The largest no-kill animal sanctuary in the country, Best Friends houses between 1,800 and 3,000 creatures--from dogs, rabbits and birds to sheep, pigs and horses--75% of which are adopted and many of which have special needs. Located on 3,000 acres in Angel Canyon (formerly Kanab), Utah, the shelter was founded in 1982 by several friends. This is the story of their efforts to execute their grand plan, from locating an appropriate piece of land to building various shelters, taking in ever growing numbers of abused and abandoned animals, finding a reliable veterinarian and raising the funds needed to keep their huge project afloat. Not quite as wonderful as its subject, the book gets bogged down in extraneous details and the introduction of numerous secondary characters. Readers curious about the practical side of this endeavor may find it frustrating that, in the first half of the book, it's not clear how the sanctuary supported hundreds of animals and its staff of a dozen or more; only later do we learn of generous donors, fund-raising efforts, the beginning of Best Friends' excellent magazine and the sanctuary's canvassing efforts. Still, readers drawn in by the authors' 25-city radio tour and 20-city television campaign will find distinctive, memorably drawn portraits of many animals--such as Tomato, the head cat of the TLC Club and the main source of local gossip for Best Friends magazine editor Michael Mountain. Agent, Meredith Bernstein. (Feb.) Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
Best Friends: The True Story of the World's Most Beloved Animal Sanctuary
Narrated by Juliette Parker
Samantha GlenUnabridged — 9 hours, 25 minutes
Best Friends: The True Story of the World's Most Beloved Animal Sanctuary
Narrated by Juliette Parker
Samantha GlenUnabridged — 9 hours, 25 minutes
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Overview
“For everyone who has ever loved a pet, this is a message of the universal love between animals and people.”-Booklist*
Editorial Reviews
Best Friends, a domestic animal sanctuary in Kenab, UT, is permanent home to more than 1800 dogs, cats, birds, horses, etc., many of them abused, disfigured, and unadoptable. Glen (coauthor of Search and Rescue) chronicles the trials, tribulations, and triumphs of a small band of dreamers, including Faith Maloney, Michael Mountain, and Francis Battista, who envisioned a refuge where such animals could live out their natural lives in comfort and safety. In recounting Best Friends' 20-year history, the author introduces us not only to the humans who brought the dream to reality but also some of the charming and needy animals who necessitated its creation. Among them are Sinjin, the burned cat; Mollie, the pot-bellied pig, evicted from her suburban residence because of a change in zoning laws; Benton, the lame cat, inspiration for the construction of a special-needs residence; and Ginger, the Chesapeake Bay retriever, rescued from continuous breeding in a puppy mill. A heartwarming and inspiring tale of love, dedication, and courage, this book belongs in every library where there is interest in environmental issues and animal rights.--Florence Scarinci, formerly with Nassau Community Coll. Lib., Garden City, NY Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
Don't get me wrong: I like animals. But I wonder what THEY'D think of a book that insists on endowing them with human qualities. If they thought about it at all. BEST FRIENDS is a series of anecdotes--some redundant, some painfully cute--related by an enormous cast of characters, human and animal. A tighter focus--fewer rescues, recoveries, eleventh-hour benefactors, and other miracles--might have increased its impact: This audiobook cries out for abridgment. Juliette Parker contributes a warm, clear voice, generally appropriate for the story. Variation of that voice (accents, a change in pitch--something) would have helped listeners keep track of the many speakers. T.J.W. © AudioFile 2002, Portland, Maine
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940169320251 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Penguin Random House |
| Publication date: | 01/29/2001 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Montezuma's Treasure
It was just sweet serendipity, Francis said. Yet he believed nothing extraordinary happened by chance. And this, after all, had been foretold.
On a late June morning in 1982, Francis left the ranch in Prescott, Arizona, heading north for Salt Lake. He drove steadily through the afternoon, stopping only once as he neared the Utah border to rifle through the jumble of U.S. Geological Survey maps he carried everywhere. With his real estate background, Francis was always on the lookout for that perfect piece of land where they could build the animal sanctuary of their dreams.
The small ranch a few of them had bought four years earlier was already too small for the increasing number of animals that he, Faith, and the half- dozen other permanent residents rescued and cared for. When any of their far-flung coterie of friends came to stay, sooner or later the talk turned wistfully to everyone's vision of a place where hundreds of animals could be safe, loved, and allowed to live out their natural lives.
Francis checked in at the Parry Lodge in Kanab that night. He was the first customer in the dining room the next morning, ordering his customary black coffee — the stronger the better.
