Best Friends

by Samantha Glen

  Michael had a mental image of a man about his height with the lean, long-muscled body of a marathon runner, and the aquiline nose of an ancient Roman aristocrat. Michael liked Kortney Stirland, as did Faith.

  “He wants to adopt one of our dogs,” Faith continued.

  “That’s great.”

  Faith looked worried. “I quizzed him a little bit—you know how we do?” Michael nodded. “He doesn’t have a fenced yard, so I had to tell him we couldn’t.”

  “You told him why?”

  “Of course. I explained that if he didn’t have a yard he would either have to keep the animal chained or allow it to run loose. I told him as nicely as I could that chained dogs were usually miserable, and loose dogs in town were roadkill. He wasn’t very happy.”

  Michael knew why Faith was upset. The pharmacist had always been very open and accepting of all of them. They had developed a mutually respectful relationship with him that they liked to cultivate with all the townspeople.

  “I told him we wouldn’t even adopt to Dr. Christy because he didn’t have a fenced yard.” Faith absently walked over to Victor as they talked. “Hello, boy,” she said, bending to rub the Dogfather’s backside. “Did Tyson feed you yet?”

  A throaty growl from Sun made Michael and Faith look up. The Doberman stood staring toward the road. A huge, red-coated animal was purposefully making its way toward them. “What a gorgeous malamute!” Faith exclaimed.

  The enormous dog kept coming, its powerful muscles propelling it forward like a well-oiled machine. Sun growled again. “Easy, Sun. Easy,” Michael cautioned his pet. The Doberman’s chest puffed like a pigeon’s as he affected a protective stance in front of his person.

  “Tyson—Tyson!” Faith called urgently.

  From nowhere Tyson was beside her. Without a word, Alpha Man walked slowly to meet the intruder.

  The great canine and Tyson halted a few yards from each other. Tyson squatted. The dog padded closer. Michael and Faith could hear Tyson’s soft Texas drawl above the last slurpings of the dogs behind them. They saw the malamute listen, cocking his broad head in the man’s direction.

  Tyson waited, talking, talking continuously. A watchful Sun lowered himself to the ground beside Michael. Rhonda slunk from the shade of a juniper and took a position behind Faith, her brown eyes also watching.

  Suddenly the little terrier darted forward. “Rhonda,” Faith shouted. Rhonda ignored her. She rushed between Tyson and the animal that dwarfed her like the beanstalk giant and gazed up in adoration. The malamute slowly lowered his head and Rhonda strained to cover the white-furred muzzle with tiny kisses.

  The two canines paid no mind as Alpha Man cautiously slid a hand around the perfect wedge-shaped ears and found the malamute’s collar. “There’s no tags, no name, nothing,” he called back.

  John had strolled over to see what was going on. “What a magnificent animal,” he said, echoing Faith’s words. “He won’t need much of Doc Christy’s attention.”

  “Look at Rhonda,” Faith said with a wondering half-smile. “Look at that little mutt put her curlers in.”

  The scrawny terrier was preening for the handsome newcomer, prancing back and forth like a showgirl. Suddenly she stopped and barked. The malamute looked askance, his plumed tail fanning a red blur in the sunshine. The terrier yipped again and pawed the earth beside her. Slowly the big dog slid to the ground and rolled on his side.

  Rhonda went to work. Her little pink tongue probed the recesses of her new friend’s ears, cleaning thoroughly. The immense creature’s dark, intelligent eyes were next for attention. Rhonda licked and licked and licked. The malamute yawned in contentment. Rhonda stalked around the sprawled body, sniffing every inch. Finally, satisfied that not one mote of dust had missed her attention, she gave him one final love lick on the nose and paraded back to her persons.

  The terrier made straight to her empty feeding bowl and nudged it against Faith’s foot. Her doggie eyes stared intently, alternately up at her favorite person and back to the malamute.

  “She wants me to feed him,” Faith said.

  “I’ll get it,” Tyson offered.

  All the lines of worry had smoothed from Faith’s skin as she smiled down at the little red dog that had never been happy. Sun just stared, as if he wasn’t sure what to make of this strange new behavior.

  “I think she’s found a friend,” Faith said.

