Skidboot 'The Smartest Dog In The World' (26 page)

The Times building rose up like a rocket ship, and across the street, huge neon signs flashed extravagance, announcing a musical popular in Manhattan, epicenter of the world's entertainment industry. Yet David didn't even have the money for a hot dog, much less a ticket.

Waves of homesickness lapped and wavered, bringing various images to mind, first Barbara, then Russell—where was his boy now? And the ranch…wasn't it time for the annual Quilt Fair? He laughed, knowing that to even think of the quilt fair showed his anxious state—really, quilts? Gathering Skidboot's shorthair neck folds in his hand, he massaged and petted the dog, going down on one knee to get closer, to gather him into his arms, just to be.

It's ok.
Skidboot gazed up at him,
It's ok.

But going home now felt harsh and unwelcoming. He had to contact his contributors, that select club of fellow ranchers and family members who had flirted with Hollywood, each supporting his dream with money, but secretly, drawn to the big lights, the big names, the idea of being one with the stars.

But the real Hollywood moment would come the next week, when they filed into the Hartwig living room, jostling and eager for news, ribbing and joking about show business. David had called the meeting. They grew quiet as he loomed over them.

"Friends, I have some news…."

Of
course
he did! The first million, someone joked. Sure, a million
each
, someone joked back. The buzz rumbled and wavered, then died down. As David bowed his head, he felt as if he was presiding over a funeral, offering regrets over the short, sweet life of the Skidboot project.

"…..and so, that's what happened." His words dragged in the air, bitter as smoke,
cleaned out, money gone.
Like a scene from
The Sting
, they discovered that a thief's machinations knew no bounds when it came to money—
their
money. Someone blinked, a quick wiping of the eyes. Ralph James snorted, then grew quiet. They were once again as they had started, simple folks, friends and family, only lighter in the bankroll, some by many thousands. They talked in low voices, some looking guarded, some even craning around, some seeking signs of high living. They didn't want to, not really, it was just an instinct.

"New truck, David?" The words pierced the air, keen with intent, driving a wedge among friends. The pride David felt in this hard-won purchase—a purchase based only on Skidboot's earnings—suddenly took on malicious meaning.
Did they actually think….?

Suddenly, Barbara burst out:

"Every one of you knows this man. You know he would die before he'd take a cent that wasn't his. You all will recoup your money if it takes David the rest of his life to repay you."

More murmurs, and David looked gratefully at her. She frowned, because part of the hurt stemmed from Skidboot, too.

"David, " she said, "I am tired of this dog being used only for money."

David hung his head, sheepish and disappointed. Even his parents' encouragement didn't help. "The dog is special, son, and so are you. You all got a story to tell. Why, you two are larger than life right now. Makes sense that your troubles would be extra big, too." Thankful once again for
his
parents, he remembered how his high school friends wanted to have his parents instead of their own, how Pat and Rudy always offered good advice, provided a home without discord.

As they filed out, some stopped to stare at the truck, others at the new trailer. But by the next week, no one was there to see David drive the truck back to the showroom and unceremoniously, with steely determination, trade it down.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

A Turn for the Worse

All good stories need a reversal.

It can happen midway or toward a story's end, it's timing less important than the change it signifies. Afterwards, the pace picks up, and action begins to flow speedily uphill again in the opposite direction.

Sometimes the results are brief. But sometimes, they can last forever.

In David's case, the reversal just kept happening, as if falling through the matrix, or like an Olympic luge racer plunging downhill toward a faraway finish line. And the faster he plunged, the more he began to feel different about things.

For one, the sense of fierce ambition, the steely drive to earn, burn and churn—it lessened. He still ran his dog—his
fixed asset
as well as his best buddy. He loved the attention and wouldn't turn down the income, but somehow, it all felt…
different.

It might have been that day at Quinlan elementary, when he strode into the class with Skidboot, grumpy and discouraged by the crooked movie deal, by his sense of gloomy responsibility, by the huge, tottering magnitude of what they'd built…it was just getting to him. And the First Grade teacher, her curly hair framing wide glasses, finally relaxed her worried look as she met them and fixed on Skidboot.