As he waited for his breakfast, Francis casually studied the map of the southernmost slice of the state, but his attention kept wandering to the framed pictures and movie posters that adorned the walls: signed sepia photos of Tom Mix, Clint Eastwood, and Ronald Reagan, in full cowboy regalia flanked by advertisements for The Lone Ranger, MacKenna's Gold, and The Outlaw Josie Wales.
The high-school waitress was full of information as she poured his coffee. "Oh yes, they used to shoot a lot of westerns around here in the old days. In Kanab Canyon, just outside of town. Ronald Reagan had his own room right upstairs," she confided, as if she'd known the President personally.
The waitress looked down at Francis's map and pointed to a large block of land about eight miles north of town. "There, that's Kanab Canyon." For a moment her young face looked sad. "But nothing much happens there nowadays. Nobody seems to know what to do with the place anymore."
After breakfast, Francis cruised slowly through the one main street of Kanab, but nothing particularly caught his interest. He passed the canyon the waitress had mentioned, but didn't pay it much mind. He had the impression that the terrain hereabouts was mostly inhospitable desert favored by rattlers and needled with wind-chiseled rocks.
What Francis didn't realize as he left the town behind was that he was entering the golden circle of Grand Canyon, Zion, and Bryce Canyon National Parks. He was not prepared for the stark beauty of red-rock cliffs, majestic cottonwoods, and soft, summer greens of whispering willows that gentled his way as he pressed on toward Salt Lake City.
He had no reason to turn around that morning, but forty miles up the highway he made a U-turn. Half an hour later he eased onto the rutted road of Kanab Canyon and stumbled onto destiny. By noon he was on the phone to Michael.
"Michael, I've found it."
"Did I hear a 'Hello, how are you?' I'm fine. Thanks for asking."
"I've found our place, Michael."
The two men had been close for years, working together in London, New York, Los Angeles, and New Orleans. As well as he understood anyone, Michael thought he knew Francis. Yet he couldn't ever recall hearing such suppressed excitement from his normally pragmatic friend. He stopped joking. "Where are you?"
"Kanab."
"Kanab?"
"It's a town north of the Grand Canyon in southwest Utah."
"What are you doing in Utah?"
"On my way to Salt Lake. But listen, remember that dream you had about an oasis in the desert? You won't believe it, but I've just stumbled on a three thousand-acre oasis."
"Three thousand acres?"
"Along with all the federal land we can lease with it. It's the size of Manhattan; that's how big it is."
Michael tried to visualize the immensity of a piece of land the size of Manhattan.
"And it's filled with junipers and willows, and there's this tributary of the Colorado that runs through it, and these incredible red cliffs that embrace the whole place. ..." Francis paused. "And they have over three hundred and twenty days of sunshine a year."
Francis definitely had Michael's attention. For a man who had endured, as he liked to complain, twenty long years of terminally gray British winters, the promise of sunshine was like manna from heaven for Michael.
But Francis wasn't finished. "Are you ready for this? There's an ancient legend that when the Aztec King Montezuma was executed, his followers fled with his treasure and buried it right here in an underground lake. Are you hearing me? Red rocks! Treasure! The old man's prediction!"
Michael felt a chill. He knew exactly what Francis was referring to. He'd spent some time on the Yucatan Peninsula in the late sixties with a dozen friends, sleeping on the beach because the boarding house in the fishing village at which they'd stopped refused to rent them rooms. The landlady wouldn't allow their dogs, and, as far as they were concerned, if their dogs weren't welcome neither were they.
A brown-skinned man, bent with age and leaning on a stick, a yellow dog by his side, had appeared out of nowhere and directed them to a Mayan ruin on the seashore where they might stay. Michael had looked for the señor the next week to say thank you and invite him to eat with them. But nobody in the village knew of the old man.
This seemed strange given the close-knit nature of a place of less than fifty souls. But at the time, Michael shrugged it off. Mexico, after all, was the land of the mystic writer, Carlos Casta-ñeda. Three months later, as Michael was about to leave, the old man appeared again.
"You will be back," he said.
"I don't really plan on that."
"Not here." He raised a withered arm and pointed his stick toward the United States. "You will go where our people went with Montezuma's treasure, a place of big, red rocks." He smiled. "There is where you'll find what your heart is looking for."
The memory washed over Michael like a vivid dream. "I'll meet you tomorrow," he told Francis. "We need to call Faith."
"She's next on my list."
CHAPTER 2Coming Home
Michael Mountain and Faith Maloney flew into Las Vegas — the closest airport to Kanab — the next afternoon. Francis was waiting for them, a bundle of nervous energy.
"You've gotta see it. You've gotta see it," he repeated as he sped down Interstate 15.
