Best Friends (17 page)

Still John repeated the mantra as if counting worry beads. “It's not enough. It's not enough.”

T
he January blues dragged into February, with the monies from tabling falling off along with shoppers' Christmas generosity. John Christopher Fripp looked more grim every day at lunch at The Village. Lunch had become their daily time for discussion, and the communal ritual seemed to lift their collective spirits somewhat—except for John's. There was no sparkle in the sailor blue eyes these days. In spite of the fact that their situation was improving, the treasurer knew only too well by how thin a margin they held on. Even Faith couldn't cheer away his worry lines.

“I got another twenty-five-dollar check from Dolores and Homer Harris,” she announced brightly. John slurped his last spoonful of soup without comment. “As soon as it gets warmer, Homer said he's coming to visit. He says the San Diego sunshine's spoiled his bones for anything less than seventy degrees. I can't wait to meet him. I wonder why Dolores isn't coming.”

With all their troubles, Best Friends still responded to an animal in need. The year before, Diana had taken a cat from a local man, Jim Travers, who had found it in a ditch. A month later Faith received a check for twenty-five dollars from Dolores Harris with a brief note. “Use this for the animals.”

Faith had no idea who Dolores Harris was. It was only later she discovered that Jim Travers and Dolores and Homer Harris were old friends. All Faith knew when she received the check was that she had never, ever gotten money in the mail from anyone before. She wrote an exuberant two pages back to the surprise benefactor. Dolores took to mailing a donation from time to time, and the two women struck up a long-distance friendship.

“That's wonderful, Faith,” John said. “I'm afraid I'm thinking about my meeting with Zions Bank next month. If they won't renegotiate our balloon nothing will help.”

A sudden pall fell around the table. For the most part, they tried not to think about the $400,000 payment that was due on the canyon in less than six months. Their foundation's treasurer lived with the sword over his head every waking hour.

“Well, I had an idea,” Jana said brightly. “I'm putting together a photo album of our unadoptables, you know, like Timmie, Tomato, and Maddie, and taking it tabling with me. We've all had people saying they wished they could have an animal, but they live in an apartment or something; maybe they could be a surrogate owner, like a sort of guardian angel.”

Her suggestion was greeted with all the enthusiasm of an execution.

“Thanks, guys, I thought it might generate some extra money.”

“Ssshh, I'm thinking,” Charity announced, as if a brilliant revelation were about to unfold. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “I've got members who'd love something like that.”

“I need to check with Dr. Christy what his vet bill might be. He's coming today, isn't he?”

“He should have been here already,” Faith frowned.

“Anyway, if—” Jana paused as the familiar flap of rubber overboots signalled the arrival of the veterinarian. Everyone's smiles of greeting faded at his appearance. His eyes were red-veined and puffy, his skin the color of parchment. Bill Christy collapsed exhausted into the nearest chair.

“You don't look too well,” Charity said, getting up from the table. “A nice bowl of hot soup will do you good.”

“I'm sorry I'm late.” The vet's voice was scratched and labored. “I've got laryngitis. I don't think I can swallow.” He shook his head at the steaming broth Charity placed before him.

“You shouldn't be out,” Faith exclaimed coming to his side.

“I promised Judah I'd test some cats for feline leukemia,” Dr. Christy rasped.

“That can wait. They're perfectly safe in quarantine. I'm sending you home right now,” Mama Faith ordered.

Bill Christy sighed. “I have appointments through tonight.”

Faith cupped his elbow. “You don't need to be out in this cold. You need to get to bed.”

The veterinarian didn't resist as she walked him out of the meeting room. “Maybe I will,” he said. “I will.”

 

Faith was exhausted herself by day's end and had gone to bed early. The call came around 9:00
P.M.
, and for a moment a sleep-dazed Faith imagined that she was back in animal control.

“Faith, there's been an awful accident. I picked it up on the police band. They had to do the Jaws of Life on the car. They think it's Dr. Christy. I thought you should know.”

Faith was awake now. She knew it was common practice among the locals to monitor the emergency police band on the radio. She didn't recognize the woman caller's voice but her response was instinctive. “It couldn't be Bill Christy,” she heard herself say. “We sent him home at lunchtime. He wasn't feeling well. It couldn't be him.”

The bearer of bad news blabbered on. “He fell asleep at the wheel and wandered into the other lane. Did you know he was only thirty-nine? And everyone's so fond of him around here.”

The words sounded unnaturally shrill in Faith's ear. “It wasn't Dr. Christy,” she repeated and wondered whom she was trying to reassure. “We sent him home. He promised to go home.”

“I hope you're right. I thought you should know, seeing how close you all are.”

Faith sat spine-straight in bed and wrapped her arms around herself. “He went home. He went home,” she repeated silently and wished for the dawn.

