Best Friends (20 page)

D
olores Harris loved three things: Homer and the kids, animals, and “a bit of fun,” as she described her trips to Las Vegas. After her husband's initial visit, Dolores happily made her own way to the sanctuary. Faith took her around. She got a good feeling from the California woman the moment they met.

Homer's wife was in her early sixties, a few years younger than her husband, and at five feet four a petite, soft woman beside his height and solid frame. Mrs. Harris struck Faith as a female of simple tastes and needs, not afraid to show her emotions—a gentle balance to the take-charge demeanor of her husband.

Dolores had had an accident that necessitated her neck being fused and, Faith suspected, caused her some pain. Even so, she refused to let the injury dampen her enthusiasm for the sanctuary.

In Dogtown, Dolores was delighted with the barking, licking, and wagging greetings of Sheriff Amra, hyper Maddie, three-legged Shamus, and chubby Coyote. She got moist-eyed when Faith told the story of Goatie and Sparkles as they watched them grazing side by side under Angels Landing. She was captivated by Mollie the pig snuffling her pockets. At Catland she plain cried at seeing big, old Bruiser grooming each of the kittens in his latest orphan brood.

After that first introduction, Dolores took to dropping by on a regular basis. One of her biggest kicks was to call Faith from the road. “I'll be in Vegas in an hour,” she'd laugh. “I told Lady Luck that if she smiled on me I'd give the winnings to the animals.”

“May the slots be with you,” Faith said fervently.

The director of the sanctuary always looked forward to seeing Dolores Harris.

But not on the night after Norm Cram's news.

 

After the arrival of Best Friends, Norm Cram had built a bigger house for him and his wife closer to the road. Many a morning John drove by and gazed wistfully at the Crams' old dwelling and four cabins, looking forlorn and empty against the backdrop of their red-rock cliffs. Best Friends were increasingly short of office and living quarters, and all that extra space was just sitting vacant! It was almost more than John could stand. Finally, a few months ago, he had approached their neighbor about renting the empty buildings.

Norm Cram was delighted to let them lease the structures, and Estelle and John had immediately converted the old house into the offices they dubbed “the Hamlet.” “It's so strange,” Mary Cram told them when the deal was struck. “After thirty years of living here, Norm's developed allergies. His throat keeps swelling up. We can't figure it out. So it's nice somebody will be close by.”

From the moment they moved in they were aware that their new landlord was miserable. His new stone home was less than 200 feet from the Hamlet, and John heard him coughing and sneezing every day. Nevertheless, Best Friends were totally unprepared for Mary Cram's news one early summer afternoon. “My husband wants to move to town,” she said. “I'm sorry, but we've put our place up for sale.”

Almost as big a shock was Norm Cram's $650,000 asking price.

“Well, I can't blame anybody for wanting to get the most for their property, but that is a little rich. Nobody's going to pay that kind of money,” Michael said.

John didn't look convinced. “I only hope you're right.”

Both men knew only too well the potential ramifications of the sale of Norm Cram's thirty acres. Not only would they lose their new precious space, but if a commercial enterprise bought the land it might close the entrance to Best Friends. Then every week new people would be swarming over the sanctuary unsupervised—and who knew what else!

Their fears were realized all too soon. A month later Norm Cram tromped over to the Hamlet. He perched on his chair in front of the treasurer's desk, his weathered face a mirror of concern, though John sensed a suppressed elation about the man and guessed what was coming even before Norm Cram opened his mouth.

“Nice day again,” their landlord wheezed, and John saw his Adam's apple bob in distress. “I'll get straight to it. I have a buyer. Wants the place for a dude ranch or something.”

John could only stare at him.

“I thought I'd tell you right away because all the dealing's done and they'll be here shortly to sign the papers.” Norm Cram shook his head and excitement won out. An eager smile of expectation erased the creases of concern. “I can't say I'm sorry to go, what with these allergies from out of nowhere. But I know it'll be hard on you. So I thought I'd let you know right away.”