"Look, class, he's here!" And the swarm of overalls, scuffed Nikes and runny noses surged up to them, then dallied around the dog, giddy with affection, until Miss Gray, embarrassed, thrust out a glass container filled with coins and crumpled bills.

"Mr. Hartwig, we're so sorry. We were in the middle of collecting your money, and well, you're a little early. We'll get the rest for sure…."

Hot shame, a flood of embarrassment. David felt a tug, as Skidboot pawed him from below.
Are you kidding, David? Look at these children….”

David tried to shake it all off and proceed with the one-two trick, but Skidboot just sat there, staring at the children, then at the glass jar. It only took a few minutes, but soon they were both staring at the glass jar, as disturbing as if it held a live viper.

"Kids, you take your money back!" David thrust the jar back at the teacher while Skidboot whined happily at his feet. The children watched, wide-eyed. He'd heard of teachable moments and figured that this probably was one, either for him or them. "And so," he said, feeling humble, "this dog does what he does out of love. And you all know that love doesn't have a price."

David, embarrassed, felt like his life had turned into a Hallmark special. He turned to Skidboot.
Satisfied?
Skidboot smiled in that particular way a dog does, his face stretched into a semicircle of approval and excitement, his muzzle and whiskers upswept, followed by a wag, a wriggle, then a long whine as he pawed the floor, as in
let's do it!
Skidboot was ready to commence.

As the day wore on, life opened up, refreshed by the freedom of giving. David was no stranger to generosity —but time and the celebrity jackhammer had left him feeling run down, run over. He shot a quick look at Skidboot as they jutted along the road, heading home, the old truck laboring as they cut through swales of oat hay and blooming switchgrass.

And Skidboot? The same, he himself might say, except that his pointed muzzle now bore flecks of grey, giving a salt and pepper quality that turned his usual blue-black mottle more variegated, dappled as a meadow. A few grey hairs dotted his nape and chest, a light dusting, like sugar. But the vigor remained. An artist drawing Skidboot would start by making a brisk U-shaped curve—tippy nose high on the one side, stiff tail high on the other, and in between, a short-haired coat, tense with excitement.

Skidboot, as tasked as a CEO, needed complex and surprising work, and if either he or David ran out, someone would invent something new. Other dogs might chase blackbirds or steal the breakfast bacon, but Skidboot, caught between man and canine, generally adhered to the lesson David had taught him:
good manners, no matter what,

As much as they understood each other, David had no way of reading his companion, any more than Skidboot could read himself. Skidboot shunned noise in favor of action and seldom howled, yelped or made a ruckus—until that day.

David was changing the oil on the old Ford, and finishing up, wiped his hands and sprayed himself clean with the hose. Just then, a frantic, high-range howl burst out. Then silence.

"Wha…? Skidboot!" David dropped the Pennzoil and loped up the rise to the field where he'd left the dog only minutes before. A limp form lay on the ground, all life gone from it. He ran forward, yelling. No movement.

Kneeling, he watched a horseshoe-shaped contusion well up around the muzzle and spread down toward his jaw, which hung agape at a strange angle. That familiar smile now drooped open, just as his eyes stayed sealed. A thread of blood seeped onto to the ground. Skidboot had been kicked by a horse.

As they gathered him up, Barbara and David were spinning out of control, trying to understand what had happened. Their dog was fast. What on earth slowed him down to the point of being in the danger zone of a horse? It was unthinkable…Skidboot?

Barbara sobbed, her shoulders hunched as she bent over her dog. David thundered around the trailer looking for the telephone, throwing cushions in the air, finally pressing the locator on the phone base, over and over, until it wailed like a baby from the back room. In seconds he was calling an ambulance, describing the tragedy…"kicked by a horse in the head," "unconscious," "three and a half years old." Then he gave the address.

He looked at the telephone, incredulous.

"No, it's not our son. It's our dog!" He darkened, his drawl unleashed. "You won't WHAT? You can't send an ambulance?"

