Skidboot 'The Smartest Dog In The World' (12 page)

The fair grew more complicated every year. Once a venue for dairy goat milking parlors, pie contests and 4-H rabbit displays, the fair's agenda now rivaled Disneyland.

About the only familiar thing was the rodeo arena, which brought a brief pang of remorse or nostalgia along with the staccato blare of the loudspeakers. The rage and intensity of the loudspeaker had no scruples; it hammered everyone with its crazed metallic exuberance. People in the stands, maddened by the din, yelled out; he could hear the vocal pitch but not the words. Spotlights glimmered like Hollywood, long beams raking through the night sky. David loved the rodeo at night. He caught a glimpse of a calf roper flying by, just the upper torso, one hand overhead as if in supplication but really, whipping out a lasso that snaked through the night air toward its prey.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Disobedience

The Hartwigs turned into a celebrity family,
the People With the Dog,
remarked upon wherever they went. At the local diner, Burger & Fries, kids clustered around and begged autographs while David lounged in the red leather booth beneath his own signed photo that hung on the blue wall—David and Skidboot, local celebrities. David couldn't buy a bit at the tack store without strangers sidling up, eager to chat. Apparently, the world loved dogs, and specifically, Skidboot. And the world wanted to know
to the detail
what his next trick would be. David laughed, because really, when he said he didn't know, he was being honest. It irked his pride a bit, but when it came down to the bucket bottom, the tricks were mostly up to Skidboot. He hated to admit this, because the idea of being in charge motivated him through this weird and constantly unfolding adventure, but it was more hope than reality. The dog, like some furry little Benjamin Franklin, constantly tested the limits of invention, always veering off into a surprising new direction, like that time he refused to eat his treats until David read off the ingredients.

But any publicity was good publicity, and as success lapped around them, their boat lifted high over the usual flotsam of debt, disorder and doubt. David's confidence, always high, nearly lifted his hat, and the surge of energy drew Barbara's affections ever more in his direction. Mornings, now, she brought him fresh brewed coffee in bed, before she left to work. And smiling, too. As folks with momentum, they ate occasional steak for breakfast and bulged their bank account at every ring of the phone. Once their lives felt simple, if impoverished. But today, their own investment portfolio frolicked happily in the living room. It fetched, rolled over and brought home piles of cash.

Daily, the phone shrilled like a bird, hopping off its landline hook with queries from promoters, league directors, church organizers, festival planners and rodeo associations seeking Skidboot's talents. Most of them knew David, respected him, remembered him from the world of calf roping. They trusted him to put on a good show.

Skidboot had been at it now for more than two years, performing with laser sharpness. The pair—David and Skidboot—would lope into the arena like Siegfried & Roy, practiced, casual, yet both with defined goals. David's main goal was to
withhold
what Skidboot wanted, panted after, snarled for and unwaveringly fixed his desires upon—the toy. Skidboot was fixed on trying to outwit David and get the toy, even as David, by turning into an ogre of negativity and steel, would force Skidboot to stop in his tracks, reverse himself, shake hands, turn in circles, pirouette like a dancer, and otherwise execute his litany of dazzling maneuvers, doing
anything
to get the prey. For David, the prey meant pay. For Skidboot, the prey meant the toy. On Wall Street, they would call it free market capitalism. In Quinlan, Texas, it was a flat out miracle.

Miracle, indeed. So they all believed as the lucky, looping feedback system from man to dog and back to man spun out until David wondered, sometimes, if he was in his right mind. An optimist would think,
it's what we've always deserved
! A realist would say,
I'm scared, what next?

The next day, as if in response to his own thoughts, David felt a chill of apprehension. Something was off. He'd spent too long with this dog, knew him too well, and, like seeing a pig at a pay phone, sensed something offbeat.