Their landlord suddenly fixated on the jar of pens by John's elbow. “I don't suppose you could spare one of those. My Bic's leaking ink,” he laughed, embarrassed. “Just my luck we get to signing and nobody's got a pen that works.”

John automatically handed him a black ballpoint.

Norm Cram heaved to his feet. “A man's got to do what he's got to do. But you'll be all right. Fortune seems to shine on you folks.” Norm Cram whistled his way out of the Hamlet.

John immediately called Michael. An hour later the two friends stood staring across their landlord's unkempt pasture of tumbleweeds, unable to tear their eyes away from the spit-clean Landcruiser parked outside his stone house.

The morning was unnaturally still, as if the canyon was holding its breath. A light breeze caught the trill of a woman's laugh through the open window of Norm Cram's stone dwelling. Michael imagined he could hear the scratch of a pen on closing papers. “I've got to take a walk,” he mumbled.

Michael stopped and stared at the little pond in its handkerchief of grass as he passed the Crams' house. The koi could do with some shade. The summer's heat would bake the shallow pond to bathwater soon. A woman stepped out onto the porch and lit a cigarette. “Beautiful day, isn't it?” She waved cheerily.

“Beautiful,” Michael agreed and trudged on.

He hadn't taken two dozen steps when a shriek to wake the dead shattered the eerie silence. Michael swung around. The woman stood frozen by the pond, screaming. He started toward her, but Norm Cram and a heavyset man were already out of the house.

“Snake! Snake!” the woman screamed to her husband. “You haven't signed! Don't sign! The children—there's snakes here!”

Norm Cram's face went white. “No, no! We've never seen a snake here. You must be mistaken.”

The woman turned on him. “I know what I saw. It ran right over my foot. You didn't tell us about the snakes.” She started down the steps and made a dash for the safety of the Landcruiser. “Get me out of here!” she yelled to her stupefied husband.

Norm Cram was right. There was too much people and animal activity for there to be snakes on his property. At that moment Michael detected a slither through the grass. The tiniest, most innocuous water snake he had ever seen was sliding with all haste back to the tranquil surface of the water. Michael watched, fascinated, inching closer, unnoticed as their landlord puffed after his lost buyers. “There must be some mistake. Wait!” But the SUV was already in gear and jerking down the road.

Seconds later a dejected Norm Cram turned and noticed Michael standing by the pond. “What happened? Where did that snake come from? Where'd it go?” he asked, more puzzled than angry.

Michael had no answer. Norm Cram looked suddenly wary, then shook his head as if dismissing the suspicion. “They'll be other buyers. This can't happen again.” He turned and hobbled back into his house.

 

Faith was far from her usual happy self as John drove them into Kanab the following evening. If it had been anyone but Dolores Harris she would have begged off the dinner engagement.

“Try and cheer up a bit, luv,” John encouraged as they approached the Four Seasons motel, where Dolores and her daughter Arlene were staying.

Faith managed a tired smile. She knew she was hopeless at hiding her feelings. A facade was as impossible for her as staying in bed all morning. But for Dolores she would try. John was putting a much better face on the latest disaster du jour than she, although Faith noticed that anxiety had etched permanent lines of worry across his forehead lately.

“Come in. Come in. I thought we'd have a glass of wine before dinner,” Dolores Harris ushered them into her standard-issue motel accommodations.

“Ah, pinot noir, my favorite,” John noted with appreciation.

“I figured we'd have beer with Chinese, but I brought some good California red with me,” Dolores chuckled.

Faith thought she was doing a fair job of filling her friend in on the latest happenings at the sanctuary until Dolores bluntly asked if something was bothering her. “Oh, not really,” Faith said brightly. “Just a funny thing with Norm Cram, that's all. What time did you say you wanted to eat?”

“We have a few minutes,” Dolores said.

Faith glanced at John. She couldn't read his expression, and Dolores was waiting expectantly.

“You'll never guess what happened yesterday,” she started and told her friend about the Crams selling their property.

Dolores was very quiet when Faith finished her story. “This must be very upsetting,” she sympathized. Carefully she adjusted the collar of her rayon blouse and looked at her daughter. “What time is it, dear? I think we'd better get going. I'm sure Faith wants an early night.”