  “More like she’s in love,” John pronounced as Rhonda watched the malamute’s large white incisors wolf down Tyson’s food.

  The dog had to weigh at least 145 pounds, powerfully muscled, straight-backed, feet like snowshoes. As they studied him, the splendid animal worried the last scraps from the sides of the bowl, lifted his head . . . and belched.

  Faith clapped her hands in delight. She stepped forward and cautiously took the malamute’s head in her hands. Gently, she rubbed her cheek against his moist, black snout. She was rewarded with a long, lazy lick. “Oh, you lovely thing, you. Welcome.”

  Rhonda had one more introduction. She rubbed herself against her new friend’s leg and trotted off toward Victor. The Dogfather had seen all . . . and was waiting. Rhonda stopped two feet in front of him, head slightly inclined in deference.

  The malamute looked puzzled. He came up beside the little terrier and looked from Rhonda to the Dogfather, as if uncertain of the etiquette to be followed here. Victor lifted his head to meet the huge dog’s gaze. The malamute craned forward until his nose was within inches of the gray eminence. Victor didn’t budge, a stone statue on its pedestal.

  Rhonda whined and snuffled her nose in the dust, glancing sideways at her new love. The malamute cocked his head, then, friendly-like, passed an enormous pink tongue over the Australian shepherd’s nose, around his ears, and down his face.

  Victor jerked his head back in surprise. He wasn’t quite sure about this unauthorized liberty. After all, he had his “capo” position to uphold. Yet this immense creature offered no threat. He could even be an ally. Victor made his decision. With regal dignity he eased to his feet and nuzzled the malamute’s great jaw in return—royalty acknowledging royalty. The malamute dropped to the ground, panting happily. Victor settled once more on his haunches, his Dogfather authority intact.

  Tyson had made phone calls while the little charade was in progress. “There’s only one dog like that around,” he informed Faith. “His owners left town last night. The last the neighbors saw was a truck pulling away with the dog in the back.”

  Faith’s shoulders slumped. No matter where one lived—city, suburb, small town, farm—the story was always the same. Somebody moved and couldn’t be bothered to take the animal with them.

  “At least they thought to dump him close by,” Michael consoled.

  “Too embarrassed to bring him in,” Faith retorted. Still, she was smiling. “But Rhonda’s going to be all right now.”

  “Faith, once they’re here, they all get to be all right,” John said. “Look at them.”

  The four humans studied the scene around them. John, Tyson, and Faith’s son, David, had fashioned a small paradise for unwanted canines in the past year. The first octagon—for some reason dubbed Octagon Three—was rough-finished, with comfy rooms for the old dogs to come inside and keep warm in the winter.

  The eight-sided building was the heart of a great fan of runs extending like mini-meadows from its windowed sides. Each was close to a quarter-acre, fenced to afford trees and scrub for shade and plenty of red dirt in which canine buddies could dig all day if that was their pleasure.

  Two wide lanes separated more spacious enclosures dotted with roomy doghouses that the canines could call home. More than a series of kennels, Dogtown resembled a doggie Boys’ Town: a friendly, rustic place where dogs could learn to be dogs again. Which was exactly what Best Friends had in mind.

  “So what do you think?” John asked. “Doesn’t it remind you of an old cowboy town?”

  “You’re thinking of all the Hollywood weste
rns they used to shoot here,” Faith teased.

  “No seriously. With the dirt lanes, rough wood and all . . .”

  “So all we need is a sheriff,” Michael joked.

  “Maybe Amra will just fit the bill,” Faith said.

  “Amra?” the men chorused.

  “He’s a character in the murder mystery I’m reading.”

  Everyone watched the majestic malamute. Tyson had escorted him past the Dogfather, down the lane, to see his reaction to the other residents. The big animal padded alongside Alpha Man, hips rolling slightly from side to side. He stopped once outside an enclosure and growled at two mongrels fighting over a tennis ball. The dogs glanced once in his direction and broke apart posthaste.

  “Amra, Sheriff of Dogtown,” Faith declared.

  The gorgeous malamute became part of the fabric of Dogtown. Everywhere he patrolled, unearthing hidden tennis balls, confiscating contraband feeding bowls, or just keeping the peace, plain, little Rhonda trotted by his side.

