Skidboot 'The Smartest Dog In The World' (19 page)

The applause drifted. People were waiting to see what this pair could do today, not what he'd done in the past.

Something propelled David forward, and within seconds, his natural storytelling nature took over. He hardly knew what happened. One minute, tongue-tied, asking the crowd if they wanted to see something funny, yet not even knowing what that was, to the next minute, when he threw the glove. Limp leather flopped into the dirt. Skidboot looked at it. David looked at Skidboot. The crowd watched them both.

"Now, I want you to bring me back that glove but only when I tell you to!"

So far so good.
Skidboot gazed up at David, eyes like tacks.

"Folks, I don't even really know what this dog is. I think he's a Texas twister on steroids, but then…"

He interrupted himself. He spat out: "go – get- the - glove."

Skidboot shot forward, then David commanded, "wait right there." He was sweating with anxiety, worried.
If Skidboot doesn't stop, we're finished.

Skidboot froze into Swing the Statue.

"Now go!" A cloud of dust.

"Now stop." Frozen in place.

The dog inched toward the glove, the man restrained him. Go, stop, go, stop, a medley of conflicting commands so perfectly orchestrated, but so continuous, that awe finally drifted into boredom. The crowd grew fitful.

Sensing this, David released Skidboot with a final "go, " except, no! Wait a minute! Skidboot had to tap David's right foot first.

Tap. Tap.

Skidboot quivered with eagerness, thinking
toy, toy.
And just as he was about to realize the toy, David quietly prevented it with "turn around."

What? Skidboot sensed that David was punishing him. This was too much,
he wanted the toy.
Grudgingly, Skidboot turned, following his tail as dogs have done throughout time, to make themselves into a perfect donut of a circle.

The crowd rustled, a living aggregate of diverse opinion, bleachered in layers around the arena like an inverted beehive, sweating in the sun, glistening with beer and popcorn butter. Heat rose off Skidboot's dark fur.

"Now the other way."

Gus, a showman who never missed an opportunity, tapped the mike, backed away from its sonic outroar, the buzz and crackle of a misfiring speaker: "so, David, how'd that dog know to turn the other way?"

"Well, Gus," David drawled, thinking
irresistible
. "I know you're from Oklahoma, but down here in Texas, once you've turned one way, there's only one way left to turn."

Laughter exploded, hoots, yells and boots stamping.

"Take a-hold!" David suddenly commanded, and Skidboot, sprung like an arrow, nailed the glove, gnawed it, pranced with it, snarled, head-butted David, and turned in a circle, wagging the glove wildly while the crowd cheered. Men and women struggled to stand, the sun glaring on shaded faces, everyone trying to get a better look.

The rest of the performance seemed like a dream, the concentration so palpable that once, David glanced at the crowded bleachers and jerked alert to see the wall of faces.
He'd almost forgotten where they were.
Like a surgical team, he and Skidboot passed ideas like instruments back and forth, David commanding and Skidboot quickly executing.

Suddenly, David yelled, "Look out, too much excitement! This puppy's gonna…oh NO, we got us a dead dog!" The crowd hushed as Skidboot tottered, teetered side to side, sighed and corkscrewed toward the ground.

David stood back in awe. Skidboot, the dog-mime, had perfected the facial expressions, paw signals and body motions of comic pantomime, developed by the Greeks, upheld in the medieval dumb show, paraded by silent screen actors Charlie Chaplin and Harpo Marx. In Skidboot, a critic might recognize the weirdly amusing staggers and lurches of French film actor Jaques Tati or the ubiquitous street theatrics of panhandler mimes. Skidboot seemed to be a dog for all seasons, all times and all audiences. David could hardly believe his eyes as Skidboot, like the masters before him, teetered, swayed, dragged out the fall for seconds, staggered gently and moved pitifully downward, eyes begging. The crowd exhaled at his final collapse.

David became King Lear mourning Ophelia, with
no, no, no life!..and Thou no breath at all?

The "Play Dead" concept had failed a few months earlier, the memory of which still shamed David. But today was different, here in the Texas State Fair rodeo arena, "Play Dead" had taken on the solemnity of Aeschylus. Every eye followed the hero's downward spiral, a descent that the gods had promised but the dog had tried to resist, fighting with every drop of canine will until fate overcame and finally, with a "thump," he landed. His claws shot straight out, like chicken feet.