 

Dolores Harris never came to Kanab without stopping by the sanctuary. Faith knew that she and her daughter were only in town overnight this trip, but Dolores had said she would see her the next morning. When Faith didn't hear from her friend by late afternoon, she got concerned. “D'you think I upset her yesterday?”

“I can't see how, Faith,” Michael comforted her.

Seven of them ate an early dinner at The Village and then John said he had some work to finish. Michael drove with him to the Hamlet; both men needed to talk.

The phone was ringing when John opened the door to his office. He quickly grabbed the receiver before the caller could hang up. Instantly Dolores Harris was talking in his ear, apologizing for not being in touch earlier. John listened for ten minutes, unmoving. Michael watched impatiently. “What?” he mouthed. John shook his head for him to wait.

The treasurer finally put down the phone.

“What is it?” Michael asked worriedly. “What?”

John opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. This time words came out. “Dolores bought Norm Cram's place. She's been with lawyers all day. That's why she didn't call or come by.”

Michael stared at him. “Would you mind repeating that?”

“You heard right. Dolores Harris just bought this place.”

“What about Homer?”

“Homer's up the Amazon somewhere. She couldn't reach him. So she called Cram this morning and had him meet her in town.”

A thousand thoughts jumbled in Michael's head. The Harrises were wonderful, decent people, salt of the earth, and Faith adored Dolores—but who could possibly guess she would do something like this?

John read Michael's mind. “You never know, do you? Dolores said she's sure Homer's going to be miffed that she didn't negotiate with Cram for a better price, but she felt it was the right thing to do. She assured me the papers have been signed and we're not to think another thing about it.”

Michael didn't answer.

“Did you hear what I said?”

Michael nodded. “I was thinking Dolores Harris captured the dragon's lair.”

“What are you talking about?”

Michael smiled. “Nothing. Let's call Faith.”

 

Homer Harris did have something to say, but only Dolores heard most of it. She told Faith that her husband's being upset didn't faze her for a moment. “It was mostly because I didn't negotiate,” she said with a knowing smile. “Homer always likes to negotiate.” Her expression was that of a woman who knew her strength. “Now we can both feel part of everything—although he won't admit it yet.”

Escrow took four months to close because Mr. Harris was at least going to make Mr. Cram bring the septic and water systems up to par—at Mr. Cram's cost.

October saw Anne and Cyrus Mejia move into the back two rooms of the Crams' stone house, with the rest of the floor space being renovated for Best Friends' first proper welcome center.

Anne immediately planted shade for the koi. She and Cyrus painted, put up shelves, hauled in a desk, displayed Jana and Raphael's photographs, and stacked T-shirts imprinted with Cyrus's impressions of the canyon. “Now we've got somewhere to greet people,” she announced proudly.

To Best Friends' astonishment, Homer returned their first rental check for Norm Cram's property with a note. “Consider this a donation.”

On their next visit, it was the Harrises' turn to get a surprise when everyone gathered to personally escort them to Dogtown. Best Friends had christened the path that ran by the clinic Dolores Lane, and the area behind the Great Temple of Food, Homer Hill. “It's the only way we have of saying ‘thank you' right now,” John said.

Dolores started crying. Homer stood straight as a military man and put on his sternest face. “This is very nice. Now, you do know that I'll be keeping an eye on your progress. So no slacking off.”

As Faith was wont to say, “Who would have thought it?”

M
ichael often wondered if the animals weren't in control of Best Friends. He wasn't entirely joking when he talked about a psychic pet network that communicated through time and space over which, when the moment was right, the word was passed to orchestrate events. Tomato just meowed and implied that that was for the animals to know and for persons to wonder.

The summer of 1993 brought another visitor to the canyon. Michael had no way of knowing the role Tom Kirshbaum would play in their lives. First, he saw the sanctuary as never before through the eyes of the one-time conductor of the Flagstaff Symphony.