  Soon a scruffy “Heinz fifty-seven” variety joined the couple. Feisty Cameron attached himself to Sheriff Amra and Deputy Rhonda, and it was obvious the trio were inseparable.

  Rhonda did not divide her affections, however. Only Amra got daily grooming. Only into Amra’s eyes did Rhonda gaze like a besotted teenager. Cameron was allowed to assist in their duties, but the Sheriff was her one and only love.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  New Policy

  “Spring is here, and the litters are coming in,” Diana said.

  ‘It’s the same at Dogtown,” Faith concurred.

  The two women watched the sizable orange-and-white cat patiently groom a scrap of black kitten that only wanted to cling to his face. Around him tumbled six assorted calico infants.

  Diana had her Kitty Motel, basically a cluster of simple plywood rooms with lodgepole pines as the cornerposts for the chicken wire exterior play areas.

  The setup wasn’t what Chief Cat had envisioned the series of buildings of Catland would eventually look like, but everyone and everything was on a tight budget until they got the final balloon payment for the Arizona ranch.

  That was only eighteen months away: December, 1990. Michael had already initiated discussions on how the funds should be invested, and he suggested a couple of business ideas to maximize operating income.

  Meanwhile, the felines had plenty of room to roam and lots of tree limbs to scratch and climb, and John Christopher Fripp had conceived the innovative idea of roomy, insulated boxes in which they could curl up when it was cold. To soften the austere appearance of the sleeping quarters, David Maloney had carved fish, birds, and wild animals on their exteriors and painted the compartments in happy purples, emeralds, and bright, lemon yellows. Lined up against the inner walls, they looked like a giant set of child’s Lego toys. The cats loved them. On more than one frigid morning Diana had lifted a lid to find a nest of kitties who hadn’t moved during the night.

  Faith looked at her watch and announced, “Doc Christy’s about ready to spay and neuter.”

  Diana gazed affectionately at the familial scene. “I thought I’d give the kittens a few more minutes with Bruiser.”

  Bruiser was stretched on his side, his silken fur making a soft carpet on the fine gravel floor where his adopted charges now snuggled against his heavy belly. His large yellow eyes stared unblinkingly at Diana and Faith. One paw lay protectively over the snoozing babies. Five-year-old Bruiser had no nipples on which any kittens could suck, but in every other way he was a surrogate mother to the parade of orphans through Catland.

  Diana sighed and picked up the carrying case she had brought in to transport the kittens. “I love that big, old cat.”

  “Good morning, ladies,” Doc Christy’s cheerful greeting made Faith and Diana smile.

  “Hi, Doc. Francis. Judah,” the women nodded to everyone gathered in the kitchen.

  The veterinarian looked as disheveled as ever and in need of a haircut. He kept blowing at tendrils of sandy hair that promptly fell back into his eyes as he bent over a sedated pup on the now infamous Formica table.

  “Here,” Diana said, pulling a bobby pin from her own blond hair. Carefully she pinned back the doctor’s tousled strands. “While I’m about it.” She smiled and whisked a Kleenex from a box on the counter. Bill Christy held still while Diana wiped away the grain of brown rice stuck to the corner of his upper lip.

  “Francis insisted I have breakfast.”

  Diana nodded. “Thought I heard you come in last night.”

  “Dispatch called at one-thirty A.M. A dog got sideswiped on Eighty-nine. It looked bad. I had to call,” Faith explained.

  She didn’t have to say any more. Faith got summoned at all hours nowadays—not that she minded. The director of the sanctuary found that she liked her role as unofficial animal control officer. She enjoyed the growing respect of the town, and acceptance as one of their own by the police fraternity. These were perks she hadn’t quite expected when she took on the job.

  Faith also had to admit she got a secret kick out of seeing the looks of wonder on the faces of Doug Crosby and Tom Cram, the officers who most often accompanied her on a vicious dog call. Faith would stand quiet and still next to the suspect animal. “Now that’s a good boy. It’s going to be all right,” she would soothe while the lawmen lagged behind. Within minutes the “ferocious” animal was wagging its tail. Faith had placed the paws of more than one intractable canine on the passenger seat, heaved its backside up and in, and driven away, smiling to herself as the officers stared at the backs of two heads, sedately side by side in the front of her truck. “She’s a regular Mrs. Dolittle,” someone exclaimed once, and the nickname stuck.

