Skidboot 'The Smartest Dog In The World' (22 page)

"People are calling up the fair office all day long."

"Oh, I'm sorry about that," David shuffled his boots, first the left, then the right.

"Sorry? They all want to see you and this dog! Why, we've got more calls for the two of you than anything else at the fair."

More than clowns? More than the Texas Star Ferris wheel? More than Fletcher's brand corny dogs? Or, incredibly, more than the oddity of batter slathered, deep-fried coke?

The sheer incredulity of his position struck him, a hard cerebral slap. How long would it be before they realized he was just a cowboy with a cowdog having fun? Yet this was beginning to sound a lot like the earlier conversation that landed him a full-time job. What now?

Mr. McCoy strode around his desk, clapped his arm around David's shoulder and breathed heavily at him. The Fair wanted them as regulars, ones with a booth so that people could
find
them. Why, there would be three fifteen-minute shows each day, THREE, he practically shouted, as if anticipating an argument.

David swiftly calculated, only three a day was less than two-hours work for the same $400! Of course they might go into overtime, and then he'd spend time getting to and from the booth, not to mention lunch and snacks, but the sheer craziness of playing with his dog for less than two hours a day for that kind of pay was incredible. This was life, with all its unexpected upswings.

McCoy, as if talking to himself, crooned, "and we'll put up a sign, and some Astroturf, and rope off the area...we'll hand out flyers, give directions in the regular brochures." He laughed. "My boy, you are gonna be a star!" David looked around, not sure which of them he was talking to.

CHAPTER FORTY

Crowd Control

The fantasy continued. Spring turned to summer, bringing its usual changes to North Texas. The cottonwoods shone with oozing sap, and the round green pods of the trees would soon be trailing wisps of cotton. The willows, thin and whippy, were nearly leafed out, and Drake mallard ducks patrolled the streams leading from Lake Tawakoni. Soon ducklings would frisk, and the mating calls of magpies and the pie-billed grebe would sound. Texas has more wild birds than any other state in the Union, and spring seemed to bring them all out.

Daily, David and Skidboot left their trailer to breathe in the soft scents of each new morning. After that came hair-combing, shirt-tucking, coat-grooming and coffee-slurping. Then they would dive into the crowds of festival junkies flopping with cowboy hats, jostling with kids and pets. A flotsam of jolly fair wear—flared shorts, thigh-cut jeans, cool guy Panama hats, Armani eyewear—was borne along by a murmuring, slurping, ear bud-plugged crowd. At times it eddied and clogged, then swelled, then grew nearly impenetrable. And only with difficulty did they manage to shinny and squeeze their way through to the booth. David had to body block his way once, then tap a man's back with "excuse me..."

Suddenly, the sea parted with, "Look, it's them, it's Skidboot!" The chatter rose, spiraled, grew. This crowd thronged around them.

It amazed David that they had fans. And that these fans collected into crowds, and the crowds became sprawling, ragged flocks that that would call him by name, know his story, anticipate his dog's tricks, and swarm him, as if he were Mick Jagger. His solitude was shattered. Publicity violated every principle by which he normally lived, yet now shaped his days, defined his performances, skewed his relationship with his dog and his family. And here, a crowd so overgrown he couldn't fight his way through it. His ears rang with applause as the plurality flowed around him, edging closer to see the dog and the cowboy—him! They were like Black Friday shoppers, and he was…well, Macy's or the Apple store.

"Look, it's him!"

Squeals, pushing, autographs begged, photos demanded, hurried requests, whispered praise, stories blown about by a blizzard of humanity. Skidboot planted himself firmly at David's knee. In herding, when cows were scattered over the range and the cactus might harbor a rattler or two—the calves would mother up, their small shapes tucked into the large safety of the mother. David was no mother, but he felt Skidboot mother up to him anyway, and he knew why.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The Late Show with Letterman

The Letterman show both reflected society and was shaped by it. Like the State Department, it sucked in baseline research and spit out policy, each policy being the groundwork of a new show. A serious man, Letterman wanted to be relevant, and was.

