Best Friends (9 page)

Michael ignored the remark. “Think about it. We're not playing games here. We're as much a fully functioning sanctuary as anyone else out there. We're just not very public.”

“God forbid,” Diana exclaimed. “We can't build facilities quick enough for the animals coming in already. We'd be inundated from St. George to Salt Lake if they knew about us beyond Kanab.”

“We still need an identity,” Michael insisted. “Something that says who we are and what we're trying to do. Isn't everybody tired of explaining us?”

“You've got a point, Michael,” Steven said.

“Man's Best Friend,” John murmured straightfaced.

“Our Best Friends,” Virgil picked up the fun.

“Their Best Friends,” Cyrus got into the act.

“Now we're being silly.” Steven tried not to grin.

Faith wasn't laughing. “It should be just Best Friends. My friend Hope White always said that Best Friends was the perfect name for an animal sanctuary.”

The voices chorused around the crowded table. “Yes!

“Why not?”

“Perfect!”

“All right!”

“Let's do it!”

Michael smiled at last. “Now it's coming together!”

So it came to pass on the cool evening of May 4, 1986, the sanctuary in the canyon got its name: Best Friends Animal Sanctuary.

It was the beginning of the legend.

T
hey liked being Best Friends. Having a name focused everything they were doing. Everyone on the property was infused with new energy. Michael thought more and more of how the sanctuary would evolve: how Best Friends would coalesce into a coherent organization; where the money might come from five years hence.

The monthly payments from the sale of the ranch had given them a little breathing space. Paul drew plans for a new feline area—Catland. He and Diana decided to locate the cluster of buildings on a high, dry plateau with a view down the canyon, an easy jog from the bunkhouse. “Chief Cat” would get her first “Kitty Motel” as soon as the architect could spare some hands.

Faith spent time exploring, re-acquainting herself with the land, renewing her energy . . . and allowing the canyon to show where her beloved Dogtown should be. Finally she was ready. “I think I know where I'd like to have Dogtown,” she told Paul on a Saturday morning. “But I'd like your input.”

They were standing in front of The Village. Already, at 7:00 the buzz of saws and the clink of hammers mingled with the country sounds of station KNOY. Faith could hear Virgil Barstad's sonorous baritone trying mightily to drown out Johnny Cash with little success. Virgil did love to sing along.

Paul was thinking. “I said I'd go with Francis to pick up some chicken wire for Diana this morning. But he doesn't really need me. When do you want to do it?”

“How about now?”

“Thought you'd say that.” Paul smiled and led the way to the clutter of trucks parked haphazardly along the ridge. He stopped at the last in the line, his old green pickup. Well, Faith remembered it that color. But two years of sun, rain, snow, and red earth had blistered and worn the olive paint job down to the metal body and rusted out a couple of giant holes for good measure.

She hesitated, noting the layer of grime that lay undisturbed over the battered exterior. “You
have
driven this lately?”

“We have a deal,” Paul confided. “Green Goddess here threatens not to die before the millennium as long as I take her for a spin every day.”

Neither made small talk as Paul bounced the truck over the rutted surfaces of the mesa. “Keep going,” Faith directed as he turned south onto the county road that looped to State Highway 89. “About here will do fine, to the right.” She indicated where he should stop.

Faith hiked her skirt and jumped onto the giving soil. She strode ahead, gesturing here and there in her excitement as she outlined her ideas for Dogtown.

Paul listened. “That would work. But why here? We're hardly a mile from Eighty-nine, Faith. You want to be that close to the highway?”

A huge smile fanned tiny crinkles of pleasure around Faith's eyes. “Do you know how many people will be coming to adopt?”

Paul wasn't convinced. “The ratio of those dumped to those wanted is not in your favor, Faith. Jana and Anne are the only ones finding any homes, and that's in Vegas and Denver. Not here.”

“That will change. People will be coming from all over soon. Just watch.” Faith took in the acres of sloping land thick with virgin piñon and juniper. “And the dogs will be in heaven. So much shade and earth to dig in.”