Nothing seemed amiss at first. The blare of the horn, dust rising up as the last bull rider flew in the air, hat sailing, and also signaling half time, when the dog and man show would perform. Skidboot seemed calm, no skittishness at the size of the crowd, the noise, the applause as he trotted into the arena, back bristling, nose sharp, reminding everyone of Blue Heeler aggressive superiority, that like his kind, he was a dog so dominant he'd die before quitting. He ruled, and he let them know it. The crowds instantly recognized his bristling authority, and it was what they wanted. Working folks
wanted
a dog that taunted and tasked his master because it struck one good blow for the underclass, who felt a lot like the dog most of the time. But then, for drama's sake, they also wanted the
dog
to give in and comply with the master, who after all was a cowboy—like them—and particularly deserved respect and power. Arena psychology, David thought.
Deep.

Skidboot stopped and sat, scanning the crowd. David sauntered after, a tall man in Levi's and hat, his soothing voice belying generations of steely resolve. People who knew Hartwig called him
that stubborn German,
a man who never took anyone else's word for anything unless he'd proven it out himself. Yet he struck folks as oddly sentimental, too. No one could figure it out.

David stilled the dog, his Texas twang low, insinuating, spinning a soothing aural effect.

"Ok, now just wait right there until I count to three."

Skidboot threw him a glance. David felt uneasy.

"One" Skidboot eyed the toy.

"Two." Skidboot began to tremble.

David sped through his numbers but before his eyes,
long before he slipped in the number three
—Skidboot took off and grabbed the toy!

He'd shortstopped David, who hung there, dumbfounded while mouthing "seven."

The crowd roared with laughter. Skidboot gnawed at the toy, daring David to bully him, discipline him, show his master chops in public. Trying to capture the moment and ride the new momentum, David turned the tables, announcing
now there's a dog that wants to be in charge. This dog can darn well improvise!
The crowd loved it, hooted, yelled "Skidboot, Skidboot!"
Hilarious
, they thought.

But not David. As they drilled through a few more tricks, he watched Skidboot strut like a little peacock, knowing that David couldn't punish him here in front of all these people. And every time, Skidboot anticipated the magic number and broke the drill, bolting forward on some number of his own choosing, his eyes alight, tail trembling with the fun of it. Now the tables were turned. He had David under his control!

Fuming, sweat beading under his hat, David finished the routine through gritted teeth.
You are gonna catch it, Skidboot,
he mouthed, and as soon as they'd cut through the gate and were behind the fence, he bellowed. But he also realized that it was too late, this miscreant behavior had to be nipped when it happened, not later. A chill shuddered up him, looking at the dog. It was like seeing a familiar friend suddenly transformed by madness, or by slit-eyed dementia, or even by strange, grisly hatred. He studied the dog, seeing the familiar spots, the whorls of fur along his nose, the arched doggie brow—so familiar—yet Skidboot, unbelievably, had become a different animal. Skidboot had gone arena sour.

"Arena sour? What's that?" Both Barbara and Russell frowned, puzzled. Russell's cheeks flushed and Barbara's lustrous eyes squinted. Pondering the new development, they sipped ice tea around the table, clustered in a family meeting. Spoons clinked, sugar swirled, but no one reached for the cookies, no one even bothered to drink once they'd heard the prognosis. Their dog had inexplicably and undeniably turned rogue. Their
Skidboot
! But the evidence lingered, visible to everyone. They'd seen Skidboot prancing around to his own drummer, disobeying David, setting the crowds nearly hysterical when they realized the dog was flaunting the master.

"Arena sour is what happens to horses when they
know
you can't discipline them. In public, they know you can't take out the whip and whack them, or lash them with a piggin' string. It's
street smarts
, horse style. They know the crowd protects them."

They all turned to stare at Skidboot.
Arena sour? Spoiled dog? Like some over-coddled movie star?
For a brief second, they had a glimpse of the usually shrouded canine mind, intelligent, devious, able to be man's best friend, to have his back, but just as quickly, to revert back into the primal past, using its manlike decision skills to even the score.

