Best Friends (19 page)

C
hris Smith wasn't in the best of moods. It wasn't enough that the story he had been pursuing had evaporated along with his source; he'd hardly gotten two winks of sleep in the rundown 1950s-era motel he had checked into across the Arizona state line.

The roving reporter for the
Salt Lake Tribune
was no stranger to lumpy beds salvaged from the Second World War—it was the loud lovemaking coming through the wafer-thin walls that had him looking at his watch at 3:00
A.M.
It wasn't until he heard the thud of two pairs of knees hitting the carpet, followed by fervent prayers for forgiveness, that he wondered what deity he had offended this time. Still, he couldn't help smiling when he saw the prim, gray-haired couple emerge from the adjoining room the next morning.

On his way back to Salt Lake, Smith stopped to fill his tank in Fredonia. Sure enough, there they were again, the cute donation cans for Best Friends Animal Sanctuary. He had been noticing them for over a year now, every time he stopped for gas. The professional journalist in him appreciated the picture of the puppy wrapped around a kitten. Pretty smart idea. Somebody knew how to take a damn good photo.

Maybe it wasn't a wasted trip south. Animals were always good for a story on A1 or B1 of the paper, and there had to be an angle here. Who would put an animal sanctuary in the middle of nowhere—even if it was awesome country?

Chris Smith's first foray took him into Kanab. It was always a sound idea to hear what the local folks had to confide. He wasn't fazed to find that the objects of his inquiry were still viewed with deep suspicion by some of the older generation. After all, he was told, they were newcomers, been there less than a decade.

It got more serious when it was sworn by persons who should have known better that Best Friends practiced voodoo and routinely sacrificed animals in bloody rituals. “After all, what else would they be doing with all those worthless creatures? Not like they're breeding purebreds.” That kind of outlandish fabrication didn't sit well with the reporter, but there might be a story.

After lunch he phoned the number on the donation can. “Would you mind holding a minute?” a woman asked pleasantly.

A beat later a male voice said, “Can I help you?”

“Chris Smith,
Salt Lake Tribune,”
he introduced himself. “I'd like to come see your place.”

“I think we can arrange that. When would you be arriving?”

Chris Smith smiled at the proper English accent. No wonder these people were viewed askance by some of the locals. “How about twenty minutes? I'm in Kanab.”

The smallest pause. “I'm Michael Mountain. Do you need directions?”

“I've had plenty of people tell me how to get there.”

“I'll be happy to show you around,” Michael said.

 

Michael put down the phone. From the reporter's tone he sensed this was not going to be your usual appreciative tour. He would bet his last dollar that Chris Smith had gotten an earful in town. The Salt Lake newsman would be looking for a scam. Michael sighed and walked out to his truck.

There was no doubt who was coming to visit when the silver Toyota 4Runner pulled into the canyon. The newspaper's logo emblazoned across the car's exterior was hard to miss. A tall, thin man with questioning eyes opened his passenger door as Michael approached. “Why don't we ride in my car,” he said.

Chris Smith made no comment as Michael pointed out the ancient caves, the underground lake, Turtle Rock. He kept his counsel as they cruised past meadows still in winter's icy grip and his guide introduced the horses and goats by name.

Michael sensed the reporter's impatience as he showed him Angels Landing. The man hadn't come to view scenery. “Why don't we go to The Village,” he suggested.

Quite a few of the Best Friends had gathered for lunch in the meeting room: Francis, Paul, Steven, John, Estelle, Charity, and Faith—as fate would have it, with Mollie in her arms. Michael noted the reporter's quizzical expression at the pig's obvious contentment. He also observed how the man ran his keen gaze over the place, looking for . . . what?

“So tell me about your pig,” Smith said after introductions all round. “What else have you got here?” was the next question after the story of Mollie and the pastor. Michael duly escorted the reporter from the
Salt Lake Tribune
back to his car for the drive to Dogtown.

Smith instinctively retreated before the cacophony of barking and rushing of fences that greeted his arrival. He stopped at each and every enclosure, eyes missing nothing. “You don't go in for fancy, do you?” he said, indicating the simple horse fencing. “But your animals seem to have it pretty good”—this last in the tone of a grudging compliment.

Even the professional trained to see beyond the obvious couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice when Michael pointed out Faith's home in passing. “The director of your sanctuary lives in a
trailer?”