Paul couldn't argue with her enthusiasm. “Okay, but we have to finish The Village, and Diana desperately needs a Kitty Motel.”

“Paul, I know the cats are crowded, but it's not fair to keep the dogs in the storage areas for much longer. Can't you spare Tyson, and perhaps John, at least to get me started?”

Paul's smile softened the angular, aesthetic lines of his long face. He started to laugh.

“What's so funny?”

“John once built Diana a three-legged stool.”

“So?”

“It collapsed when one of her cats jumped on it.”

Faith could picture in her mind's eye the clunky piece of furniture that John would have fashioned so proudly, and the way his bushy eyebrows would have pulled together in chagrin when the stool splayed apart under the cat's weight.

“Was it a big cat?”

Paul shook his head, unable to suppress his mirth. “No.”

Faith giggled. “So I should absolutely take him off your hands, don't you think?”

Paul made up his mind. “We'll swing it somehow.”

 

Dogtown blossomed over the next few months. Tyson was not only a treasure with the dogs, but he could fence an enclosure quicker than anybody. To everyone's surprise, himself included, John Christopher Fripp developed a talent with saw and hammer.

Faith would see the two men: John, his fair complexion peony red under the pitiless summer sunshine, framing the first octagon; the reticent Texan, shirt wet with perspiration, digging post holes, dropping stakes, nailing the pickets precisely one foot apart, one above the other.

Tyson took it upon himself to assist Faith in every way possible: building, feeding, exercising the dogs, or scooping poop. Whatever she asked, he obliged with a shy smile.

Faith came to understand that the soft-spoken Texan had no fear. Dogs she had kept separate because of their tendency to bite, Tyson took walking together. Somehow he could travel the red dirt byways shadowed by a pack that would fell any lesser human.

One afternoon, she observed an unfortunate black Labrador mutt biting Tyson on the leg. The man promptly bent and bit the dog's haunches in return.

Faith, concerned, had a gentle suggestion. “Dogs don't like sunglasses and hats. Maybe if you didn't wear them?”

“I'm light-sensitive,” Tyson explained. “I can't go without shades during the day.”

Faith suddenly realized she'd rarely seen the man without his sunglasses. “I'm sorry, Tyson.”

After supper that evening she walked the Texan back to his trailer, only half listening as he told her about his new collection of Zippo lighters. Tyson didn't smoke, but he loved to collect, and he would bend Faith's ear all day if she let him.

But tonight her mind was occupied in figuring out a better system of getting water to Dogtown than trucking it in barrels from the bunkhouse. She had about concluded that they would get around to pumping it sooner or later, when Tyson opened his door.

Nine excited curs threw themselves upon their person in joyous welcome. Among them was the ornery black Lab. Man and former adversary greeted each other as if nothing untoward had happened between them. Faith saw that the dog would now live with Tyson in perfect harmony.

Watching the quiet Texan's interaction with the canines, Faith confirmed what she had suspected from their first encounter. Neither shades nor hat made any difference. The dogs accepted Tyson as one of their own. He was an alpha man: one of the pack in human form. Faith wondered if he were truly aware of how important he was becoming to Best Friends. She hoped he would stay when the summer was over.

 

As July melted into August, more animals found a refuge at Best Friends. At Dogtown, Faith loved the sense of rambunctious freedom that filled her domain with life and energy. Carefully grouped younger dogs, smaller dogs, big dogs, and those that needed special care made themselves at home in their own huge doggie runs that extended from the prototype structure. Several older dogs had the run of the place, choosing mostly to sprawl outside near that first skeletal octagon from which they knew food and doting attention were always forthcoming.

Faith knew that this was just the beginning, that they would be building for years; but already one of her special joys was to watch the animals playing together in their new surroundings, knowing what kinds of situations most of them came from. She counted ninety dogs on the property now and prided herself on knowing each one of their quirks and personalities.

Faith knew, for instance, that Jenny, the sheltie runt, had to sleep wrapped around Simba, the mastiff; but woe betide the giant if he came within three feet of her while she ate. And whereas Sophie, the schnauzer mutt, might be small, she ruled her compound of six canines.

