Skidboot 'The Smartest Dog In The World' (13 page)

"They commune somehow."

David looked skeptical. "What's next, Barbara? Tarot?"

No one understands it, her friend had told her, but well, the stories! Tales of mental rapport between man and beast usually carried out by people who, from birth, seemed different, yet were sensitive to the animal mind and able to interpret a pet's cloudbuzz of unarticulated query, musings, inquiry, dislikes, yearnings and mulish irritations. Did they only read dogs, David wondered? Or could they pick up the mind waves of cats, low-flying birds, ferrets? Why, for a person like this, a walk in the park must turn into sensory pachinko. Information overload.

"We could at least try it, "Barbara stiffened. David always had to be so
right.

After a day or so, he relented. What harm, might as well, it'd be something to laugh about later, except for the expense. Plus, he couldn't tell any of his friends. This psychic deal had to be secret, but to make Barbara happy, they'd do it quickly and get it over with.

Barbara promised to handle the details and Russell swore himself to silence, while David mused on life, authority, effectiveness, unregulated industries—like pet whispering—and his own ambitions, now brought to a strange pass by this loopy interaction. He worried that just the idea of it might interfere with Skidboot's reputation. He rejected any notion of dream interpretation or chatting with the spirits of the animal dead. Yet here they were, skirting around the paranormal with a dog that was, well, he had to admit it, a little paranormal himself. David, as well as most of science, knew that language was human specific. How was it possible to interpret a dog's mind, translate it into words, and then spin it back into conversation with the dog? If anyone could read
his
mind they'd hear
just hurry and get this over with.

The day of the psychic interview began like any other. Soft morning breezes blowing, dewy and glistening. A Texas morning summoned up longing in a body, the memories of better times, the tender turn of the sun before it turned into a blister of heat. Mornings were gentle respites before the sun's fury kicked in.

They arrived at her house, a recessed two-plex, nondescript, to greet the psychic. Mrs. Ada Bellon, whose focus blew past them and fixed completely on Skidboot. She probed the dog, starting out gently: "What are you thinking about when you see all the people?" "Do you really intend to disobey?" "Are you just helping David, or do you want to do harm?" "No? Then what are your intentions?" "Are you upset about anything?" The questions, as far as David could tell, netted about zero. Skidboot responded the way David felt that he himself might respond, with puzzled looks and a cocked ear, looking around for clues, but adrift. Maybe Skidboot needed an incentive—a toy—or maybe better yet, David thought briefly, he needed coaxing with the piggin' string!

David mentioned this. Mrs. Bellon then "asked" Skidboot what he thought about the piggin' string. Skidboot
might
have had an opinion, probably
did
have an opinion, but wouldn't say. Nothing seemed to interest him. He stared at the flocked walls, the overstuffed sofa, the slow-ticking clock. Without a toy to fix on, or a command to puzzle over or even subvert, without snacks, without a clapping crowd chanting his name, or a clown cavorting around the arena, Skidboot felt boredom crawl over him.
Doesn't she already know? What difference does it make?

Politely, he just stared at her.

Finally, the hour was over, a stretch of time that lasted far longer than normal for everyone, including Mrs. Bellon. She prided herself on her work, an uphill profession on a good day, especially after that failed experiment on Austrian television, where Richard Wiseman designed four psychic dog tests, the chief one being whether the dog knew if his owner was coming home or not. A simple enough request, but the dog publicly failed all four. She knew that her shaky expertise could be explained away as selective memory and multiple guesses, so that she had to work extra hard to eliminate doubts.

But this dog seemed like hard work. He was
resisting
. She consulted her notes, paused, said that she understood that Skidboot had issues. Issues, she pointed out, usually took a while to clear up. She would be happy to work with them all, perhaps weekly?

