after a restless night's non-sleep. “How do you do it?” she demanded truculently, ignoring Michael's chattering question.

“Do what?”

“Always look like a damn country squire surveying your estate in England somewhere?”

Michael's smile faded and Faith immediately wished she could have bitten her tongue. What was wrong with her lately? Every little thing bothered her.

“Not exactly a great way to start the day, Faith, would you say? I came to give you a hand. Thought Tyson and I could feed the dogs and give you a break.”

“I never miss feedings,” Faith snapped.

Michael took his hands out of his pockets, his body language reflecting Faith's tension. “That's your problem. You've got to do everything. Has anyone told you you're getting singularly unpleasant to be around lately?”

Faith was shocked. She couldn't ever remember Michael raising his voice before. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean . . .”

“Forget it, Faith. You think you're the only one who's tired? We're all overwhelmed, in case you haven't noticed. But then you're not noticing much of anything outside yourself, are you?”

The sweet, familiar dull thud of hammers hitting nails suddenly registered on Faith's consciousness. She followed the pounding and was surprised to see Steven, Paul, and Virgil back at work on the clinic.

John Christopher Fripp had judiciously called a halt to construction several times over the winter. The buyer of the old Arizona ranch had been late more than once with the mortgage payments, and the accountant had rightly ensured the care and feeding of the animals before allowing more building.

Faith had understanding but increasingly little patience. “Doesn't the man realize we need a real infirmary?” she fretted when by August the clinic was still only a skeleton structure. “Can't you tell him how many animals we have now?”

John had made a tally and was disturbed to find that the numbers topped 500 in Dogtown alone. He had driven back to Arizona that same day to meet with the developer. Faith wasn't aware he'd returned yet.

“John came back a couple of days ago,” Michael said, reading her mind.

“So we'll be getting regular payments again?”

“John said they worked it out. You try to have a better day, Faith.”

“Look, I'm sorry I . . .” Faith began when Tyson popped his head out of Octagon Three.

“There's somebody from town wants to talk to you, Faith,” he called.

“Be right there.”

“If that's animal control, why don't you let me or Francis take it?”

Faith was instantly on the defensive. “I can still do my job, you know. Besides, I know the routine. You don't.”

Michael shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

 

The call was not from dispatch.

“I don't like to bother you, but I know how you feel about these things.” Faith vaguely recognized the woman's voice. “My boy hangs out at school with this kid I don't like, but what can you do?”

“Excuse me, but please understand, I'm already late this morning.”

“Oh, of course. Anyway, this kid confided that he'd gotten sick of taking care of their pet rabbit. His mother won't skin it, so his dad's gonna let it loose. Thought you'd like to know.”

Faith felt the weariness descend again. A domestic bunny stood about as much chance in the wild as a fish on land.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No. No, it's fine. Thank you. Have you got the address?”

The woman's directions led to a shambles of a dwelling at the end of a potholed road. Faith didn't have to knock on any door when she arrived. A mound of putrid rubbish, overdue for the dump, lay rotting in the sun outside a falling-down fence. Perched on top of the spilled heap was a plywood rabbit hutch.

Faith stared at the silky gray lop-ear, grown too big to turn around in his tiny feces-filled coop. She held her breath to avoid the nauseating odor as she carefully lifted the doe-eyed creature out of its prison.

“I gotta dog you can take while you're at it,” a man's voice said at her back.

Faith turned to confront the reedy twang. The man was singularly ugly, she thought, with his ratty beard, black nose hair, and bloated belly hanging over his pants. “Why don't you want the animal?”

“The bitch keeps dropping pups, and I'm tired of getting rid of them. The kids have lost interest, like they do everything else, so I'm waiting until she finishes the bag of food, then it's her turn.” The father mimicked a gun to his head.

Faith couldn't look at the man. Was he just saying this to get a reaction out of her? Or was this the way he lived his life? She nodded numbly. “I'll take them both.”

The drive home was a blur of tears. Faith almost didn't see the glassy-eyed black-and-tan shepherd mix shivering on the verge of the county road. The dog was so terrified it took her almost an hour to coax it into the truck. By the time she eased the emaciated body onto the comfort of her lap, the volcano that had been seething inside forever was ready to erupt.

Faith recognized this mutt. Less than a month ago, he and his brother had been adopted out to two local families. When she drove back to Dogtown, she didn't even call “hello” to the men toiling on the clinic, just gave the three orphans to Tyson and stormed into her trailer.

The acknowledgment in the
Southern Utah News
read exactly as she remembered from the day before. “Employee of the month,” it blared. “Valued member of the church; loving family man,” the description continued. Faith didn't need to be psychic to guess it was this same wonderful man who had callously dumped the helpless puppy. But she needed to be sure. Once again she roared back to town.

Her first stop was to check on the other adopted dog, whom she was sure was in a fine home. But she questioned her instincts lately. “Hello,” she smiled at the pleasingly plump young wife who answered her knock on the door. “Thought I'd stop by to see how the pup was doing.”