Sophie's subjects had dug an immense hole under a grab of sage, into which they all snuggled for afternoon naps. But Sophie always commandeered her spot first, circling three times to settle herself to her pleasure. Her pack had to wait for a yelp of consent before they dared join her.

Faith wondered how much longer Sophie might be living in Dogtown. Jana had confided that a woman called Kiki had fallen in love with the little mutt's photo and was wanting to adopt. It would be interesting to see who became boss dog when Sophie left.

Sometimes Faith questioned how there could be so many unwanted animals from such a small community, and more coming every week. But even in her short time in the area, she had gotten a taste of the hardships of rural living. Low pay and hard physical work, wedded with a job market that depended heavily on seasonal demand, made for a precarious existence. Just last week she'd heard that the mill in nearby Fredonia was laying off workers and might even shut down. Faith guessed it would mean more animals on their doorstep.

Since coming to Utah, she had continued the early morning habit of taking her decaf and walking with her own dogs. It was a time to be alone with her thoughts. She pondered the probability that word of their no-kill ethic was already spreading beyond the narrow confines of Kanab. She never ceased to be awed by the spectacular beauty and tranquility of this land they had found, but she often wondered why they'd been led to precisely this remote corner of the planet.

She couldn't answer her own musings, but on some deeper level she knew that this place was not just for the people and creatures of Best Friends. Something more was meant to be here— something greater than themselves. Faith didn't try to imagine what that might be. She was secure in the knowing that events would unfold in their own time.

Right now she had to do something about her living quarters. The Village was too far away from the dogs. Diana could walk to Catland in minutes. Faith needed to be able to do the same. John Christopher tallied every penny spent, so building a house was out of the question; but a trailer would do nicely.

Diana turned her on to the
Thrifty Nickel.
“It's a freebie newspaper. You get the best bargains.” She grinned in complicity. “Where do you think our furniture comes from?”

It was as if that certain edition of the
Thrifty Nickel
was printed especially for Faith: on the front page, in black letters, an advertisement for a sixty-footer in Cedar City. The trailer was as old as her youngest daughter—circa 1971—but serviceable. She would have to remove the wood burning stove and replace the shag carpet with linoleum for the dogs, but Faith was jubilant. She hired a guy to load the trailer on a semi, had it brought to Dogtown, and settled in a grove of junipers with a view toward Zion National Park.

Within a week, she had camouflaged the crummy white exterior with army green paint to blend in with the surroundings. Then she persuaded Francis to pick her up some fencing to make a pen for Brunhilda and company.

Her first night in her new home, Faith felt as content as she had ever been in her life. She liked having her own space, being close to the dogs should she hear trouble, and knowing she could get up to check on a newcomer and give comfort if necessary.

As she drifted into sleep, her last thoughts were for the next dog to find refuge in Dogtown. What special needs, what idiosyncracies and mannerisms would differentiate him or her from the others? As her eyes closed, Faith had not one doubt she would find out soon enough.

“I
t's for you,” Francis said, handing Faith the phone. “She gets more phone calls than we do,” he joked to Michael.

“She's like the Queen Mum,” Michael quipped. “Younger version, of course,” he amended after catching Faith's glare.

It was true. Faith had been in the canyon barely three months and was already the most popular in town. She schmoozed with everybody—the pharmacist, sheriff, gas station attendants, waiters, and grocery clerks. And everybody gossiped with the woman who would incline her head in their direction and
listen
to their trials and tribulations. The person who had asked to speak to Faith was Betty Clark, a checker at IGA Foods.

Faith had corralled Michael and Francis earlier to talk about Tyson, who had asked if he could stay on at Best Friends. They had come to the relative quiet of the bunkhouse to discuss getting the Texan a bigger trailer and moving him to Dogtown.

Michael and Francis didn't particularly listen, but in the cramped confines of the kitchen they couldn't help but hear both sides of the women's conversation.

“I think they just up and left him,” Betty Clark said.

“What do you mean?” Faith asked.

