Best Friends by Samantha Glen Page B

away for a brief second at what was now clearly revealed. Someone had doused the tom with gasoline and set him on fire! Three-quarters of his little body was an oozing, suppurating mass of pus and blood. Diana gasped as the strong stench of charred fur and flesh hit her nostrils like an abomination.
    Francis knelt and looked closer. Apparently it hadn’t been enough fun to torture the animal with fire, an eye had to be gouged as well. Francis lifted a blistered paw. The cat’s pads had been burnt to the bone.
    No wonder the poor thing couldn’t walk or move. He was immobilized with pain. Worse, he must have been lying in that driveway for a couple of days. Francis could see little white maggots wriggling obscenely between the tom’s toes.
    Instinct made Francis look up at the house. A woman and two children were silhouetted in the living-room window, staring at them. “Let’s get him out of here,” he said in disgust.
    The cat opened a singed eye. All the fear, pain, and torment one small creature could bear was reflected in his gaze. He struggled unsuccessfully to stand, mewing in pain.
    â€œNo. No. It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay,” Diana soothed. Together the two friends slid a towel under the tom’s little body. Carefully, slowly, they lifted the corners of the material like a stretcher and carried the burnt offering to the truck.
    On their way home, Francis stopped at a phone booth. “Dr. Christy,” he said. “Do you remember me? Francis Battista?”
    â€œOf course,” the veterinarian interrupted.
    â€œWe don’t expect to see you on Thanksgiving, but if you could tell us what to do . . .”
    The doctor listened while Francis explained about the cat.
    â€œI’ll be right there,” Bill Christy said.
    Â 
    The men and women in Angel Canyon this Thanksgiving night were not quite prepared for the veterinarian who came into their lives, but their first sight of him would forever remain in their memories.
    An hour after Francis’s call, Dr. Christy dashed into the bunkhouse, trailing the distinctive odor of cow dung and making strange smacking sounds. Eight pairs of eyes automatically dropped to his feet—the source of both noise and smell.
    The veterinarian was wearing bright green galoshes over his shoes, but he’d forgotten to tie the laces. The rubber overboots flapped loudly against his calves, shedding flakes of straw and manure with every step.
    Oblivious to their stares, the disheveled young vet carelessly flung his jacket over a chair and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Dried blood smeared his rugged blue denim. “I came as fast as I could. Had another emergency before yours. Had my arm up a cow’s ass,” he announced cheerily.
    It didn’t seem to bother him that the only surface available was the speckled Formica of the kitchen table, or that his audience consisted of several curious cats and dogs, as well as their persons. Carefully, he lifted the light sheet that Francis had used to cover all but the head of the burned cat. He leaned close, sniffed, and placed two long, tapered fingers gently over the heart. A tiny mew of complaint rasped from the tom’s mouth.
    Dr. Christy frowned as he tenderly replaced the sheet. “Follow me,” he called and wheeled out of the kitchen. Not sure for whom the order was meant, all the people and several dogs dutifully filed behind him.
    Dr. Christy couldn’t have parked his veterinary truck any closer: the front fender was in intimate conversation with the bunkhouse wall. His van was a typical “vet box,” the sides paneled with drawers of all shapes and sizes, the tiny interior outfitted with a refrigerator and the necessary veterinary equipment. He pulled a flashlight from under a bucket of towels and gave it to Diana. “Would you mind shining this over my shoulder?”
    The veterinarian couldn’t seem to find what he wanted. He jerked out