Outsiders might be daunted by the sheer complexity of the operation, the control rooms, the jungles of audio/video equipment and the cutting room spinning out five polished performances a week. There were remote production trucks jammed with video and audio cable filming the onstage cast and chorus, while the TV rehearsals and taping took place at the Ed Sullivan Theater on West 53rd Street, where audiences clapped on cue, excited to be part of the New York scene.

The Letterman Show had racked up countless prizes for Outstanding Variety, Music or Comedy, but prestige aside, the show was only as good as it's research team, an ultra-educated, hyper-driven and over-caffeinated hive of media specialists who begin each day by scanning every newspaper, magazine, radio transmission (today blog or tweet), no matter its size or following, from the Muleshoe
Journal
on. They take note of DJ patter, watch the dawn after late-night talk shows, then scour nationwide info waves, searching for the new and the different.

If a small town mayor made an election joke, they heard it. If Faith Hill flubbed a Country Music award, they took note, amassing talking points for the Letterman nightly monologue, as well as show and category ideas. Categories ranged from kid scientists to stupid human tricks, but the category that drew in David Hartwig was "Stupid Animal Tricks," which brought a riptide of oddities before the camera—a Bulldog on a rocking horse, a devil-possessed Japanese miniature lapdog dressed in Chanel, a double-Dutch rope-jumping cattle dog, one mutt who turned into a canine coffee table and balanced a cup of water on his butt, and even Misha, a Corgi who blew bubbles underwater.

There seemed no end to the oddball antics rehearsed in homes around America, and David Letterman let his staff know he was interested in seeing them all. Why not have auditions?

The quest was three good "stupid" tricks, but after days spent sweltering in a Dallas auditorium, tempers had frayed, dogs were hyperventilating, cats were catatonic, and the line of interviewees still lined up until Sunday. And worse, despite the heat, the crew found that Texans ate nearly everything chicken-fried. Head producer Cal Finer even found
mayo
on a salad. No one from New York ate mayo, and he finally had to get his assistant to buy a metal strainer and
wash his salads
before eating. He equated bread and barbecue with the beer-belly locals out walking the streets.

Morning number three, Finer received good news:

"So, you're saying we already have the trick?"

"Um-hm"

"Excellent!"

They stared at Skidboot and David, who had run through their standby tricks without missing a beat. Any concerns about the dog's showmanship vanished amidst the confusion of staff, crazy cameras and more lights than Christmas, proving that this dog could hold under fire. Even when the film crew moved in, a fly cam hoisting a 40-pound camera on a stabilizer that nearly flattened Skidboot, the cam driver yelling back something, maybe an apology. People shook their recording devices like rattles. David heard "pan" and "paint" and maybe "tilt," but by their turn, peace seemed to flow as David took a big step forward, and Skidboot mimicked him. Syncopated as twins, they moved, shadowed each other, David taking one step, Skidboot another, as they shuffled together, turned backwards, turned in reverse, held a leg up, a leg down, even to the point of David dropping to all fours and crawling, after which Skidboot also went infantry. He crawled along the floor, mimicking every pause, slide, grimace and pant. David finished with a superb roll over, nearly colliding with Skidboot's own identical maneuver. Their only difference seemed to be that one had a fur coat he could shake out, the other did not.

"You and that dog are downright unbelievable...and you know, this is high stakes, here. High Stakes," Finer said. Hartwig and his dog would find this out soon enough.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Don't Call It "Stupid Pet Tricks'

They were selected. And after the call came, Skidboot and David capered around, laughing, trying a few Square dance turns. They'd had excitement for a while now but nothing as big as a trip to the Letterman show in New York.

"Let's just not say "stupid tricks' around Skidboot," David said. He never considered anything they did together as stupid.

"Of course not!" Barbara concurred. Like the epic Rin-tin-tin, he was a high-level intuitive who needed to be doing useful work, not "stupid animal tricks."

But still...New York!

The day dawned calm, with a glowing sky and the confused cry of a barn owl settling into sleep. Skidboot bristled and paced, eager to get out and herd cattle.

"Not today, boy," David encouraged, gently, "today is fly day." Inside, David quaked, nervous about the upcoming event and the long flight. David became claustrophobic thinking of it.

Barbara still rummaged for the keys, but the minutes were ticking. "Any luck?" David shouted, getting edgier.

