“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.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The Lady and the Water Snake
Dolores 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 la
ugh 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.
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