Francis hadn't been idle while waiting for his friends. For the next three and a half hours, he regaled them with what he'd found out around town. It seemed that about half of Kanab had chipped in to buy shares of an outfit called Golden Circle Tours. Collectively, the locals owned much of Kanab Canyon, as well as the Parry Lodge and several other motels. But the stockholders weren't averse to selling the canyon property. "I got the feeling they think the land's a bit of a white elephant. But it's ideal for what we want," Francis finished.
Michael had a question. "You haven't told us how much this is all going to cost."
"I'll get to that in a minute. There's one thing I haven't mentioned." Francis paused.
"You mean there's something you've left out of this perfect picture?" Michael inquired mildly.
Francis was too intent on not missing the turnoff to catch Michael's wry humor. "There's one guy, Norm Cram, lives in a house not too far in once you get off the highway. We'll see it soon. He might not be too keen to sell."
"Why?" Faith asked, bracing against the backseat as the Toyota bumped onto the dirt road of the canyon.
"For one thing he's got a nice little deal peddling tour maps of old movie locations and Indian ruins. This used to be the land of the ancient Anasazi people." Francis paused as they approached a crude wooden gate that blocked their way. "Then he's got four cabins he rents out when he can, and he's lived here for twenty years. But I think the others will override him and ..."
Michael spoke softly. "Can we sit for a moment?"
Francis turned off the engine. "Be my guest."
Michael closed his eyes. He'd only half heard what his friend had been saying. Almost from the moment they entered the canyon, a powerful feeling of peace had settled over him. As he listened to the wondrous silence surrounding them, a pervasive tranquility, the kind that clears your head and heals your heart, seeped into every pore of his being.
A voice suddenly intruded on the moment. "You planning on going anywhere?"
A slender young woman in a blue cotton shirtwaist reminiscent of the fifties sauntered toward them from a trailer parked beyond the gate. She leaned in the driver's window. "Don't I know you?" she asked saucily.
"Hello, Bonnie. I was here yesterday," Francis reminded.
The girl lifted her granny glasses. "Oh, yes. You wanted to speak to Norm." She pointed ahead of them. "He's up the road past his house a ways. I told him someone's been asking for him."
"Thank you," Francis pulled a five-dollar bill from his shorts.
Bonnie grinned. "This one's on us." She strolled back to open the gate. "It's all yours," she called as she waved them through.
No one spoke as Francis steered them past meadows lush and green with summer's clover, past Norm Cram's dwelling. Soon they were leaving the canyon floor behind and climbing the narrow spiraling road to the mesas.
Before they'd gone too far, a John Deere tractor trundled around a curve toward them. A gaunt cowboy-looking fella, complete with spurs on his boots, ground the machine to a halt as they drew abreast. Slowly, deliberately, he tipped the brim of his Stetson and took their measure.
"Hi, there," Francis greeted him.
"Howdy," Norm Cram answered.
Michael climbed out of the car and walked to the tractor. Francis and Faith followed. Norm Cram didn't move.
Francis broke the impasse. "I was in town this morning. Your partner Dale said this place was for sale."
"Anything's for sale at a price," Norm Cram said carefully. "But this property ain't much good for anything. Not enough water for ranching. Certainly can't put a subdivision on it, if that's what you got in mind."
"That's not what we've got in mind," Faith said.
Norm Cram considered her with the gaze of an inquisitor. "So what do you want it for?"
Michael had the distinct impression that the man was not too pleased about their interest. Maybe "suspicious of strangers" would better describe his attitude. "This is a special place," he said, trying to diffuse the tension.
"Special don't pay the rent. And you won't find nothing here except some falling-down barn from an old Ronald Reagan movie. But even the Hollywood folks don't come any more. I'd look elsewhere if I was you." With that, Norm Cram grumbled his John Deere to life, tipped his Stetson to Faith and went on his way.
"The dragon at the mouth of the canyon," Michael murmured.
"What?" Francis said.
"In the old legends, hidden treasure is always guarded by a dragon at the mouth of a canyon."
"Oh, Michael," Faith said with affection. "You do love your legends, don't you?"
The three friends were quiet as they explored, awed by the spectacular beauty surrounding them. As the afternoon shadows lengthened into dusk, Francis brought them to the foot of a red-rock cliff. "I've saved the most incredible till last — but it's a bit of a hike."
The day before, Francis had scoped out deer paths that traversed hidden landings to make the climb easier. Still, they struggled through an underbrush high with horsetail, mullein, squaw bush, and nettles.
Michael was concerned for Faith. She'd forgotten to bring a hat, and her face was taking on a pinkish tinge without protection from the sun. Besides, he could see she was tiring. "How much farther?" he called.
Francis stopped and clasped Faith's hand. "We're almost there. Trust me and close your eyes. I'll lead the way. You too, Michael." Carefully he filed them around a massive boulder. "Now."
