Skidboot 'The Smartest Dog In The World' (27 page)

Love. The entire story.

Calls flooded in, but one call in particular held their attention.

"It's Bill Langworthy from Pet Star." David said, incredulous. "He's offering a $25,000 prize, and they want Skidboot to compete." David prepared himself for Barbara's refusal, knew she would say but
he's blind, David, how can he perform?
and decided that before tackling it, they'd take Skidboot around a little, just to see how he did.

First, the diner.

With its jaunty harlequin floor, pale blue walls and lipstick red booths, the diner cheered them up. Plus, Skidboot's photo loomed large on the wall, and their entry stirred up friends and neighbors, who clustered around, murmuring "good dog…we love you, Skidboot….be well, buddy."

David thought he'd try out a command or two. Rising to go wash his hands, he tapped the seat, telling Skidboot to "save my place." New words to Skidboot, and a new concept to carry out in his newly-darkened state. Always game, he jumped up to the vacant seat and "guarded" David's spot. As people applauded, David saw Barbara, teary-eyed, nod at him. Her smile said it all, that she understood. Taking Skidboot back out on the road was not opportunism, not taking advantage, but giving the dog back what he loved, a chance to work.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Old Dog, New Tricks

A dog is man's best friend, ask anyone. But if you ask the dog, he might respond with different thoughts, something like:

Goodness. Happy. More happy.

A dog's innocence could shine forth, then be reflected back by the people who see him. Skidboot, nearly iridescent with delight when he entertained, possessed both a lively instinct for mischief as well as for good.

Ask the little blind girl, Topanga, at the Joe Martin Early Childhood Disease Center in Quinlan. Along with the rest of the class, she loved to hear Skidboot and David perform. What she couldn't see, she imagined and giggled at David's humorous patter, his corny jokes, his interaction with his dog. At the end of each routine, Skidboot's reward was to treat himself to a good rummage through the children's toy box—rabbits, stuffed animals, legos, blocks. Somehow, he knew to treat the toys delicately, not to rip and shred them in the usual way. He would sniff and roll them, as if evaluating a fine wine. Then he danced with them, threw them in the air…breathing in the cheerful, soapy, child scent.

Thoughtfully, he would only gum the toys a little, then put them back,

After one performance, Topanga rose to go and hug David, but couldn't find her stick.
Oh, no, she needs her walking device
. David looked up, down and around the room, but no stick.

Skidboot immediately understood. He pranced over to a closet door that had been thrown open, hiding the stick behind. He nosed he door open, carefully picked up her stick, and walked it over to little Topanga.

Skidboot, like all animals, could sense
otherness
, the presence of disability, even disease and his heart moved toward that person.

Often, this happened in reverse. As with Doris Canton.

Doris reached out to Skidboot one day after the Cooper rodeo. It was well into Skidboot's entertainment career, and by now the money was rolling in, the crowds larger than ever. But a crowd is faceless, only an aggregate, with no trace of the individual. This changed as the sixtyish woman, heavyset, waited patiently by the exit as the crowd filtered out. Solid as a pier, her eyes alive with inquiry, she parted the human tide as she waited for the last of the crowd to leave before her words tumbled out.

"What a wonderful dog," she moved toward them. David, always courtly, agreed that he surely was, and instructed Skidboot to say "hello."

As Doris reached down to pat him, her curly black wig slid off her head, revealing the barren landscape of chemotherapy, causing her to blush, apologize and struggle to realign the mop of hair while David tried not to notice, to give her time to collect herself. Skidboot lacked false modesty. He sailed straight over and buried his nose in her now-sitting form. He whimpered, then crooned a little sound that David had never heard before. He stretched up to lick her face, his eyes tender
. Poor woman.

Doris snuffled, wiped her eyes. She told them how much joy she'd found in Skidboot's performance, how she'd come to see them several times, had seen him on TV and felt a special connection. Love flew back and forth, a love blizzard between Skidboot and Doris as they nuzzled and murmured, and finally, reluctantly, parted ways. Skidboot watched her go, his eyes glued to her retreating form.

