Best Friends

by Samantha Glen

  Diana bought them a basket for two. Every night she peeked in the bathroom to smile at the sight of the orange and black-and-white bodies curled around each other as if they were one. When a new motherless litter was in need of Bruiser’s ministrations, Diana moved Harriet back with him to the TLC Club.

  Her king of cats now had a teammate. Harriet cleaned and played with the kittens along with Bruiser. Diana loved nothing more than to watch the surrogate father sit in a circle of kitties as if he were teaching the facts of life, his friend Harriet always at his side.

  When their duties were done, the green-eyed feline would rasp her tiny tongue over her protector’s long fur, grooming until he purred with contentment. Never a night passed without the two sleeping together, often with their latest brood piled on top of them. Diana was reminded of Rhonda’s tending of Amra. “Thank you, Harriet, for making my old boy happy. Thank you.”

  Tomato, investigative reporter par excellence of Best Friends magazine, stalked around the TLC Club for all the world like he was Sam Spade on a case. Michael’s personal feline think tank declared to his person that he had waited long enough for an assistant. How was he expected to properly conduct his investigations if confined to the TLC Club? It was imperative that he have an outside undercover agent to sniff out the gossip. After all, he was getting his own mail nowadays.

  Members not only wrote to Tomato asking about his fellow kitties and the latest intrigues; they sent toys and treats for him and his friends. Tomato reveled in the limelight. Michael thought the little orange cat was getting to be quite the prima donna. But nothing compared to Benton!

  Benton must had gotten wind that the new TLC Club was to be named after hizzoner and in the not-too-distant future. He took wholeheartedly to the role of star of the show. He preened and pouted and insisted on being the first to greet any visitor, mainly by cowing the rest of the special-needs cats and waving his game leg. He would only give way to the rest of the crowd when he had gotten his required share of tickles and strokes. “What happened to that sweet feline?” Diana wondered out loud. “He’s become a legend in his own mind.”

  Tomato, however, would have none of it. “I am the investigative reporter. Only I know what really goes on,” his saucy, capricious little countenance seemed to communicate. “But I really need a sidekick to scout the scandal.”

  He got his sidekick, but from a most unexpected direction. Tammy was of a breed that made money for mankind—as long as they were fast enough. But the underfed greyhound was too small to go up against her bigger brethren on the Tijuana racetracks. Tammy failed miserably to win purses for her owners. Well, there were other ways to get money from a living possession. Tammy would be donated to an experimental laboratory for a tax write-off.

  But the Psychic Pet Network had other plans for shy Tammy. California Greyhound Rescue stepped in and paid the ransom for the dog, but her years of abuse made her too skittish for a home and she would bolt in terror at the mere sniff of a man.

  “No problem. She can race into the trees if she sees Tyson or David,” Faith said when the rescue group called her in desperation. Tammy, however, was even afraid of her own kind—dogs, that is. Faith had a notion. Maybe Tammy should live with Diana for a bit. The dog couldn’t be frightened of cats, surely. The investigative reporter smiled. He had a hunch about this hound.

  Every day Tomato commandeered his favorite scratching post and watched Diana encouraging the jittery racer. Every week he would spy on the volunteers and visitors who parked at Catland, and woe betide them if they left a window down.

  Like a homing pigeon, Tammy would be inside the car and out again with precious keys, clothing, or maps in her jaws. Other times Tammy would race past Tomato’s lookout perch with coffee cups, purses, books, all sorts of stuff from who-knew-where. Only Tomato knew of Tammy’s secret stash hideout down the hill until Diana spoiled the fun by following the dog one day. Chief Cat discovered items that had been missing for months.

  Watching Tammy’s predilection for crime, Tomato made his decision. The greyhound was a skittish, shy, paranoid kleptomaniac—the perfect assistant snoop.

  “Hello,” Tomato conveyed to the bashful black and white hound. “How would you like to team up with me? The pay’s good. Plenty of love and treats. I’m the boss, of course. And you’ll have to get used to Michael, who takes my orders. But all-in-all, you could do a lot worse. What do you say?”