A roar of applause. They never thought he would fall.

David, looking long-faced and forlorn, gazed down at the fallen hero.

""Folks, we just lost him."

The crowd loved it. Someone yelled, "bring him back!" Like children, they wanted the magic, the age-old restoration of life to the lifeless, the
Lazarus
miracle.

David promised them that he'd try. He'd caught the drama of the moment, knew, like Skidboot, that it could be drawn out considerably, and with each suspenseful moment, their value on the rodeo circuit mounted.
This is getting to be fun.
He promised them that he'd give it his best, but he was just a rancher, just a cowboy, no apostle! He couldn't guarantee anything.

The crowd applauded, with yells of "bring him back!" "We want Skidboot!!"

David knelt beside the dog, a collapsed heap in the dust and begged the crowd for help. "CPR?," he asked, "Please?"

Gus, getting the gist, grabbed his speaker to beg the crowd for anyone, EMT nurse, Doctor, anyone who knew CPR.

"That's Cardio Pulmonary Resuscitation!" he yelled. One man half-stood in the stands, then his wife pulled him back down.

David, leaning over the stricken beast, looked up. "No sir," he said. "That's Cowboy Puppy Resuscitation!"

The crowd laughed as David leaned over Skidboot's corpse, gently pumping his chest. Once, twice, three times, until with no response, he bent down and blew into the curved, smiling mouth, thinking,
why do dogs always smile?
And he remembered how Skidboot had come up with this trick on his own, had understood from conversation what they wanted from "dead," what "dead" must mean, and had flopped over obligingly.

"Folks, it's not working." David pushed himself back up, forlorn. Then he brightened. "Let's try one more thing!"

"Skidboot, if you can hear me, touch my hand. Reach up, son, and touch my hand. David the revival preacher loomed over the corpse of the dog. "Just reach out!"

Skidboot weakly stirred, and the paw wavered up, searching, until it found David's outstretched hand.
Tap,
went the paw.
Tap, tap.
The crowd went wild, hooting, yelling.

Gus grabbed his microphone, "It's incredible, look at that, he's still with us!"

But David had more in store. He trusted Skidboot to follow up on the routine, and counted to three, telling him that if he
didn't
come back by the count of three, that he, David, would go ahead and bury him.

"One,"

"Two,"

Silence fell. David seemed like a serious type, and no one wanted to see a really dead dog.

"Three!"

Skidboot whirled in place on the ground like some kind of dervish, scattering dirt as he leaped to his feet and spun wildly around.

Gus squawked and buzzed his congratulations, people cheered, many yelled Skidboot's name.
Me?
He looked up, around the arena, seeing the people, hearing his name.
Me?

Barbara and Russell were quickly beside him, and the family laughed, answered questions, hugged each other, hugged Skidboot, hugged Gus. David even heard Randy Coyle's comment as he walked by, a mumbled congratulations, and the question:
where did you ever find that dog?

David smiled, hugged his family around him, and admitted that, thanks to time, circumstances, faith and good fortune, Skidboot had found them.

And as if that weren't enough, that moment of glory, of fanfare or bench-stomping festivity, another moment came as Gus pulled them aside. They were waiting for the final announcement of the grand prize for the year's rodeo talent contest. Gus, fascinated, queried David about
how on earth
he'd trained the dog, and David told him, concisely as possible, about all the afternoons when he and Skidboot would look up at the mantle filled with toys, how Skidboot would whine fetchingly, bat his eyes, paw at David and beg for a toy. And David would tell him,
you back up, and I'll give you a toy.
And the second Skidboot did anything that looked like backing up, even putting out a single reverse paw, David would jump up and fetch the toy.

"But only twenty seconds," David said. "That's the trick. You only wait twenty seconds. That's the learning window." Then up the toy would go to the mantle, then we'd start over again. "That dog has no quit," he told Gus. He will do anything, I mean
anything
, to get that toy."