Smith was quiet as his tour guide finished Victor's story and offered to demonstrate how the bigger, more aggressive dogs simply would not cross the Dogfather's invisible line. He looked at Michael speculatively, as if he were measuring him for a suit. “I've been told some things,” he began.

“Interesting, I hope,” Michael said. “Did you hear the one about how we trained attack dogs for the CIA?”

He had to give it to the man. Smith didn't blink. “No, why don't you fill me in?”

Michael obliged. He told the newsman how they came to Angel Canyon during President Reagan's era. “It was during the time of the war in Nicaragua. The rumor was we were secretly training dogs to fight with the Contras.”

“Interesting,” Chris Smith said, mimicking his host's poker face. Both men smiled.

Catland was last. Michael could still feel the questing tension in the reporter, the nose sniffing for the story. Finally, only one shaded wooden building remained to be explored. Michael opened the door into the tiny foyer and let the reporter precede him into the main cat area. He didn't feel the need to talk anymore. The little felines would vocalize for themselves the beauty of their beings.

Smith walked in purposefully. He stopped and gazed upon the ones with no ears, with three legs, the snow-white-furred ones whose genetics had bred them to cancer, the incontinent, blind, circling Timmie, burned Sinjin, sneezing Tomato, three-legged Blackjack, and—leading the curious parade to the man's ankles—Sir Benton.

The silence stretched to five, ten minutes. The newsman squatted and allowed Tong to teeter on his shoulder. Tomato only had attention for Michael, but a crowd of purring cats clustered around their new visitor. Michael slipped outside to let the man be alone.

When he joined Michael twenty minutes later, Chris Smith didn't bombard his host with the usual tough questions. He didn't have much to say about anything. Michael was not to know that the
Salt Lake Tribune
reporter had looked in vain for the trappings of excess, the clues that the money they might persuade people to donate was going to something other than the well-being of the animals.

As he drove back to the city that night, Smith was glad his original lead had turned out to be a dead end. He was the first in the newsroom the next morning. For once he didn't participate in the usual camaradie that went with the coffee and doughnuts. He sat, intense, serious, writing the story that would take A1 space in his paper.

Chris Smith wasn't to know that Best Friends had been ambivalent about allowing a reporter into their midst: a local story would surely inundate them with so many more needy animals.

Despite their concerns, however, his article was to be their first validation, the first printed acknowledgment that Best Friends was truly a haven of healing and love. A place where a less-than-perfect animal could find refuge in a world all too ready—as it was with its people, as well—to reject and consign them to the garbage heap.

The article appeared on March 9. For Best Friends, Chris Smith was the first outsider to give credence to the right to life of all creatures. He was not to be the last.

G
regory Castle had gravitated toward Salt Lake City for his tabling efforts. It didn't take long for the quiet philosopher of Best Friends to learn the power of the press. “I read about you in the
Tribune,”
was the oft-repeated announcement after Chris Smith's article appeared, and with it came a willingness to listen with open curiosity instead of cautious skepticism.

Judy Jensen's attention was caught by the photos of Bucky and Sparkles. She, too, had seen the newspaper piece and was thrilled to chat with Gregory. The correctional officer at the Utah State Prison took her love of the big equines a step further. Judy Jensen went to the sanctuary to see for herself.

A week later she was in veterinarian Rich Allen's clinic with her mother's sick cat. The door of the waiting room was ajar, and she heard the doctor waxing enthusiastic about a recent visit to Kanab where he went horseback riding.

“I couldn't help overhearing,” Judy Jensen said to the veterinarian when it was her turn. “When you were in Kanab did you hear anything about Best Friends?”

“Can't say that I did.”

“They're the most wonderful people, and they could really use some help. Their vet died last year.”

The rich Dixie drawl made Faith smile when she answered the phone that afternoon. “I like to ride a bit. Thought I'd come see you all,” Rich Allen stated.

Faith laughed. “We're an animal sanctuary. We don't
rent
horses. You must have misunderstood.”

“Judy Jensen was telling me you didn't have a vet, either. Did I get that confused too?”

“No, you got that right.”

Dr. Allen's Southern accent became more pronounced. “How primitive. How do you manage?”

“Basic,” Faith corrected. “Not primitive.”

Dr. Allen had already made up his mind. “Sounds like you could really use my help. I have just
got
to get out of this city for a few days. I'll be there this weekend. Don't worry, I'll bring plenty of everything.”

Faith had the distinct impression that Dr. Allen had visions of himself as Albert Schweitzer, venturing into the wilds of Utah to help the animals. When she called Judy Jensen to inquire about the veterinarian, the horse lover gave him a five-star rating. “He's different, though,” she conceded. “I think you'll like him.”