  Tomato had engineered things very well when Michael thought about it. The feline journalist now had a reporter to do the work while he took all the credit. “You’re bad, Tomato. Bad,” was all he could say.

  However, there was nothing Michael could say to Sun. The twirling, whirling, impossible bundle of energy was looking thin and tired. No matter what vitamins, supplements, or changes of diet Michael tried, Sun was weary. Dr. Allen delivered the bad news.

  “He’s old and has cancer, Michael. You can either put him through some miserable treatments or let him live out his last months in dignity.”

  By early fall, Sun was not up to their afternoon walks together. The Doberman that had rarely let Michael out of his sight since that hot, humid noon in Kennedy Airport only wanted to lie by his person’s feet as he worked on the computer. Michael got to glancing from Mommy on the stove in her sphinxlike concentration on his every word, to Sun in his ever-drowsy somnambu-lence.

  One cool morning, as the canyon signaled the winter to come, Michael noticed that his companion was not by his side. He felt a sudden foreboding. He ran from the trailer calling, “Sun, where are you? Sun, where are you, little one?” Sun did not run from behind a nearby juniper. Sun did not come trotting to Michael’s voice. Sun was gone.

  Michael called everyone in the canyon. “Sun is missing,” he said, and that was enough. Within minutes, John, Faith, Virgil, Sharon, Judah, David, and Tyson were at his trailer. In silence, they fanned out to search for the dog he loved.

  Michael had the suspicion that Sun had made his way to the creek. Why, he didn’t know. It was a long hike down the cliffs. At the bottom the river’s curving banks lay swathed in cottonwoods and softened with the last cool grass of autumn.

  It was only right that Michael should find his best friend. Sun lay asleep, hidden to all but the most insistent of searchers, in a thicket of sheltering willows. Michael knew why Sun had chosen to leave him. The Doberman had followed his animal instinct, knowing the time had come to go off by himself—to die.

  Was it that he didn’t want to bother me? Or is it just that as close as we are to our companions, there is a rhythm, a knowing in their genes of what must be done at the end of a life? Michael’s own animal instinct told him to leave Sun where he was in the willows—to honor his choice.

  Yet even the creatures with whom we credit a higher understanding of the seasons of life are not infallible. Michael had observed that too many times. What if his best friend woke up, was hungry, cold, and needed Michael’s comfort?

  Judah and Virgil fashioned a simple stretcher. Michael walked beside his dog to the trailer, apologizing for doing what he thought was right, apologizing for possibly interrupting the Doberman’s passage beyond this life.

  Yet Sun was not ready to say good-bye. In the warmth of Michael’s home, on his favorite thick fleece bed the Doberman slept, ate, and licked the hand that fed him. For two days, Michael never left his dog’s sight.

  On the third morning Michael felt something compelling him to go into town. He needed some food and supplies, but they could wait. Still, he felt he ought leave. He lay on the floor beside Sun until the early autumn afternoon came to call. “I’ll be back soon,” he promised as he dragged himself away.

  Michael closed the door of his trailer carefully behind him. Subconsciously he knew what to expect on his return, knew the silent agreement that had passed between him and his companion of nine years.

  Sun died peacefully, in the place he loved best, in the privacy that all animals crave. He lay exactly as Michael had left him, curled
on his favorite doggie bed.

  Sun’s friends, Mommy, That Naughty Girl, Snoozums, and Squeakypop, sniffed and paid their respects. Afterward, Michael hiked with his subdued dogs across the mesa, encouraged them to play, and gave them way too many treats. But humans and four-leggeds knew that this was Sun’s wake. The dog that had loved and romped and lived in their circle of friends would not have wanted it any other way.

  Michael buried the Doberman under a sandy mound near the trailer. “Good-bye, Sun,” he murmured. “You died happy, I think. What more can any of us ask at the end of a life?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Benton’s House

  Steven Hirano had approached the construction of Benton’s House as a general on a campaign. He had meticulously kept their members informed of each step of the building process, updated the appeals, and tracked every dollar with John. Finally, as the first snows dusted the mesa, he made the announcement. “We have the funds to finish Benton’s House.”