  Faith never disclosed that it was her smell that turned the ravening beasts into her friends. No matter how much she laundered her clothes and cleaned her boots, Faith was around mutts so much that the doggie odor permeated every article of clothing she wore. Within seconds of an animal sniffing her ankles, he recognized Faith as someone to whom he could relate.

  Faith would only call Bill Christy if she felt it was an emergency life-or-death situation, and she had offered to drive to Panguich the night before. But the veterinarian had reminded her he was due at Best Friends first thing, so he might as well meet her at the bunkhouse and stay over.

  She watched the doctor take the first of Diana’s mewling kittens. Faith noticed that the pouches from fatigue under his eyes seemed permanent nowadays. She sighed. Bill Christy looked as haggard as she felt this morning, and he still had a fair number of operations to perform.

  “Hello,” a female voice called. “Anyone home?”

  All eyes turned to the screened door.

  “Come in,” Faith called.

  A stout, grandmotherly woman walked in carrying a cardboard box. Covered neck to ankle in a dun-brown dress, her springy gray hair forced into marcel waves around her face in forties fashion, her appearance immediately placed her as from the polygamous community of Colorado City, fifty miles away. “I’m looking for Faith. Oh, hello, Faith. Didn’t see you right off.” The woman held out the box. “Rosie’s been a bad girl again.”

  Faith didn’t have to open the container. She knew what she’d find. Diana pursed her lips and stalked over to have a look for herself. Six kittens lay on a piece of toweling.

  Diana turned on the woman. “I know you, don’t I? You’ve brought in three litters in the last eighteen months.”

  Embarrassment colored the grandmother’s face. “Well, you do tell everybody to bring unwanted animals here.”

  “And we’ve asked you three times to bring in the mother.”

  Francis stepped between the antagonists. “We have a new policy,” he said calmly to the grandmother. “We only take newborns if the mother is brought in to be spayed at the same time.”

  The old face stared at him. “You won’t take them if I don’t bring Rosie? What if I say I’ll drop them in the river?”

  Francis put his arm aro
und her shoulders. “You’re too good a lady to do such a thing. Did I mention there’s no cost?”

  “But it’s a trouble.”

  “But Rosie will be so much happier,” Francis counseled.

  “So you say.”

  “I’m here till after lunch,” Bill Christy intervened.

  The woman considered. “Well, for you, doctor,” she sniffed.

  “That was genius, sheer genius,” Faith exclaimed as soon as they heard the woman drive away.

  Diana was thoughtful. “It’s something we should institute right away. But we can’t afford to do it for free.”

  The veterinarian stitched the last suture on a calico. “I’m willing to cut my fee in half.”

  “But, Doc,” Francis objected.

  Bill Christy sat down. “I don’t suppose you’ve got another Coke?” he asked.

  “Doc,” Francis repeated.

  “If I had my druthers I’d be here every day,” the young vet stated wistfully. “But I got bills to pay too. So—ah, thank you.” He took the soda Faith offered. “Let me do what I want. It’s my way of helping out. Okay?”

  The veterinarian insisted on spending every Tuesday at Best Friends. “You’re getting so many animals, I need a day just to keep an eye on everyone.” And invariably he brought his own special gifts: a litter of pups, an old cat abandoned on his doorstep. “They’re better off here than anywhere else I can think of,” he said.

  Best Friends thought it was a very fair exchange.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Silver Bullet

  Cyrus watched Sparkles graze the lush grass of the meadow along the river. He sometimes wondered if the ancient dude-string horse ever missed toiling the trails of the Grand Canyon, day after day, hours on end.

  Best Friends had decided that, apart from needed exercise, the horses that came to them should be free from the burden of bodies on their backs. Even if they hadn’t been abused or abandoned, they had surely done their share of work for the human race. They had earned the right, in their last years, to just be horses. Cyrus patted the old gray neck and slipped Sparkles a chunk of carrot before continuing on his way to the ancient caves.