Best Friends

by Samantha Glen

  From the very first months, he had been fascinated by the rich fabric of history that imbued the canyon. Sometimes he tried to envision the massive red cliffs as a shallow sea trod by giant dinosaurs. Cyrus had spent many an hour in the dark coolness of a hidden grotto, running his fingers over the faint petroglyphs carved by Anasazi artisans over a thousand years earlier, wishing he could decipher their meanings.

  He had been struck by the absence of any depiction of war, violence, slavery, or any other form of aggression in the rock art. The Anasazi had been a gentle people, and Cyrus felt Angel Canyon itself still carried this same peaceful spirituality.

  He sat with his back against the mouth of the cavern and contemplated the ring of stones at his feet. The wall above the rock circle was scarred with the black soot of thousands of fires burned into the porous sandstone, and shards of rough clay bowls had been found buried in the earth.

  Cyrus reflected on his wife’s last visit. When she wasn’t helping Faith or Diana, Anne Mejia loved to hike the secret places of Angel Canyon. She got as excited as a little girl at the profusion of healing and nutritional plants she discovered.

  Sundown was her special time. This was when the multitudes of flittering bats, the loping coyotes, and the bobcats would show themselves.

  “Every time I come, it gets harder to leave,” she’d said on her last afternoon. “As soon as we get the final payment for the Arizona ranch, I’m here, Cyrus.”

  They sat mesmerized by the shifting waters of the underground lake and discussed the prospect of future tours to Angel Canyon. Cyrus thought that combining visits to the animals with tours of archeological sites could bring needed operating money to Best Friends.

  Anne had become increasingly aware of the workload involved in taking care of the animals. “I was helping Faith yesterday,” she told her husband. “Did you know we’re over three hundred dogs now? I don’t know how Faith manages. She really only has Tyson full time. We could hire some help if we could supplement our cash flow.”

  Still they dismissed the idea for the time being. Everyone valued their privacy too much. Besides, they were far from set up for such a venture. And the possibility of their sanctuary being overrun by inquisitive tourists was daunting.

  As Cyrus retraced his steps to the horse field, he pondered the damage that had been inflicted on the canyon in the past few decades. You couldn’t see it, but it was there—an invisible psychic wound on the land. Grant Robinson had shared with him that there was a powerful Paiute medicine man on the nearby reservation. Cyrus determined to contact the Indian and ask him to perform a ceremony to cleanse and bless their place.

  He heard Sparkles before he saw her: the long, frightening neigh of an animal in pain. Cyrus started running. As he crossed a fallen log over the river, he saw the horse, buckled to her forelegs on the far bank. “What is it?” he called uselessly as he came near.

  Sparkles had stumbled into an unseen mudhole. Cyrus winced at the injury. The tendon in the mare’s left foreleg was swollen badly, arcing away from the bone like an archer’s bow. Cyrus stripped off his shirt and wrapped it tightly around the damaged leg, then somehow shouldered the horse to her feet. “This will have to do until I walk you home,” he said. “Just thank God it’s Tuesday.”

  “First she needs an anti-inflammatory shot,” Dr. Christy declared. Fortunately, Cyrus hadn’t had too far to walk the mare to her barn before driving to the bunkhouse to fetch the veterinarian. Bill Christy jumped into his vet van straightaway. “You come too,” he yelled to Francis and Michael.

  Now the three men watched the familiar Charlie Chaplin routine with the doctor’s drawers. By now however, they knew what to do. As the doctor yanked each compartment open to find his medicine, Michael firmly latched it shut before it could play peekaboo with the frustrated vet.

  “Ah,” Bill Christy said with satisfaction, flourishing a bottle of elephantine pills. “Phenylbutazone—‘Bute’ for short. This will also help the pain.” He wrested a formidable-looking aluminum balling gun from Drawer Number Seven and rapidly pushed a tablet into one end.

  He offered the scary instrument to Francis. “You’ve got to get this into the back of her mouth over the tongue. Want to try?” Francis shook his head. Dr. Christy grinned. “Well, I’ll let you off this time. But you’ve got to learn, you know.”

  The men took mental notes as the veterinarian talked them through the procedure. “You’ve got to wrap the bandage tight to bind the tendon to the bone. And make sure you put a fat wad of cotton underneath. Like this, see.” The veterinarian demonstrated. “Helps ease the pressure. You keep the leg wrapped and Sparkles confined. She shouldn’t move around. Not that she’ll want to—she’s hurting. And give her two grams of Bute twice a day.” Dr. Christy took the horse’s reins. “Come on, old girl, we need to get you into your stall,” he coaxed.

  “When can she walk around again?” Cyrus asked.

  “Not for ten days. Then you can lead her for a month. But an injury like this takes at least three months to heal.”

  “Poor old Sparkles, you’re going to be lonely,” Cyrus nuzzled the gray neck. “But I’ll come see you.”

  “I’ll look in on her before the end of the week,” Dr. Christy promised, leading the way out of the barn.