  Diana and Judah slapped an ecstatic high five. Michael nodded sagely. The meeting room at The Village exploded in cheers. “What a wonderful Christmas present!” Jana exclaimed.

  Benton’s House would be finished the following April. If all went well, the grand opening would be May Day of 1995. Michael and Steven planned a very special newsletter inviting everyone to join them for the moving-in day party. Those who couldn’t make the trip were encouraged to lift their glasses at 7:00 P.M. Mountain Time—after the cats had enjoyed their afternoon treats, and just before they got tucked in for the night—in a toast to themselves, the members, without whom there would be no Best Friends.

  Michael added a footnote: “If you can’t manage 7:00 P.M., the kitties have a way of transcending time, so they’ll just rearrange the temporal continuum to your convenience.”

  Amazing things happen when you put something good in motion.

  From the first of the year Estelle was getting letters of confirmation to attend Benton’s party. Other members asked if they could come a few days early to help with any final chores.

  Then there were the presents: toys, blankets, beds, kitty furniture, paint, drywall, fencing. One couple sent a package of Norwegian salmon with a note:

  This is a gift for Benton and his friends on opening day. It’s our kitties’ favorite birthday present. Tell the “special needs” cats we love them. They are an inspiration to us all. God Bless You.

  The weeks leading up to the grand opening were a frenzy of building and last minute preparations. Diana fretted when the washer/dryer wasn’t delivered. Judah obsessed over the arrangement of the kitty furnishings. Paul’s concentration was on the “Great Wall of Contributors.” He personally designed the golden plaques and lovingly set each one in its place. Virgil kept everyone laughing with his out-of-the-blue chants for help as in a ship going down—“Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!”

  A few days before the day, everyone calmed as, with loving care, the 100 less-than-perfect kitties were moved to their new quarters. In Benton’s House, hizzoner the Chairpurrson would hold court in a playroom fitted with carpeted nooks and hiding places in Benton blue. Bruiser and Harriet would comfort their broods in a cozy, sunny space furnished with toys, kitty condos, and extra large easy-access window ledges on which to snooze.

  Tomato, of course, couldn’t make up his mind where he should live. Finally, he settled on a north-facing room, which filtered the light. This was the special haven for white cats, who needed protection from the sun because of their genetic disposition toward tumors and cancer. By a series of insistent meows, Tomato declared it to be perfect for his new office—after all, it came complete with a white-collar staff. Michael accordingly provided an ancient typewriter and a small table for the exclusive use of the magazine’s favorite columnist.

  With Benton’s House, Best Friends also incorporated an idea raised by Jana de Peyer. “More people are asking if they can adopt special-needs animals,” she reported on more than one occasion after coming back from tabling.

  Anne Mejia seconded her observation. “Me too.”

  Michael knew exactly what Jana was saying. “People are always talking about the unconditional love of animals, but what you’re seeing is the unconditional love of people for animals.”

  “Exactly,” Jana exclaimed. “These folks aren’t looking for the perfect pet. They want one they feel really needs them.”

  Michael nodded. “I think this is just the beginning of something. And can anyone tell me why these little creatures shouldn’t have a chance for a loving home of their own?”

  Nobody could quarrel with that argument. So in Benton’s House the less severely handicapped were given their own “adoptables” room.

  From its opening, the response to the “adoptables” room astounded everyone. It pioneered a program that, in the years to come, would encourage thousands to offer homes to less-than-perfect members of many species.

  For their willingness to try this radical new approach, Best Friends would receive widespread recognition as a refuge for the truly helpless. Their example would blaze a change of thinking throughout the whole animal movement: No creature should be lightly cast aside; all deserved a chance to live.