 

The police came next morning, arriving a few minutes before Francis and Silva drove in from Los Angeles. John quickly took Francis aside. In a wooden voice he said, “Dr. Christy's dead. He got broadsided by a van last night.”

Shock, disbelief, denial—all had their turn on the face of the man who had been closer to the veterinarian than any of them. John didn't know how to react to the tears that squeezed from Francis's eyes. No matter how bad a situation, even with the animals he loved so dearly, no one had ever seen Francis cry. “I'm so sorry,” was all John could manage.

“Do you remember how he used to fall asleep on the kitchen table—?” Francis couldn't finish. Silva, nonplussed, came to his side. Francis shook his head and continued his way into the winter stillness of the mesa.

“Leave him be right now, Silva. Leave him be,” John counseled and went to talk to the police.

F
or the community in the canyon, the death of their beloved Dr. Christy was an even heavier blow than their financial heart attack of the year before. Being broke meant that they existed hand to mouth. But they were no strangers to empty pockets. Money was not at all their driving force.

But never again to hear the flap of galoshes preceded by the pungent fragrance of manure as the veterinarian clumped into the clinic. Never again to smile at the Charlie Chaplin charade of jack-in-the-box drawers. Never again to see that boyish, smiling face or hear that cheery “good morning.” This was a loss with which they found it hard to come to grips. In this atmosphere of mourning no news was good news.

Best Friends appreciated Michael's insistence that they couldn't rely on tabling forever, and that they needed to do something more to keep in touch with the people who were responding to Best Friends.

For responding they were. Every night the men and women on the front lines of tabling would fax in names and information for Estelle and Matthias to feed into the data base. Daybreak would find a dedicated crew at the sanctuary, scrambling to compose a letter of appreciation to each donor to get in the mail before Kanab's 3:00
P.M.
postal deadline. A personal call of thanks followed the next week. The resultant number of people asking to be put on Best Friends' mailing list was growing rapidly.

The response to the letters, the phone calls, and the Alpo appeal confirmed Michael's belief that people wanted to feel a part of the community of Best Friends, to know that there were others who felt as they did about animals. Their own magazine would be a way to connect with everybody and spread the good news about animals and the environment.

Right now his colleagues' enthusiasm for the twenty-four pages of stories, Steven's cartoons, and photos from their animal Camelot was muted by grief. Even John's news that Zions First National Bank would extend their loan barely raised their spirits.

And still there were the animals, the mortgage, electricity, gas, phone, food, and water—all the necessities of living that everyone faces when they get up in the morning. When you got right down to it, the Best Friends were no different from anybody else. Life went on; the months flew by, but Dr. Christy was always in their hearts.

 

As promised, Homer Harris came to Angel Canyon in the summer of 1992. He was a big man. At six feet five, with iron gray hair cut close to the scalp military-style, and a face scored by many years in the world of business or riding the range—John suspected a bit of both—he was an imposing gentleman. “Norm Cram said I'd find somebody here,” he announced, striding into the treasurer's cramped office with a chap John knew in town.

“Hi, Jim,” John greeted.

Jim Travers acknowledged the welcome with a quick bob of his head. “I was going to take Homer straight to Dogtown, but he wanted to see where the business was done.” The local man, slight and wiry, looked to be about half the height and width of his friend, but John knew that Jim Travers had been a distinguished race car driver, winning the Indy 500 twice in his career. Homer was an avid racing car enthusiast, and the two men had been good buddies for years.

The man from California wasted no words. “My wife sends your Faith money now and then, and I've a mind to see where it goes.”

John looked into the direct eyes of the man towering above him.
Shall I tell the gentleman that if the bank hadn't renegotiated our mortgage, there'd be nothing to see? Shall I ask him not to think too badly that there are fences demanding repair and everything needs a paint job, but we're pretty strapped at the moment? No, I think the man wants to meet Faith so he can tell his wife he was here.
“Why don't I show you around myself. There's quite a bit to see, and Faith's expecting you,” John said, leading the way outside.

Homer Harris took in everything. “I notice you got goats to keep the horses company.” He asked questions John didn't expect. “Are those wolf-shepherd hybrids?” referring to the long-legged, massive-bodied animals in an enclosure chummed up to the wildcat compound. “Not right of someone to crossbreed like that,” Homer commented. Later, as the truck gratefully left the rutted tracks of the canyon and bumped onto the macadam road to Dogtown, he said, “Quite some space you've got here. Plenty of water I hope?”

“We've put in eight thousand gallons altogether.”

“Looks like you could do with more. Lots more.”

“We're working on it,” John assured.

Homer frowned. “Hmmm.”

Paul was kneeling on a two-by-four surrounded by a passel of curious mongrels when Jim Travers parked outside the clinic. John wasn't surprised to see a rack of boards stacked neatly beside a pile of used nails, but Homer was obviously puzzled by Paul's undertaking. He swung out of the truck and watched as the architect hooked the claw of a hammer under a bent nail, yanked it free, and tossed it on the heap.