“Oh, Faith, we just love him to death. He's such a comfort to us. He's changed my husband's life. He has him in the shop with him right now. We're taking him to Lake Powell with us this weekend, he so loves to swim.” The woman laughed. “Dearie me. Where are my manners? Won't you come in?”

Faith could have stayed on this lady's porch forever, but she shook her head. “I was passing, so I thought I'd see if everything was going all right. I can't thank you enough for loving him.”

“Oh, no, thank
you
. Thank
you.”

Ten minutes later, Faith made her second visit. The look on the face of the woman who answered this time could have curdled milk. “Yes?” she said wearily when she saw who was on her doorstep.

“Do you remember me? Faith Maloney? You adopted a pup from us recently. I'd like to have a look at him. See how's he doing.”

The woman ignored Faith to glare at the sulky child clinging to her rose-printed cotton frock. The three-year-old's nose was running, and she was wiping it on the sleeve of her frog pajamas. “Will you stop that?” her mother shouted, smacking away the girl's hand. She returned her attention to Faith. “My husband brought him back to your place yesterday.”

“He did not return him to Best Friends. He didn't have that decency.” Faith could hear her voice rising. “He dumped him. Abandoned him for coyote bait. Do you hear?”

“I'm terribly sorry, but I can't help you.” The door closed in Faith's face.

“Damn you.
Damn
you!” Faith slammed the steering wheel as she broke all speed limits through town. She skidded astride two parking spaces outside the store and stomped inside. The “employee of the month” was smiling insipidly at a pretty female customer. Faith was beyond courtesy. “What the hell did you think you were doing dumping that dog?” she screamed in his face.

The man stepped back as if he had been slapped. He glanced fearfully around at the gathering knot of curious shoppers. “You can't talk to me that way. You don't care that—”

“You're damn right I don't care about your so-called reputation, if that's what you're worried about. I hope these people hear me because you could have called anytime, day or night, and I would have come and picked that pup up! You just couldn't be bothered. You just dumped him out of your car and drove off, you, you bastard!”

The man whitened. Faith saw matching fury pulse the purple vein in his neck. “Yes, I tossed him, and I had to drive off really fast, too, because the stupid thing kept chasing the car!”

An awful silence lay over the store. Customers turned away as Faith lifted her chin and stared down each in turn. “I have no more to say to you,” she said, quietly now, her anger spent. She gathered her dignity and walked out of the store. Strangely, she felt no sense of victory, no vindication. Just a numbing sadness that made her wish she could sleep and never wake again.

Francis was waiting when she got home. “Somebody called, didn't they?” Faith asked. She sat bent over the steering wheel, suddenly too weary to move.

Francis opened her door.

“I lost it, didn't I? I don't know what came over me.”

“Let's go to your trailer, Faith.”

Neither spoke while he put on the kettle for tea. Faith idly stirred the spoon around her cup, making no attempt to drink the steaming, sweet liquid he poured.

Francis broke the impasse. “You can't go on like this.”

“I know. I'm sorry. I've been under a lot of stress lately.”

“We all have, Faith. Not that I don't understand. I'm not exactly known for my sweet temperament. But this is no way to present Best Friends.”

“I know, I know.” She stirred faster.

“Why don't you take a sip. It'll do you good.”

“I know.”

“Stop saying ‘I know,' Faith. You're better than that. Don't you think we've all seen what's been going on? Don't you think we know the pressure you're under? But you won't let us help.”

“I will now.”

“We can't go on like this—any of us. John says we're marching toward bankruptcy and we're all too exhausted to eat half the time.”

“I know. Oh—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that.”

Francis studied the woman who had worked alongside him for so many years. Misery exuded out of every pore. “I think you should just take yourself to bed for the rest of the day, Faith. The sanctuary will still be here when you get up.”

Faith nodded.

Francis stayed controlled. “We're going to make some changes,” he said evenly. “We can't wait for the ranch to pay off.”

“What are we going to do?”

“I don't think you're ready for this right now.”

“Please, Francis.”

“All right. No more animal control.”

Faith looked stricken. “But. . . .”

“Hear me out. We'll offer to rebuild something decent at the airport. And we'll monitor what goes on. We'll still take in strays and the abused. That won't change. But we can't be the dumping ground for the world. Not right now anyway.”

“I think I know a guy who might like to take over,” Faith said with sudden energy. “There's a nice elderly gentleman who told me he thought what I was doing was real cool.”

Francis looked across the table at the director of Best Friends. She was a true warrior. Sometimes down, but never out. “Sounds good. Let's work on it. Meantime I'll write an apology from the mad Englishwoman.”

Faith managed a smile. “I think I should do that, Francis.” A flash of fear crimped her features. “I don't know what's going on lately. It's going to be all right, isn't it? We're going make it, aren't we?”

Francis rose to leave. “What do you think? Now get some rest.”

 

DECEMBER 29, 1990

 

A happy life, a fulfilling existence, the complacency of certainty—all shattered in a nanosecond.

A doctor's diagnosis, and the day is suddenly dark; a random act of violence steals a loved one; an earthquake in the night kills family and friends; raging floodwaters sweep away a life's treasures.