  On May Day of 1995, it was time for celebration. Hundreds had written in to report that they were celebrating at home, and 150 people flew in from around the country for the festivities. Michael wasn’t sure who had the better time: the members, who sensed they were part of something truly special, or the animals, who were outrageously spoiled and coddled all day long.

  As dusk lengthened its shadows over Angel Canyon, the rush of the past weeks suddenly hit home, and a weary Michael felt the need to be alone for a while. Few noticed when he slipped away and steered his Jeep toward his own personal sanctuary.

  The Englishman was in a reflective mood and almost dismissed the flash of color he caught out of the corner of his eye. He parked by the trailer and walked unbelieving toward the red dirt mound under which he had buried Sun.

  The knoll was a profusion of multi-colored blossoms. How had he possibly missed them? Michael stared down at a carpet of golden aster, sego lily, mule’s ears, Indian paintbrush, sweet clover, angel trumpet, and wild rose. He inhaled the sweet, heady fragrance of evening primrose. “Good grief,” he murmured wonderingly, “Sun’s turned into flowers.”

  Michael sat down beside the petaled grave, clasped his arms around his knees, and looked out over his kingdom. Sun was showing him that there was no finality to death. What was dog was now beautiful plants providing food for bees, hiding places for insects. What a splendid gift the Doberman was bestowing on his old playground.

  He recalled Paul Eckhoff’s suggestion only a few months earlier that they dedicate a memorial park near Angels Landing for themselves and their members. Cyrus Mejia had immediately designed a great domed gate eight feet high, wondrously adorned with rabbits, cats, dogs, birds, and lilies. The canyon’s own red rocks would be laid one upon the other to fashion a wall to surround the sacred place.

  They chose a flat, shaded plateau across from the horse field on the road to The Village to create their Angels Rest. Now, as he sat in the quiet of the fading afternoon, Michael imagined he could hear the faint cathedral music of its wind chimes echoing across the mesas.

  Michael gently ruffled the delicate blossoms that honored Sun’s place. The Doberman had been one of the first to come to Best Friends. It was only right that the canyon’s most fragrant flowers should bloom on his grave. Slowly he eased to his feet.

  “We’d better be careful when Benton passes over the Rainbow Bridge,” he murmured. “That cat will demand an Amazon rain forest to sprout in his honor, complete with parrots.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Utah’s Week for the Animals

  Gregory Castle hurried along the corridor toward the Green Room, the holding area for guests booked on KSL television shows. He was slated to appear on the “Our Town” program in less than fifteen minutes. The anchor wanted to foc
us on the Festival of the Animals in Trolley Square, which was fine with Gregory. That’s where the adoption fair was being held, and from all reports things were going well.

  Actually, the soft-spoken man from Best Friends was quite enjoying himself. Gregory projected a natural ease and passion for his subject that was appealing to viewers. He was a popular guest, with hosts often asking for a return appearance.

  Even more important for the success of Utah’s Week for the Animals was his discovery of heretofore hidden diplomatic skills. The state was home to a dozen or so often-fractious animal welfare groups. With his bold new idea, Gregory managed to persuade them to reconcile their differences and work together for the common good. Then too, the response from the schools was more than they could have hoped for, thanks to Nathania’s gift with children.

  Above all, the weather was smiling on them, unlike last year, when the worst ice storm of the season all but scuttled the opening festivities. Only a few brave souls had turned out for the inaugural dinner last November. This year Best Friends had gotten smart and moved the event up to early October.

  When he put it all together, Gregory was most pleased with the way things were progressing. He was so engrossed in his thoughts, he almost bumped into the gregarious young man who strolled out of a studio ahead of him. “Sorry, Nick.” He smiled an apology to Salt Lake City’s popular news anchor.

  Nick Toma flashed his famous elastic grin. “Didn’t I just see you on a “Pet-of-the-Week” segment this morning?”

  “Yes,” Gregory smiled. He had gotten to know many of the personalities around the NBC affiliate’s studios in the past month. It was a big joke around the station that Gregory must have a secret camp in the basement. After all, how else could this man manage to pop up on television at least twice a day with such unruffled ease.