Seeing David's reaction, she hurried up with the news that Skidboot resented authority and probably missed his puppyhood, having been yanked out of the nest before the others, and this longing could translate into seeking approval from the crowd. Or it also might mean that Skidboot needed time off, more time for nurturing, or at least, for more fun. Even as Barbara nodded, yes, David nearly choked on his coffee.
Fun
? He thought.
I'll show you fun.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Fake Rodeo Therapy

Every cowboy needs a horse—a dependable horse, one who puts the rider's needs first, has integrity, character and will
have his back.
Every cowboy needs the same thing in a friend, and in Lanham Mangold, David had found it. Lanham was a few years younger than David, a calf roper from Giddings, Texas, a man he'd met roping and liked right away. Mangold seemed like any other of the ropers at first, but time proved out his extreme skills and fine character, as well as a business daring that few arena cowboys demonstrated. Most cowboys were dogged by money issues, failing franchises and busted ranches, while Lanham sailed financially out of the circuit world. A skilled roper, he had shot to the Nationals, which wasn't enough for him. He then started to buy and sell horses and make rodeo deals, eventually forming his own rodeo association, the United States Calf Roping Association, USCRA, a vortex of calf roping and horse sales activity so huge, so dynamic, that it made him a wealthy, successful man.

"Lanham," David called him up one day. "I got a problem."

"Let's hear it."

"My dog's not doing so good." He told him about Skidboot's ornery ringside behavior, how it had ruined their teamwork, and how people, oddly enough, liked their show anyway and wanted him to keep showing the dog, disobedience or not.

"Well, then what's the problem, David? You still got a good gig going."

But the stern girdings of his own nature would not allow David to settle for Skidboot's behavior, popular or not. Especially since that pesky Heeler was inventing more and more bizarre tricks. Whenever it happened, David had to cover up, make it look like he'd really planned it that way.

Lanham squinted at him, struggling not to laugh. David nearly blurted out the psychic story, but caught himself in time. Lanham pushed his hat back. He swung the gate open, then closed, then open again, his eyes bright with interest. This was a
great
story!

"What can I do for you, David? I don't know much about dogs."

David explained his plan, a design so intuitive, so brilliant, and so purely Hartwig, that it seemed foolproof. It was a plan no professional animal trainer would ever concoct, either for reasons of expense or failure of imagination. But David was no ordinary animal trainer. He was intuitive, inventing as he went, and today, he wanted his friend to loan him a rodeo.

You what?

"Just loan me a rodeo, Lanham. Full arena, real people, I'll bring Skidboot, people will be entertained, but I won't charge a nickel. You just have to give me permission to let the audience know that this is a training session, in which certain, well,
strict training procedures
might be publicly applied."

"Like what, David?"

David Hartwig had never shown cruelty to an animal in his life, nor to any living thing. But from Jack London on, any dog owner knew that in the intimacy of a trainer-dog duo not only blossomed love, respect, and a streak of horseplay, but an environment in which the leader proved his Alpha in a high-pitched, teeth first, old school way. If the leader was not The Man, then he would most certainly be the dog. Lately, Skidboot had been slyly pulling the Alpha rug straight out from under David's boots, and David had to snatch it back. Tall and lean, his shadow ran halfway to the bleachers on a sunny day, and with all his height, he figured that the best authority would be a full body throw down flat on top of the dog, then to snarl, growl like a wolf, snap his teeth, tussle with the dog, pinch its ears, restrain its surges and create such a sideshow that the uninitiated might see it as cruelty. But it was never cruel, not ever. David knew this, and he knew that Skidboot knew it, too.

"But will the audience get it?" Lanham frowned, worried about charges of animal abuse, about the tender-hearted cat owners who might see David pummeling and snarling at his dog and call animal services. But he caught the wild brilliance of the plan. With a thousand eyes pinned on Skidboot, his punishment would be public and being so, would force the dog back into a state of obedience.

Once Skidboot saw there was no safety in crowds, he'd get over being arena sour. And if he didn't obey, he'd get pummeled and published, right on the spot.

"Never heard of such a thing," Lanham mused, although as they chatted, he remembered hearing something similar about horses, how they used the presence of the crowd to go against commands.

"But if you want me to loan you a rodeo, I'll do it just for heck's sake, not to mention friendship. You bet I'll do it."