Finally, when the cab, the run to the airport, the adjusting, the tinkering was over, he woke up in New York, ready to burst out into the brisk air and get back to normal.

"Look at that, Skidboot!" David knew Barbara would have loved this; too bad she couldn't come. He sighed again, braced to the cold wind, and like true men of the range, cowboy and cowdog marched out to meet their fate.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Roll, Fetch and Meet New Fans

The Mayflower Hotel, one of the oldest, most comfy yet venerable New York hotels held itself haughtily on New York's Park side, an 18-story, 365-room faded socialite designed by Emery Roth in 1926. It still clung to past elegance, even though parts of it were now a residence hotel. Hewn of vintage stone, its artful brick palisade ran along Central Park West, offering a dignified contrast to such glitzy architectural newcomers as the bronze mirrored Trump Towers or the upward swoop of the Time Warner Center nearby.

Visitors admired the façade of the old hotel, with its plaque commemorating the site as the 1898 birthplace of Vincent Youmans, the composer of "No, No, Nanette." Their heads swiveled up to view the cut-glass chandeliers in the lobby, the bronze Cutler mail-chute boxes roiled with gleaming eagles and light bounced from an ebony Baby Grand. Modest but stylish, the Mayflower had hosted its share of celebrities, from the originators of Felix the Cat to the Bolshoi Ballet. David suddenly laughed out loud. The hotel had also housed a fabled flea circus, with no end of comic possibilities.

"Fleas?" he teased Skidboot, who was oddly free of them, as well as most other canine afflictions, whether parasites, mange or ringworm. The dog either had good genes or good luck.

The hotel's main recommendation was the fabulous location near Times Square and Broadway, one step from the shops, one twirl from the clubs, restaurants and night life. Slightly dowdy, but for the cowboy and his dog, the tightly pulled sheets—so taut they could trampoline in place without even making a dent, at least for a few minutes—was heaven.

"Comfortable," "unpretentious," "your own little secret" described the Mayflower, and David knew that he would add a few more by the time they had finished. One being, "the place where he met his downfall and wished it hadn't happened."

And room service!

"Skidboot, buddy, we are
not
in Texas right now." David strode up and down the room, taking in the two beds and the rainbow play of neon lights from the marquee across the street. Skidboot, watching television, let out a whine.

David brightened up. "You hungry? Well, me too. Let's order."

And when the silver platter arrived, steaming with steak, whipped potatoes, sour cream, butter, Crab Louis salad and a fairyland of tiny appetizers, he nearly collapsed laughing. Carrots fanned out in thin coins, layered with caviar, mushrooms and what looked like chocolate twigs. Patties of some meat substance had been molded into chic torpedoes. And a tiny army of tea sandwiches—he could swear one of them had on an eggwhite cowboy hat—looked like Christmas.

Skidboot bounced and quivered but minded his manners. David relaxed into the lap of contentment, his cares vanished. How quickly luxury took hold.

The Reception people, trendy and urbane, showered them with compliments and then, almost shyly, asked for a few dog tricks. David figured this would help Skidboot work off the effects of a 7-hour flight, and readily obliged. People—rumpled travelers, pancake-faced matrons, Goth entertainers, men with green nails, women with green hair, angelic young things bopping to private music, business travelers—all passed through the old Beaux Arts lobby, perching for a moment on the slightly-worn sofas, eager to see a cowdog do tricks in New York.

As Skidboot rolled, fetched, shadowed and picked up trash, David reviewed the upcoming performance, trying not to panic at the hectoring thought of being in the Ed Sullivan Theater. The venerable 13-story brick building was originally built by Arthur Hammerstein, who named the theater in honor of his father, Oscar. After that, it plunged into troubled times, financial downfall, and numerous name changes until 1935, when CBS began using it for radio broadcasts. Fifteen years later, it became CBS-TV Studio 50, and the home of the Ed Sullivan variety show. In 1993 David Letterman joined CBS, bought the theater and redesigned the space to hold a 400-seat audience. Here the Beatles had performed, and even Elvis had strutted onstage. The celebrity list read like an old issue of
Rolling Stone
—the Doors, Jackson 5, the Mamas and the Papas.