Then he watched the man attack the bone-wearying task of scooping the poop in Dogtown, never seeming to tire. He watched the exhilaration with which Tom Kirshbaum petted and played with every mongrel, large and small. Where others saw only dogs, this gentle man discerned personalities, interactions, a society of animals. It took no time at all for Tom to become one of the dogs' favorite visitors, and for him and Tyson Horn to become fast friends.

Michael was touched by Tom Kirshbaum's humility and joyful understanding of how much he was needed. Whenever he could, the man would drive 210 miles on a two-lane highway to spend a few days at Best Friends. And nobody ever again thought of the cacophony of noise that could erupt from the throats of hundreds of mutts in unison in quite the same way after he described his experience.

Tom liked to camp out in Dogtown when he came to Best Friends. After dinner one evening, he recounted lying in his tent, squashed between Bubbles, his basset, and Amra and Rhonda—who insisted on sleeping with them—and listening to the excited 2:00
A.M.
barking of dogs disturbed by the thump of a jackrabbit down the lane.

“It starts with a few muted yips and yaps,” he began to an enthralled audience as he wove the music of the night. “Then, from a hundred surrounding enclosures, the vocalization picks up: a harmonic progression of low growls punctuated by staccato bursts from deep-chested bodies.

“Soon the accompanying melody joins in: a siren-like rise and fall too subtle to be called ‘baying.' Now the concert explodes in wave after wave of textured sound, like some colossal oratorio.”

“I think maybe I'll take out my earplugs tonight,” Faith murmured into the awed silence.

The director of the sanctuary had come upon Tom Kirshbaum one summer morning, arms to the sky, dancing in the sand around a puzzled Dogfather. “There was nobody about,” he said to a blue-aproned Faith wielding a can opener. “It felt so free.”

His wife, Anah, Tom Kirshbaum explained, had met this blond Englishwoman tabling in front of Wal-Mart and gave her what she thought was a ten-dollar bill for a copy of their magazine. “Oh no, I think you've made a mistake,” the Englishwoman said, handing back the $100. “Anah was most impressed,” Tom recounted.

“That must have been Diana,” Faith exclaimed.

The conductor had checked out of a boring tennis camp in nearby St. George. He remembered his wife's experience with Diana Asher and, seeing that he was so close, thought he would come see what Best Friends was all about. The worst that could happen was that he would have a story to take back to Bubbles the basset.

“It's funny,” he confessed on his third visit. “I was never particularly crazy about animals. Never paid dogs much mind until Anah suddenly got obsessed with basset hounds.”

As he told the story, Anah began stopping every time she saw a basset on the sidewalk. Anah would get a winsome look on her face at every wizened, drooling hound and call Tom to come to the baseball field “to see the most adorable little creature.”

“As you know,” Tom Kirshbaum rolled his eyes. “Eighty-pound bassets are hardly little things. But I knew what was coming. We knew a couple who had two bassets they dearly loved and were breeding for just one litter. A few weeks later we were sitting in their front yard watching the rambling antics of seven fat puppies on three-inch legs. One little sausage left her mama, trotted straight to me, scrambled in my lap, and fell asleep. That was Bubbles.”

What was so significant about being chosen by a dog? Nothing, really. Happened all the time, Tom Kirshbaum realized. Except that after Bubbles entered their lives, the interests and values he and Anah had held so important somehow faded into the past. Life was so much richer with Bubbles as part of the family. They also found that the basset had spondylosis, a spinal condition that if not treated, could severely hamper her movements. It made their time with her even more precious.

“You see, if we'd not gotten Bubbles, Anah would never have stopped and chatted with Diana. I wouldn't have bothered to read your magazine. And the last thing I'd be doing is standing on a sand dune, scooping dog poop—and enjoying it.”

Tom Kirshbaum was suddenly serious. “You know I'm not remotely the same person I was before that pudgy little girl with the surplus skin, paws like boxing gloves, and those ridiculous ears went to sleep in my lap. Now I keep coming back here. What's that all about?”

Michael smiled at Best Friends' quintessential volunteer. “Beats me, Tom. But I can promise you we'll find out soon enough.”