As far as Faith was concerned Rich Allen could ride into Angel Canyon on a unicorn. She would blow a trumpet to herald his arrival. But would he come?

 

The Alabama man actually came bouncing into Best Friends in a Dodge Ram diesel groaning with veterinary supplies, as he'd promised. At a solid six feet, he was a good deal taller than Faith. He looked to be about forty, sporting a handlebar moustache worthy of any brigadier general.

As his Dodge jolted along the rutted roads of the canyon, Dr. Allen oohed and aahed at the glaze of afternoon light that painted the mesa in Monet pinks and mauves. He inhaled deeply of the sage-fragrant air. “Ah, the true wilderness.” The veterinarian hummed happily as he was given the tour of Catland and shown the bunkhouse. “Very rustic,” he pronounced with satisfaction.

His demeanor lost some of its ebullience when Faith took him to The Village. “This is very nice.” Dr. Allen sounded as if they had done him a disservice.

The veterinarian appeared positively dismayed when they stopped beside Dogtown's clinic. He twirled his moustache in agitation. “Is something wrong?” Faith asked as she led him inside.

Rich Allen darted through the clinic like the Energizer bunny on new batteries. “Not quite what I expected, although you're a little short on equipment.”

Faith didn't feel like explaining their financial straits. “I told you it was basic. But it's not a card table under a tent.”

The veterinarian blushed bright as a traffic light. Faith suddenly realized that he had
hoped
for just such primitive conditions. She had actually disappointed him by having decent living quarters, and their clinic in a building.

Faith walked the good doctor down the lanes of Dogtown. She hid a smile as she watched Rich Allen perk up at their utilization of horse fencing for the enclosures. “Did I tell you about our first operating table? You saw it in the bunkhouse kitchen. That speckled Formica . . .”

By the time he joined everyone for dinner, the veterinarian had gotten the history of Best Friends. They in turn liked this jolly man with his off-the-wall humor.

“Okay,” Rich Allen patted a satisfied belly. “I'll come down once a month and spend a couple of days—whatever's necessary to reinstate your spay and neuter program. But only if the young man here assists.” The veterinarian grinned at David Maloney who nodded vigorously.

“Are you saying you'll help us out?” Faith asked.

Dr. Allen twirled the ends of his moustache until they thought he'd twist them off. “That's what I was thinking. If you could use my services, that is.”

Michael scratched his beard and looked very solemn. “Well, I think we'll have to take a vote on it. I personally can't see how we can use a veterinarian when we have barely fifteen hundred animals, and it's only a three-hour round trip to St. George every . . .”

“Take no notice of him,” Faith broke in. “We'd love to have you.”

Dr. Allen's cherubic face beamed as if he'd won the lottery. “That's settled, then. We'll start in the morning.”

 

When the kitty in the driveway of the Grand Canyon Lodge didn't bolt at her approach, the ranger knew something was wrong. She picked up the mewling black bundle. The tourists weren't even here yet, she thought in disgust, and already it was open season on dumping animals. Well, at least she knew whom to call.

Diana Asher was at the sanctuary that day. She took the kitten no bigger than the head of a wild canyon rose and examined it closely. “He's blind,” she explained to the ranger. “He didn't run away because he couldn't see you.”

“That's probably why he was dumped.” The fair-haired woman stroked the tiny head with one finger. “I named him Ivan. Is that all right?”

“Suits him perfectly,” Diana assured her.

As soon as the kitten was in Judah Nasr's competent hands, the woman who loved cats called Michael. The familiar voice answered on the first ring. “Hello.”

“Hi, Michael. Got a minute? A ranger just brought in a kitty that can't be more than a few weeks old. It's been playing blind-man's buff in the Grand Canyon. We don't know how long.”

“Will he make it?”

“As far as we can see. I thought you might like to write a story on him. Ivan's sort of special. He's the hundreth kitty to come to the TLC Club.”

“I'll be right over.”

 

Ivan's arrival cemented an idea that had been percolating in Michael's brain. Chris Smith's reaction to their handicapped kitties confirmed what he was reading in the letters Best Friends received every time the magazine featured the tale of a “less-than-perfect” animal: people were sympathetic to the plight of the abandoned and abused, but for the hopelessly unadoptable, their compassion knew no bounds.