  Faith saw the “thing” first. While in Zion Pharmacy to get a prescription filled, she thought she glimpsed Dr. Christy’s vet van going by. But it couldn’t have been the veterinarian’s vehicle, because it was pulling this dilapidated Airstream-type trailer, and Faith couldn’t imagine what Bill Christy would want with such a piece of junk.

  Meanwhile she was a little nervous because Kortney Stirland wanted to talk to her. Faith never knew quite what to say to the man ever since she had refused to let him adopt a dog.

  “You know, I’ve really been watching you people.” The pharmacist passed Faith’s medicine across the counter. “I see the dedication, time, and yes, the money, too, that you spend on the animals. It’s made me rethink my whole relationship with them. You’re making a difference, you know.”

  Faith stared at the tall marathon runner, who was smiling broadly at her confusion. “Thank you; I think that’s wonderful,” she finally got out. “You’ve made my day.”

  “Anytime, Faith. Anytime,” Kortney Stirland called as she floated out of the drugstore.

  Faith was humming as she drove home, still digesting the full input of the pharmacist’s remarks. She wasn’t prepared to be blinded by the sun’s rays reflecting off some long, metal object as she turned into Dogtown. She hit the brakes.

  It was the silver clunker she had seen in town. And it did belong to Dr. Christy. The “thing’s” front bumper was hitched to his vet box along with a fat Billy that was chewing voraciously on a squat sage bush. What was the veterinarian up to now?

  The murmur of masculine voices drifted through an open window as Faith gave the trailer the once-over. It really was an ugly, dilapidated piece of equipment, she decided—even older than the mobile homes she had found for Tyson and herself. The “thing” reminded her of a gross silver bullet on wheels with its snub-nosed front end. As for the goat? Only dear Dr. Christy would think to cap the animal’s wickedly curved horns with yellow tennis balls to protect the tips while he drove.

  A light breeze wafted the unmistakable aroma of moist manure in her direction as Faith strolled toward the trailer. The veterinarian had been working with cows again.

  Michael poked his head out of the door. “There you are. We’ve been waiting for you. Come on up.”

  Faith mounted the three rickety steps and stopped. The inside of the twenty-five-footer had been completely stripped. In the middle of the denuded shell, Francis and Dr. Christy stood grinning like two guys who had just won the lottery.

  “I thought it was about time.” Dr. Christy’s overboots flapped a welcome as he stepped to meet her. “The interior needs work—paint, basins, power—but we’ve got our operating table.” The veterinarian directed Faith’s a
ttention to the end of the trailer. Francis stepped aside, and now Faith could see what looked like an Ob-Gyn table under the window behind him.

  “Is that—?” she began.

  The veterinarian nodded shyly. “We’ll take the stirrups off, of course. Can’t see any doggie bitch balancing her paws in those things while I examine her.”

  “Dr. C’s just brought us our new clinic,” Michael explained.

  Faith suddenly envisioned pristine white walls, counters, shelves, a gleaming metal sink, overhead lights. Their first clinic! No more bunkhouse kitchen. Oh, what a beautiful silver bullet this was! Why hadn’t she seen the possibilities immediately? She blinked to hold back the tears. “It is so perfect, Doc. Where did it come from? How did you get it?”

  “Let’s just say someone’s been owing me money for a lo-ong time. Thought I’d take some of it in trade. Figured this old trailer could be put to better use here than sitting behind a barn. Now where do you want it?”

  The men followed Faith outside. “If we could just maneuver it back a spot,” she said, pointing to a grove of junipers a few feet to their left. “The trees would deflect the glare.”

  “Done,” Bill Christy jumped into his vet van, turned the ignition, and started to back up.

  “Wait, wait a second. Let me untie the goat,” Francis yelled.

  “Oh, yes, forgot about him, didn’t I?”

  Faith held the billy’s lead while Michael and Francis helped the veterinarian guide the silver bullet into position. “He’s not a very good driver, is he?” Michael commented.

  “He gets here, doesn’t he?” Francis said.

  “There, that should do it.” Bill Christy sounded happy. He glanced at his watch. “Looks like I’m late again. Gotta go.”

  “What about the goat?” Faith asked quickly before the vet could drive off.

  “The goat? Didn’t I tell you? He’s to keep Sparkles company in the barn while she’s recovering. Same farmer who owned the trailer was going to have a goat roast this weekend. I said if he threw the goat in the deal, I’d forget he owed me anything.”

  Faith gave the billy’s string to Francis and leaned in the veterinarian’s window. She saw the young doctor’s face with new clarity: the topsy-turvy, sandy hair that looked like he’d cut it himself without a mirror; the place under his chin where he invariably nicked himself in a hurry to shave; the blond lashes that women would die for, framing eyes that couldn’t hide a nuance of emotion.

  Dr. Christy looked nonplussed at Faith’s scrutiny. She lightly touched the rough growth of two-day beard with her work-calloused fingers. “We love you, you know.”

  The veterinarian looked down at his jeans and blushed. “See you next Tuesday,” he called as he drove out of Dogtown.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The TLC Club

  What 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.”