“I haven't seen any of the family that lives there for days. There aren't any cars around. The poor thing's out there on a chain with no shade. I don't see any food or a water bowl. . . .”

“Can you go over and give him some water and food?” Faith interrupted quickly. “I'll be right down to pick him up.”

“Where does Betty live?” Francis asked as Faith hung up.

“Pugh's Trailer Park.”

Francis's face tightened. “That's probably not good.”

Faith knew what he meant. For the most part, the mobile homes in Pugh's Trailer Park were a collection of neglected single-wides. Many of the residents had a hard time finding steady jobs, and the weariness of spirit showed in their surroundings. Pugh's was one of the pockets of near poverty of which Faith had become aware since she arrived.

Betty Clark and her husband were an exception. Their home was always painted and clean and their dogs dearly loved. Betty had told Faith she expected to be moving soon to Las Vegas, where her husband could find better paying work.

The cashier was waiting when Faith pulled into the park and rode with her to the deserted trailer. The only sign of life was an Australian shepherd mix who tried to hide under the bottom step as the two women approached. “He hasn't touched the food. Do you think he's sick?” Betty asked.

Faith squatted by the listless animal and slowly lifted his head. Vacant eyes stared into hers. The dog was so thin she could feel its jawbones sharp and brittle through the skin. But what really incensed her was the way the shepherd was tied. He had no collar. A rusting chain had sufficed for his owners, rubbing the neck bloody where the animal had tried to strain farther than the four feet of his tether. “I think he's heartbroken and starving. He's an older dog, and his family has just left him here to die.” Faith pushed herself to her feet. “He understands that, somehow. Do you know how long he's been like this?”

Betty's sweet face crumpled. “I don't usually come back here,” she said. “You know my place is near the entrance. A neighbor tipped me off. I would have come sooner if I'd known.” Betty hovered over the dog, wringing the hem of her cotton T-shirt like a dishrag. Gently Faith disengaged the woman's fingers.

“Easy. It's not your fault. First thing is to get this chain off his neck. I have bolt cutters in the truck. Carry them everywhere.”

The dog offered no resistance as Faith cut him free. He was so light it was easy to lift him onto the passenger seat beside her. She took one last look around the depressing line of trailers as she turned the ignition. Betty Clark deserved better. “Thank you so much for caring,” Faith said as she shifted into gear. “I hope your husband finds a good job and you get moved soon.”

Francis had been waiting at Dogtown. He opened the passenger door and reached for the dog's limp body. The shepherd whimpered and slipped to the floorboards, cowering as far under the dash as he could fit his emaciated frame. “Damn people,” Faith said, her eyes tearing. “Some man must have beaten him.”

Francis slipped his arms under the shepherd's haunches. “Easy, boy,” he murmured. “Nobody's going to hurt you.”

Inside Faith's trailer, the man and woman went to work. They comforted the dog on a bed of clean towels on her dining table. Faith cradled the patient's scratchy head against her belly while Francis gave him a shot to ease the pain. Together they bathed the wounded neck and smeared a thick coat of Furozone antibiotic cream over the ravaged skin before bandaging it.

“There, now you can pass for a doggie priest,” Francis said to the quiescent animal.

Faith's sense of humor was nonexistent this afternoon. “I don't think he's about to give sacrament,” she retorted.

All that was left to help the dog for the moment was Dr. Christy's magic elixir. When the last dose had been carefully spooned into the shepherd's mouth, Francis moved his fingers over the frail form as the veterinarian had taught. “I don't see or feel any damage,” he reported, “but some of your special attention would do him a world of good.”

Faith nodded. “I'll make sure Brunhilda and the others stay outside and make up a bed on the floor next to mine. This boy needs to know somebody loves him.”

 

Love was what Faith had in abundance to give. For two weeks she hand-fed the dispirited canine until he lifted himself from his blanket to eat of his own accord. She sat with him late into the night, visualizing the dog bright-eyed and strong, eager for life. Faith insisted that David and Tyson visit daily to show the animal that not all men were to be feared.