In the middle of writing up Ivan's story, Michael pushed back his chair and grabbed his jacket. Within fifteen minutes he had invaded Steven Hirano's office.

He found his partner arranging the layout for the next issue. “We just got the hundreth kitty for the TLC Club, Steven, except that Diana can't keep them all together anymore in their old house.”

Steven nodded absently, concentrating on the templates for the center pages.

Michael plowed on. “Don't you think it's time we built a big, cozy place for them? I think people would like to contribute toward a lovely home for the special-needs cats.” Michael realized he was thinking out loud, only this time it was to Steven, not Tomato. He stopped talking.

Michael waited while Steven frowned and fussed with the page in front of him. The imperturbable mask of his friend's face yielded no hint of what he was thinking. Finally Steven looked up briefly. “Anything that makes life better for the animals is okay with me,” he said and bent back to his work.

Michael studied his partner's profile. He hadn't expected any less of an answer, when he thought about it. Steven always agreed if it was good for the animals. When it came to ideas, stories, and pictures for the magazine they had battles royal—but who wanted a “yes” cohort, anyway? “I'll be off, then.”

“Ummm,” Steven murmured, squinting to get a better idea of his layout. Michael made to leave, but Steven wasn't quite finished. “I need another five paragraphs to make this page work. And I need them by four-thirty.”

The Englishman smiled and went out into the noonday sun.

 

Michael couldn't wait for the start of Memorial Day Weekend. The people of Angel Canyon would be back from “tabling” for the holiday, the perfect time to gauge the group's interest in his idea. He knew that everybody was still aware of the constant need for operating funds, but, as Steven argued, their situation was definitely improving, and worry was giving way to cautious optimism for the future. Or, as a much cheerier John put it, “Not to be cliche, my friends, but I see a light at the end of our financial tunnel.”

So it was, as the last weekend of May approached, the Best Friends migrated like homing pigeons to the canyon. Everyone was in a good mood, looking forward to a few days at home. Michael waited until everyone gathered for the Saturday night dinner to present his proposal. To his delight, the idea of a new TLC Club for the 100 special-needs kitties was greeted with unabashed excitement.

Paul Eckhoff spread out his paper napkin and drew quick, bold strokes over the crumpled tissue. “I should design a state-of-the-art structure,” he declared. “I'll keep the costs down, but if we're going to build again we should be thinking about how the sanctuary's going to look ten years from now.”

“If we last that long,” John said, unable to keep the grin off his face.

Diana could hardly contain herself. “Let's really do it right,” she enthused. “The new TLC quarters should have its own Chairpurrrson, and I've got the perfect candidate: Benton. He was absolutely born for the role.”

Smiles wreathed the faces of the Best Friends as they saw in their mind's eye the portly gray-and-white who stole everybody's heart with the theatrical waving of his lame leg.

“And what do you all say to naming the building in his honor?” Diana threw out.

“She's got it. By George, I think she's got it,” John pronounced approvingly in his best Professor Higgins imitation.

It was a happy crew that night who unanimously approved the building of Benton's House for their special-needs kitties.

 

Michael and Steven worked days and nights on the appeal for the new TLC building. Paul immediately set to drawing plans and mocked up a table model, above which Mariko Hirano could pose for a photo, holding blind Ivan in her arms. The floor plans occupied an entire page of the newsletter. And Benton, looking appropriately superior, was introduced as “Chairpurrrson” on the front cover.

Again, the response was overwhelming. Not only did their members send money, but they offered toys, blankets, and climbing kitty trees. Many made suggestions. One that Michael particularly liked was that a wall be inscribed with the names of all those who contributed.

Once again, it was the touching letters he most treasured—especially the one from a man who described the uncomfortable nightly routine he had to put his cat through for her kidney problem. “I know what's involved in taking care of those little ones,” he wrote. “This check is in honor of my dearest companion who has kept me sane for over twelve years.”

For all the donations, best wishes and encouragement, Best Friends' base of support was too small to raise all the money they needed. “We can make a start, pour the foundation, and begin framing,” Michael declared. “We'll do a little at a time and keep our members informed of our progress. We
will
build it.”

Nobody looking at the stubborn jaw on their editor was about to argue. Michael envisioned their future. He dared to see Best Friends as a force for change. “This is about far more than cats and dogs,” he had once said. Just as Faith had understood a few years earlier that they had not been brought to this place for themselves alone, so Michael now saw the first glimmerings of what might lie ahead.

Benton's House was a step in the journey. It would be built.