Skidboot, now so manipulative, so duplicitous, as to seem
almost human
, behaved exactly like a 9-year-old, yet with adult wisdom. Shockingly calculating behavior for man's best friend, but predictable, since the canine brain circuit responds to rewards, and Skidboot, now primed to David's authoritarian regime, viewed the public respite of the arena—a place that he knew he could escape from David's demands in the same way he might respond to food—a reward. He had a clear, visual signal, the safety of the crowd. Doggy dopamine released, flowed, filling him with the neurohormones of happy anticipation. A successful feedback loop—applause, then rewards.

"Naw, I've seen it in horses. It's not unusual," David's reassurances felt empty, he really wasn't sure how this would go. Yet oddly enough, the crowds loved it. The performance was better than ever.

Everyone, apparently, loved an underdog, even if it was a man.

Everyone loved that Skidboot turned the tables. Whether rehearsed or spontaneous, they only knew it worked.

But not for David. "Skidboot," he hissed, and Skidboot, as if struck by a snake, stood waiting.

"Dog, you are taking advantage."

Skidboot cocked an ear, looked up at the smiling, laughing faces, at hundreds of human faces, laughing at him, having fun, and he felt a surge of pride
. Yes..so?

David gripped his piggin' string, fighting back the idea of punishment that welled up. Teeth gritted, he strode around in front of Skidboot and kneed him toward the exit, pushing his blue butt outside even as Skidboot, crowd crazy, dug in and longed back toward the bleachers, his tail beating and his muscles, ropy and strong, fighting to keep from being hustled out.

"You are gonna learn, dog, if it takes a lifetime!" They stared at each other. Then Skidboot relaxed, gave a shake of his tail, waved his paw at the bleachers and pranced out.

David was astonished.
Waving goodbye…? What next?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Losing Control

David felt crushed. All those months of training, the split-second responses, the careful backing forward, backwards, sideways, on demand. Now the dog was rogue, adding his own version of behavior. It offended David, even though the crowds loved it.

"We're never gonna get called back," he told Barbara, looking at the water bill, and that electricity bill, hadn't they paid it?

But the rodeos kept calling. Seems that the same people who loved to see the dog obey also loved to see him
disobey
, and David, hardworking, earnest, and abiding, couldn't disguise his reaction to the dog's disobedience. Despite his efforts to relax, to go with Skidboot's flow, to cover up each breach, everyone knew the instant that Skidboot went maverick, and would roar with approval.

"Why not just go with it, David?"

"It's funny!"

"They love it."

Angry, his mind racing, David refused. "No way! The crowds are giving him the reward, and the dog is training himself. That will not fly, not here, not with me.
Why, would you let Russell train himself?
He couldn't think of a perfect analogy, but he knew it was in there somewhere.
You just didn't let dogs or children train themselves!

The program was falling apart. The dog was turning the tables, and
damn
if David wasn't the dog and Skidboot the master. From then on, nearly every rodeo appearance spiked with a flippant show of disobedience, one that David couldn't punish on the spot because of the onlookers, one that he couldn't punish
afterward
because it was
too late.
Sometimes Skidboot would execute a trick with flawless obedience, just like the old days, but other times, he'd gaze up at the crowds, lift his eyebrow, and when he had everyone full of suspense, lavishly disobey the commands. David, more and more angry, was having a hard time playing second man to a Blue Heeler.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The Animal Psychic

One night, Barbara chatted quietly on the phone, looking up at David occasionally, shaking her head, then continuing. He watched her, wondering about the conversation.

"David," she said softly after, "I have an idea." He listened as she described a friend's success story with an unruly dog, how her friend, at wit's end, had called in a kind of an animal
therapist
. Now he'd heard everything.

Therapist? What kind of a therapist?" Why, even if they needed one themselves—which he'd thought possible at times—he'd never go to one. Expensive, invasive, useless. No way.

"It's an animal psychic, David."

"Psychic?" He guffawed, pulling his hat off and sailing it across the room. "Look, a space ship!" Barbara stiffened. She was just
suggesting
, after all. Psychics, close kin to palm readers and numerologists, had discovered the animal world, along with the pet owners willing to plunk down cash for the emotional health of their beloved pets.