The event would take place at the Giddings, Texas Circle 2 Arena, a place set up for calf roping and ideal for the public display. On a day like a frying pan, so hot it drove the summer clouds down to cluster along the horizon, too exhausted to fill themselves up and journey skyward, a day of overheated birds and dazed lizards, David and Skidboot strode into the ring. Texas heat seldom interfered with Texas sports and today was no exception.

The bleachers hummed. News was out about the special dog training during intermission, and people were eager to see how it would turn out. Natural perversity and the general, ornery local temperament made it even odds; half were for the dog, half for David.

"Skidboot!" the crowd roared. And David, his smile slightly drooping, placated Skidboot, spoke calmly, and to the audience, pointed out the value of a dog knowing the rules, the dismay he'd felt at this betrayal and how anyone with children could understand the need for discipline. He named the last seven rodeos around the state where Skidboot had
deliberately
—and here he paused, his disappointment showing—triggered off early or dashed out on the wrong number. Yes, David was taking it personal, and he hoped everyone here would get behind this unusual effort. And many thanks.

A low murmur of approval swelled, or perhaps it was anticipation. David turned to Skidboot to begin the routine.

"You see that toy? I want you to go get that toy. But first, I want you to run over to the clown and touch him. Then run back to me."

Now watch
, David clutched with anticipation, as eager for the dog to go wrong as he usually was for Skidboot to obey.

Skidboot delicately paced over to the clown, politely patted his polka dots, then turned and walked back to David, every muscle quivering, his eyes like obsidian.

The crowd clapped, but with murmurs, questions.

"Skidboot, now you go get that toy." The dog took off.

"Now stop." Skidboot stopped.

"Now go very, very slow…" Skidboot snuck up closer.

"Now when I say "three" you
git that toy!
” This was David's capstone moment, when everyone would see Skidboot's hidden ornery nature in this moment of feckless disclosure.

"One,"

"Two,"

"Seven,"

"Fourteen,"

The numbers spun out into boredom, everyone waiting, including Skidboot.
Why isn't that dog breaking out?
It dawned on David that he'd been outwitted, that Skidboot was now on best performance behavior, that Skidboot was not about to get pummeled publicly, that the dog had somehow
understood
what was going on. For a brief second, he wished he had the psychic here, just to get a glimpse of a mongrel mind so convoluted, so facile and so noncompliant.

"Three!" Skidboot dove for the toy exactly on cue, and clamped it firmly in his teeth with a frantic whine of victory. He burrowed his face in the toy, ragged it back and forth, snarling, pacing backwards, flipping his shoulders in a fast-paced, private victory dance. David caught the quick glance Skidboot threw at him. He didn't want to think about it.

The crowd exploded, "Skidboot!" they boomed, the intensity growing, sonic as a slammed door. "Skidboot!" David saw Russell doubled over, laughing, saw Barbara in stitches, and slowly, grudgingly, broke into a smile. It
was
pretty funny. Maybe the psychic was right. All the dog needed was a little fun.

Not even a week later, at the Mesquite rodeo, David launched his special toy trick, the one with the green velour dolphin, one that they'd practiced for over an hour, even though Skidboot looked bored and even though David knew the dog had the details down. Now, as the crowd looked on, David felt the tension, a friable, uncertain thing. Would the dog perform or not?

You bet!
Skidboot shot him a glance and with haughty impunity, jumped the gun, pounced on the wrong number, shot David a triumphant look and nosed around to greet the crowd.
Yes, fun!

They loved it. They knew David wasn't faking, they could see the fumes rising in
real anger.
David grabbed Skidboot, pulled him by the leash quickly across the arena and hauled him behind the chute. It was soon enough between offense and punishment to make a difference, and David shocked whoever could see them by giving out full-force Hartwig discipline. After that, he talked Mangold into letting him "use" another rodeo, which Skidboot also intuited and rigged by performing perfectly. But David had a plan, and no sooner had one promoter called him, than another was on the line. And before long, Skidboot was performing so often that even he got confused—
real rodeo or fake?
—and began to go more and more with David's discipline. Sometimes he forgot, and David was quick to make good on his threats, audience or not. The odds were stacked. Unable to find safety in public places, Skidboot slowly dropped his innovations and settled back into the routine.