Gus shook his head, amazed. Then the results came in; he flashed them a smile and made the announcement;

"David Hartwig and his dog Skidboot!" They'd won! $1,000 that would go straight to the kitty and would cleave away at the gas bill, the mortgage holdover statement and the partially-paid food tab at the corner store. All the little irritants that they couldn't pull out of the regular budget were fixed today by one dead dog.

They looked at Skidboot with mounting appreciation, although an irksome thought sprang into David's mind.
What about his real love, calf roping?

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Horse or Dog?

The next day, David dug out his piggin', mounted Hank and released a calf into the family arena, a practice ring he'd used during his peak roping days. It had been a while, and Hank looked at him, deep and long.

"Get going, old friend," David muttered, riding him hard after the calf, jumping down, upending the calf and whip-tying the legs. He could only limp away, his leg was still bad. But limping wouldn't get him rodeo time, and when he checked the stop watch, he realized:
no way.

Then he had another thought. If
he
couldn't rope and race like in the old days, what about Skidboot?

The phone calls were coming in now, but David knew the same old tricks weren't enough. The family tried to maintain its usual routine, horse shoeing, riding colts, and in the evening, Barbara would join David, riding in the practice arena. He would rope calves, and she would practice on the barrels.

Barrels
.

Barrel racing is a girl's rodeo sport, an event for flashy young cowgirls in pastel western wear, lying low, fast and close to the saddle, to blur through a figure eight or the more contemporary cloverleaf. It's a mind crackling thrust of fast starts, faster stops and turns so quick that horsemanship is put to the test. A falter on either end, a break in the rider's mental focus, insecure footing, bit irritation, any distraction or disorganization that breaks the steely focus will lose clock time. Barrel racing is high drama, the rodeo's most popular event for cowgirl competitors.

The barrel race demands top speed. Horse and rider burst into the arena, knowing that every hundredth of a second counts. They flash across an electronic time beam and clock out at the end of the cloverleaf. The challenge is to maneuver a course in as little distance as possible by cornering the barrel; at a tight angle while the rider digs in knees and legs to secure the saddle. Instantly, directions switch, and the short distance—less than 100 feet—between barrels vanishes.

During practice, David noticed the dogs. Rodeo clowns send trick dogs in to skid around the barrels, pitching the crowd into laughter. Or, the cowgirls' dogs might dart into the ring during training sessions, fluffing and barking, and chase around the barrels after the horses. David couldn't understand how anyone could have a decent practice with the commotion of the dogs, and naturally, dogs were banned from the ring during the actual race. But it stuck in his mind. It gave him an idea.

Why not have Skidboot race barrels?

A barrel racing dog! The rodeos would love it, and it was time for the Hartwig show to expand its tricks. From idea to execution never took David long, and this time, he'd try and keep it simple by leading Skidboot around the first barrel with the usual temptation of a toy.

"Here boy, follow the toy!" David went twice around a barrel they'd set up in the ranch arena, enticing the dog with a stuffed rabbit. Around he went, once, twice. On the second circle David pitched the toy to Skidboot, who flew into his usual frenzy.

Good!
David now had Skidboot thinking cloverleaf, as in
twice around to the right and I get a toy,
which led to the second barrel, which he cornered around, turning left. He hounded the toy like prey around the third and fourth barrels, with David flinging the toy as far as he could to complete the pattern and Skidboot leaping to intercept it, mid air. Successful, he'd howl, spin in circles, gnaw, gnash and explode with his usual uncorked, primal energy.

Barbara and David both howled along with him, yelling to encourage his wild behavior, while Russell, interrupted from studying, ran outside, watched the pair cavorting and shook his head. Studies called him back.
You can't get straight A's on luck.
He banged the screen door behind him.

David and Barbara slid glances at each other, laughed and agreed that it
did
seem crazy, but everything else seemed pretty mad, so why not go for it?

"Let's quit now, Barbara. I think he has the idea."

Thank you for noticing.
Skidboot flicked his hindquarters David's way, a little butt toss to let him know he understood the drill. One thing both dog and man would say, if asked, is the importance of timing. Skidboot's quickness, the burner level of his mind, his flash of understanding, would have staggered into boredom by too much practice. David, also a quick learner, knew the drawback of overdoing it, and he never trained Skidboot past twenty minutes. Generally, Skidboot's learning curve was less than five.