He threw down the phone. They made a cloth sled out of a beach blanket and carefully rolled Skidboot over onto it. A small moan hung in the air, then trailed off.

"My God," David whispered, picking the dog and the towel up, running to the truck. "Hold on, Skidboot, just hold on."

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Blind Love

The vet's sympathy usually went first to animals, next to people. But the pair facing him now were in bad shape.

"It's going to be all right," he sympathized. "Your dog was kicked, has a broken jaw and a severe concussion. All these will mend."

He meant to continue, because the relief blew out of them, a mighty exhale, but he had more to tell them.

"There's still a problem…" They waited, the suspense running up and down like the flu. Their hearts twisted when he told them, and suddenly, it all made sense. Skidboot was kicked because he didn't see the horse. It appeared dim in his vision, which was progressing rapidly toward a form of blindness, Progressive Retinal Atrophy. "You never noticed…?" made them feel like bad parents, thoughtless owners, forcing their blind dog to perform tricks, like a scene out of Dickens.

They thought back over Skidboot's behavior, and David remembered those few times when Skidboot fumbled his toy, which David had wondered about, briefly, but didn't really think through. Still, how could Skidboot have managed so well?

The diagnosis fell on them, a fatal blow. "No treatment for this condition. A bit of eyesight left, but the good eye will only get worse… …."

When they gathered Skidboot up to take him home, there was nothing in his dull expression to remind them of the Vaudeville dog, the show dog who sucked up applause, proudly trotted next to his human partners, exuded love to the crowds. As the days passed, Skidboot hung on, but barely, seldom eating, letting out small noises as someone passed by, a sound nearly muffled by the bandages.

Daily, they'd prop him up on the sofa facing the television as David anxiously watched from the other room to see a spark of interest. But Skidboot slumped down, listless and stared toward the window. David thought he might be attracted to animals, so he flipped the channel to
Pet Star.

"Skidboot," he whispered, "you remember? Look at that." Today's star pig buried her snout in a book, turning the pages slowly by nose. David watched Skidboot to see if the friendly little squeals would perk him up. But no, no interest in pigs.

And even when the doorbell rang and David opened it to see Mel, the postman, wrestling with three stuffed bags of mail, did Skidboot show no interest. "For your poor little dog," Mel sympathized, dropping them at the porch. David dragged them in, spilled out the contents and, incredulous, started to read.

Hearts flew open as children wrote to Skidboot. School classes sent him handmade cards, red construction paper with wobbly drawings. And the faithful folks sent prayers spiraling upwards, invoking his recovery.

"Look at this!" David tried to interest him, and even invented a game of "when I count to
three
then I'll get you another letter." Maybe a dash of the old "three" routine would spark him up a little. But no, Skidboot just stared blankly, eyes dark, unfathoming.

Meanwhile, news stations chanted the litany of his successes, his appearance credits, his tricks, his happy nature, his prognosis. The telephone jangled and buzzed. The plight of the wounded Blue Heeler had touched America, and America, judging from the fat, overstuffed mail sacks, wanted to touch him back. (Years later, bloggers would blog, friends would email each other, U-tube videos would invade Ethernet lines, as an electronic Skidboot tsunami would continue to sweep across the country).

Rest and recuperation, the vet had said. And David and Barbara provided it. For weeks, Skidboot lay there, watching them with his senses, beginning to lap a little milk, then chow, then moving slowly into the room, still limping. They celebrated every advance, and David, somewhat clowning, but really trying to spark Skidboot into excitement, would throw himself on the floor and go into a routine, rolling around, inviting the dog to join him.

Barbara objected. "David, he can't
see
. What are you doing?" But David knew you could also
see
with the heart. At his deepest, most intuitive level, David understood that Skidboot loved only one thing more than David, Barbara and Russell, and that was an
audience
.

I can't deny this dog what is rightfully his.
David was adamant, and Barbara bridled, thinking David meant
money
. But no, he meant entertainment, the wonderful boost that occurred to man or dog when people exchanged love.