This is one of my favorite reads

CHAPTER V:
Adoptions

ARIZONA FINDS A HOME
By Sarah Kincaid

Twilight comes early in February, particularly in a small New Mexico town nestled deep in the shadows of the Rocky Mountain foothills. Thus it was that my husband and I, weary from a long day’s journey – first by air from Atlanta to Phoenix, then by car to Gallup, New Mexico – decided to call it a night before venturing to that mystical, desolate region known as the Four Corners.
The motel we chose sat alongside historic Route 66, a modest haven for the travel-worn, whose cars filled the windswept parking lot. In the room above ours, a new born baby cried intermittently. We didn’t care – we were bone-tired and oblivious to distraction.
However, about 3am, I woke to the plaintive wails of the newborn, who seemed nearer now, as if right outside our door. “Listen,” I whispered to my groggy husband. “Something’s out there.”
For several minutes, we lay quietly in the chilly room, barely breathing. Then came a mewling sound, accompanied by a scratching noise. Shivering in his long underwear, my husband cracked the door, half expecting to find a swaddled bundle lying on the threshold. Instead, a ball of fur streaked past him and hopped onto the bed. “It’s a cat!” we exclaimed in unison – as if the small, tortoise-shell animal burrowing into the blanket needed classification! That’s all we said. As pet owners, we were accustomed to sharing the foot of our bed with four-legged creatures. We turned out the light and fell back asleep.
The next morning dawned crisp and clear. In the bright light streaming through the window, we looked closely at our bedmate. She was young, very thin, but quite beautiful – a medley of brown, black and gold. She was also deeply gashed on one side, although the wound appeared to be healing well. I ventured over to the motel office to inquire about the existence of a local humane society. No such luck, I was told. So we loaded our luggage, along with the cat, and headed for the nearest gas station. There we bought a variety of kitten chow, which the cat ate greedily. Our plan, we agreed firmly as we watched her eat, was tot tote the cat all the way to Phoenix. There, we would turn her over to a humane society before flying home.
For the next four days, she was to serve as or travel companion. It was a role to which the cat was particularly suited – most hours, she slept contentedly on top of the back seat, oblivious to the spectacular view from the rear window.
For those in the front seat, however, the view proved increasingly disturbing as we passed through the boundless Navajo Nation territory. As city dwellers, we were startled to see animal carcasses (especially cows and horses), lying alongside the road, with bony dogs clustered around the carrion, eating voraciously. Later, a National Park Service Ranger would explain that the Navajo believe fallen livestock should be left where they are, a source of food for stray animals.
Lacking this practical perspective, we proceeded to buy every pack of hot dogs that convenient stores could provide. For miles, we drove slowly through the fog-filled plains, stopping when we spied a dog in need of food. My throwing arm is not good – often, I managed to either hit the confused dog on the head with a hot dog, or miss him by yards, sending the animal to a frenzied search through the thick brush.
The cat watched with disinterest from her window perch. She seemed content to purr loudly to Elvis Presley tunes emitting sporadically from our single-station radio.
By the time we reached canyon de Chelly, deep in Navajo territory, we owned one pack of hot dogs, which we fed to a party of sheepdogs who greeted us in the parking lot. The dogs proceeded to follow us as we hiked the steep, mile-long trail that descends to the canyon floor. Other dogs joined us along the way, so that by the time we reached the bottom, we were engulfed in a sea of wagging tails and beseeching eyes. “they can’t all fit in the car,” my husband said at last, as he intently studied the canyon walls. “Especially not with the cat.”
The next two days passed without incident. We visited fascinating Mesa Verde and majestic Monument Valley without meeting anymore down-on-their-luck animals. On the morning of the fourth day, as we neared Phoenix in predawn dark, conversation was stilted. Just miles ahead, we both knew, lay the airport; nearby, an animal shelter, which we located in the phone book.
The cat was now riding in the front seat, curled in my lap and purring happily. As we turned to the shelter’s parking lot, we took turns in saying practical things like: “This is for the best,” “We already have too many pets,” and “They’ll find her a good home.” We agreed that I would stay in the car with the cat, while my husband went inside to speak to the staff.
A cold, bright sun was just peaking above a low-lying mountain when my husband returned minutes later, started the engine, and drove off silently with the cat still in tow. I didn’t say a word – I was too excited! The next stop was a pet supply store, where we purchased a pet carrier and food and water bowls. At the airport, we checked the kitten with a feline-loving ticket agent and dashed to the plane. Not a word about the cat had yet been spoken between us. Nothing was required.
For the next two weeks, we sheltered “Arizona” in our spare bedroom, gradually introducing her to our mélange of pets, all of whom were most curious about the new boarder. Third week, she left us for good, accompanied by my husband on a plane to Charlotte, North Carolina. There she was greeted by her new owners, friends who, like us, were deeply drawn to Arizona’s winsome personality and stark beauty.
For many months afterwards, we would receive photos of the now-renamed “Daisy,” ensconed on her personal pillow, sitting on a windowsill, or riding in the family car. We still hear of her occasionally…how plump she’s become and how attached she is to her owners, who are similarly smitten. However, I’ll always think of Arizona purring loudly to rock-and-roll, riding slowly through the dense fog in a car from whose open window hot dogs would periodically fly.
(P.S. bout the Canyon de Chelly sheepdogs: Months later we learn from a history professor, well-acquainted with the Four Corners area, that many of these dogs are working animals who herd Navajo sheep in the canyon below. So these dogs are good actors, who, even though they do not go hungry, enjoy a delicious morsel should you happen to have one with you!)