“Someone forget to make a run to the hardware?” Homer asked.

Paul stood and wiped his hands on his jeans. He didn't know this man, and Paul wasn't about to tell a stranger they reused nails to save money. He smiled politely. “Something like that.”

“Hmmm,” Homer said again.

Faith came running out of Octagon Three when she heard the masculine voices. “Nice to see you, Jim,” she exclaimed before turning her full attention to his companion. “You must be Homer Harris.” Faith extended a wet hand and grinned up at the big man. “Sorry,” she apologized as Homer slid a meaty paw around hers. “I'm fixing the dogs' dinners, but it can wait a bit.”

Homer Harris said “hmmm” a lot as he toured Dogtown's dusty lanes. “Hmm,” as he shook hands with Tyson and noted the pack of aggressive-looking mutts at his heels. “Hmm,” when the dogs waited patiently for the Alpha Man before passing by an ancient Australian shepherd half asleep in the middle of a lane.

“He's the Dogfather,” Faith said and told Victor's story.

“Hmm,” at the mound of worn tennis balls jealously guarded by three feisty Chesapeakes under a juniper tree. Homer, however, said more than “hmm” when he bent to pet Ginger and found himself face-first in the dirt. “What the—?”

“Jesus Christ!” exclaimed Jim Travers, staring at the huge red malamute fanning his tail behind his buddy.

“That's our Sheriff,” Faith said. She bestowed a dazzling smile and a hand up to Homer Harris. “I should have warned you about Amra. Are you alright?”

“I'm fine. I'm fine. Didn't expect it, that's all.” To Faith's relief the big man's bemused grin matched her own. “Well, I'll tell Dolores the pictures in your magazine are for real. You don't keep the animals in a bunch of cages.”

“Is that why she wouldn't come?” Faith asked.

Homer nodded. “She's got a soft heart, my wife. Can't bear to see the poor animals shut up like they are most places.”

“She won't find that here!”

David Maloney's pickup belched behind them and they stepped aside to let him pass. Faith's son cruised down the lane, stopped his truck, left the engine running, grabbed a six-gallon plastic can from the bed, and staggered with it to the nearest enclosure. Ten excited dogs rushed the fence, a cloud of red dust billowing in their wake.

Homer Harris again watched, fascinated, as a sunburned David balanced the heavy water can against a fence with one knee while his free hand slipped the latch on the gate. “That takes some doing,” he said in admiration as the young man pushed into a tumult of frantic caninity; managing somehow to keep all the escape artists where they belonged.

The big man smiled at the dogs' loud slurps of appreciation as David emptied the large buckets and refilled them with fresh water. He shook his head as a perspiring David repeated the operation in two more enclosures before moving the truck along. “That boy makes me exhausted watching. How often does he do that?”

“Twice a day,” Faith said. “The water collects green algae in the summer if we don't change it. In winter it freezes over, so we break it up with a screwdriver.”

“This is your water system?” Homer demanded.

“For the time being,” John said.

Homer met Jim Travers's studied glance. “Hmmm.”

 

Faith wasn't expecting to see Homer Harris again in the near future. He had made it quite clear that he had only stopped by in order to give a report to his wife, Dolores. And yet two weeks later, when Faith walked out of her trailer, there he was with Jim Travers, discussing their ancient trencher that hadn't run in two years.

“Do you think we can fix this darn thing?” Faith heard Homer ask as she walked up behind the two men.

Jim Travers regarded the green wreck of a machine dubiously. “We might be able to do something with it.”

“Good morning. What a nice surprise, Homer.”

Homer Harris got right to the point. “There's plastic pipe being delivered this afternoon, and we need a machine to dig the ditches.”

Faith didn't understand.

“Dolores was upset when I told her how you watered your mutts.” The big man hefted a nonexistent belly. “You've got better things to do than haul water to six hundred dogs. Most inefficient. We're putting you in a water system.” Homer turned to his smaller pal. “What do you think, Jim?”

Jim Travers frowned, looking at the rusting trencher. “I think we need to rent a ditcher, Homer. Take a week to get parts for this thing.”

“Let's do it. Excuse us, young lady. We've got work to do.”

Faith thought of all the years Best Friends had broken their backs worrying water to the dogs. Now this angel from San Diego was laying pipe, putting faucets at the enclosures. She gazed into the stern, no-nonsense face above her. A simple thank you wasn't adequate, somehow. “We all get together for lunch around twelve,” she blurted out.

Homer nodded. “Save us a plate. Tell John I need to speak with him, too.” He turned his attention back to the trencher.

Faith regained her equilibrium. “Thank you. You don't know how much.”

“Don't worry about it,” Homer replied absently.