They opened their eyes to a green sweep of land. Arched above the grassy carpet like a great domed amphitheater was a striated pink rock overhang, ribboned with brown desert varnish. "Turn around," Francis said, guiding their gaze to the east.
They looked out to a vista that old Western painters must have known. High desert mesas stretched into infinity. Imperious red-rock cliffs, sculpted by the hands of the gods, thrust skyward into clean, calm air. Below them, the muffled rush of a river swollen with seasonal rains pulsed through a broad expanse of emerald meadow.
Michael stood silent beside two people he considered his true family. He was not unaware of what they were about to undertake if they bought this land. The men and women who shared their passionate love of animals were city folks, every one. Few of them had any practical building skills. He himself couldn't even replace a fuse. Yet they were contemplating acquiring this utterly impractical piece of acreage with no water, sewer, or electricity, not one livable building.
It didn't matter. Walking the property this day, he'd experienced a sense of timelessness — of returning to something very basic, very real. A transforming perception of something "so right" overwhelmed him from a deeper consciousness, and Michael knew in that instant that at last he'd "come home." This was a place of sanctuary for both people and animals. This was the land for which they had all been searching.
Michael was so absorbed in his own vision, he was unaware that Faith had slipped her hand into his. She squeezed gently when she felt him return to them.
"Yes," she said, and the word was enough.
They were quiet on the hike back to the car.
"We need to get everybody together," Faith said as they drove out of the canyon.
"To see who wants in," Michael affirmed.
"Yes," Faith acknowledged.
"The Arizona ranch is the logical place to meet," Francis said. Michael and Faith nodded agreement. "Back at the ranch it shall be, then."
CHAPTER 3Commitment
It took a month to coordinate everybody's schedules, but on a weekend in July, twenty-seven men and women came to Arizona to hear about the land in Utah. It was rare for all of them to gather in any one place at the same time, but Michael wasn't surprised.
These were people who had drifted in and out of each other's lives, supported each other for over fifteen years. Any place they settled became a refuge for an eccentric assortment of wonderful and lovable creatures that were, for the most part, unadoptable. These were people who got inordinate pleasure from nursing four-legged or feathered friends back to health, training them, or spending time to make them "person friendly," because the greatest joy was placing a rescued little one in a happy home.
The Arizona ranch had been good for this dedicated group of animal lovers. In the four years they had owned the land, they'd managed to save so many more animals whose luck was about to run out, all the while pursuing the "no-kill" philosophy in which they all fervently believed. Now they had a chance for a piece of property on which they could truly create an animal Eden.
Michael stood a little apart as he listened to Francis describe the canyon, and tried to guess who would be part of the new venture, and who would demur.
Steven Hirano would come.
Michael had met the Japanese-American poet/physicist in Los Angeles when they were both in their early twenties. Traveling in Europe, they'd been sickened by the spectacle of bullfighting in Spain. They had gone on to Sicily, but couldn't get the senseless slaughter out of their minds. In their naiveté, they determined to protest to the Pope, but by then they were woefully short of money.
Michael would never forget that day in the railway station at Palermo: He and Steven stranded, broke, with only empty pockets to fuel their quest. A small man in a faded navy stationmaster's uniform patrolled his platform with somber vigilance. In a confusion of broken Italian and Spanish, Michael explained their predicament.
The conductor was not young, not old, with skin that looked as if it had been pockmarked by insects. He studied the bell-bottomed, long-haired youths before him. His eyes held the Sicilian weariness of having seen it all, yet there was a curious belief in their depths. "Wait here," he said.
The stationmaster took off his conductor's cap and accosted a knot of passengers waiting for their train. He talked volubly, gestured, and pointed at Michael and Steven. The travelers stared. The conductor shook his cap impatiently under their noses. They quickly rummaged in their pockets, producing notes and coins.
It took but a few minutes before the stationmaster returned. He scooped the money from his cap and pushed it into their hands. "Go with blessings from all of us," he said. "Tell His Holiness that we, too, want no more slaughter of the bulls."
Steven Hirano would come.
Maia Astor-Drayton would come, too. Michael smiled as he watched the petite, dark-haired woman hang on Francis's every word. Maia had a sense of the absurd that Michael loved. She'd earnestly joined the Beatles entourage when they visited Maharishi Mahesh Yogi in India. When the "Fab Four" bought the guru a Lear jet, the English tabloids had a field day screaming about movie stars and heiresses conned into giving money to dubious causes. As a joke, Michael put a one-line advertisement in The London Times: "Wanted — heiress to back worthy cause."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Best Friends"
by .
Copyright © 2001 Samantha Glen.
Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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