The first time she took him into the sunshine, the shepherd hugged the steps of her trailer, terrified to hazard beyond a remembered boundary. Faith finally carried the dog into the trees, where he swayed uncertainly on spindle legs, tail plastered to his belly. But he slunk back home after her.

Surprisingly, Brunhilda made no attempt to molest the newcomer, and Faith's other dogs just sniffed and left him alone. Over the weeks the mongrel came to resemble less of a walking X-ray. Flesh appeared between the ribs of his cadaverous form, and his fur took on a healthy sheen in the sunlight. One morning the dog left the security of the trailer steps and plodded after his benefactor along the lanes of Dogtown. The day Faith saw the shepherd's tail, she knew they had turned the corner.

She and Tyson had come back to Octagon Three to wash up after cleaning the dog runs and found the shepherd waiting. “Well, look at you,” Faith smiled and bent to scratch his backside. The dog leaned into the pleasure. Slowly he unfurled his tail from under his belly and, as if long disuse had weakened the muscles, wagged it slowly. “Yes!” Faith cried. “Tyson, do you see this? We must go get Francis. He's got to see this.”

“Another victory, Faith,” Francis said when the dog didn't cower at his approach.

“That's a good name for him. Victor, short for victory. Yes!”

 

To ensure his doggie confidence further, Faith decreed that Victor be given the run of Dogtown. Every morning she encouraged the shepherd to accompany her about her chores. Victor took the honor seriously. He became Faith's shadow, standing guard, his mismatched blue and brown eyes considering many things as she fed and scooped, petted and conversed with the occupants of the canine paradise.

Sometimes she would observe the dog meandering the paths of Dogtown without her. From time to time he would scuff a bed in the dirt and plop down to contemplate the view. Then, on the last Saturday in September, everything changed.

Tyson had gotten into the habit of walking the rowdier dogs at daybreak. This Indian summer's morn, they padded back past Octagon Three as usual. A few yards ahead, blocking the lane that led to the enclosures, an impassive Victor sat watching. As Tyson and the pack approached, the Australian shepherd rose to his feet.

“Hello, boy,” Tyson greeted.

Victor's tail wagged vigorously in acknowledgment, but his eyes were fixed on the dogs straggling behind. The Texan absently ruffled the fur on Victor's backside, as the dog had come to like, and continued his way down the path. Several steps later, realizing the pack hadn't followed, he turned to see what was happening.

The eight dogs were stopped, as if someone had erected an invisible “No Entry” sign. The hackles on their backs rose stiff with fight or flight, but not one moved. Victor stood immobile before them, holding their gaze. He didn't growl, didn't make any threatening moves. Victor just stood.

The standoff lasted a full sixty seconds, then eight tails wagged cautiously in unison. Tyson couldn't believe what he was seeing. It would be too easy for any of these more gregarious dogs to assert its dominance, but strangely, Victor was not challenged. In a language understood only among themselves, each canine backed away and lay down.

Tyson studied the shepherd, remembering what Faith had told him. “Dogs, like people, need a job, need to feel they're useful.” It was obvious that Victor, after careful deliberation, had decided on his duties. The shepherd was the gatekeeper of Dogtown's heart, between Faith's home and Octagon Three. From now on, only the hierachy of humans would be allowed to cross his invisible line in the sand. Canines should find appropriate back routes to their respective quarters unless—and this only became clear later—accompanied by a person.

Tyson retraced his steps to crouch by Victor's side. The shepherd panted happily, rolled on his back, and presented his human friend with his vulnerable underside. Tyson rubbed the pale belly in recognition while his subdued pack found another path.

From that moment, the center of Dogtown was Victor's jealously guarded turf. He had established himself as the “Dogfather,” capo of canines. Victor did not even have to patrol his chosen territory. He could doze under a nearby tree, not deigning to rouse himself. No dog, no matter what shape, size, or temperament, dared cross his invisible line in the sand unless accompanied by a proper person. Faith declared that if Victor wore a ring, he would raise a paw to be kissed by the lesser dogs on the property.