David stood amazed and humbled, seeing in the little dog dimensions of sympathy he'd never expected. He reminded himself to call Barbara that night and tell her about Doris, about how loving Skidboot was.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Seeing Is Believing

Ten shaved heads gleamed like eggs. Not aliens, only youngsters in the Children's Oncology Center in Dallas, who now giggled and laughed at the antics of the blind Skidboot, who fetched toys and listened to the count and let himself be petted until his back shimmied. Even sightless, Skidboot loved to perform. The audience, knowing that the dog could not see, was spellbound. His disability mirrored their own self-doubts, and his continued efforts were an inspiration.

David had altered their routine. One day, he introduced the idea of touch, putting the toy in front of Skidboot, who froze in place as if he could see it. Then David said, "don't get that toy until I touch your paw," and lightly David brushed Skidboot's paw, telling him, "this is your hand. And when I touch your paw, you go get it." At every paw pat, Skidboot would pounce on the toy. From the dog's paw, David moved up to the furry forehead, the side of his foot, but no matter where David touched or patted, Skidboot waited for the light paw-touch. Then, he would pounce.

"Friends," David told the members of the First Congregational Church, the Lion's Club, the Brooke Army Medical Center for the Intrepid, the Handicapped Rehabilitation Center and the Boles Elementary school in Quinlan, "this dog is 13-years-old, blind, and he is learning new tricks. Now what does that mean for us?"

Huge smiles stretched across the borders of fatigue and discouragement as they grabbed the optimism of Skidboot. Others read about the dog in a lengthy piece in the
Texas County Reporter
, and upon the advent of internet and viral videos, millions more, worldwide, would come to know about the blind dog.

Letters and calls still poured in—(years later it would be emails and text messages by the thousands and web hits by the millions). They eddied and swirled, smothering the Hartwig's doubts.

Oddly enough, it was now Barbara pushing for the
Pet Star
competition. "I thought you wanted to protect him from all that, Barbara?" David couldn't figure her out.

But her motives were clear. She'd seen Skidboot inch his way along to find a toy, seen him waggle his nose at his the cheering crowds, seen the way his coat rippled back and forth, as if he were shivering inside from excitement. How could you keep a dog from doing what he did so well? Would you keep a bird from singing?

"It's about trust, isn't it?" Barbara smiled as she aimed his own words back at him, and David had to admit, she was right.
Pet Star
had now given them a big project to work on, with new training and the heady possibility of winning—and winning big. It would energize them all.

And David realized that they needed
Pet Star
as much as Skidboot did.
Life is peculiar,
David thought.
And so are we.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Walking the Pet Star Plank

A carrot.

Everyone needed a carrot to strive after, and
Pet Star
was their carrot.

It dangled out in front of them, getting them up early in the morning to devise and practice new tricks, to work with Skidboot as if he were a rodeo star. It gave them lively conversations at night, as everyone encouraged everyone else. Why, they all thought, a blind dog seemed to heal the family rifts, conjugate their differences.

"Is he eating enough?" Barbara wondered.

"You think we should clean the yard up, maybe move some of that construction stuff?" David was afraid Skidboot might collide with the wheelbarrow, or worse, the cattle in the pen.

"Let's let him talk to Russell," David suggested. Skidboot love Russell, would give a sharp little bark if he heard Russell's name. Now that he was gone, Skidboot moped around his boy's room, sniffing the old boots, the baseball glove, the neatly hung shirts he'd outgrown. Sometimes, Skidboot would whimper, as if begging to talk to Russell.

"Here boy," David handed him the phone. From the eager tilt of his head, they could tell he heard his name coming over the line, "Skidboot, you okay, boy?" and "Skidboot, you practicing hard?" and so on. Skidboot panted a bit, shaking his head to adjust his spiky ear to the receiver. He nuzzled closer, whining.
It's Russell, my Russell!
He knew the silly words "f-o-n-e" that David had cooked up as a joke. He knew how to retrieve one when David hid it behind a plant, or under the sofa, or near the magazine rack on that nice woman's TV show—Oprah. But he couldn't figure out how
his boy Russell
had become this tiny, tiny voice buried inside.

Skidboot waited patiently until the voice said goodbye, then whined as David took it away.

"Ready to work now?" He could tell that Skidboot was motivated and decided that the usual routine of touching his snout, his back, his tail, his belly then letting him spring forth at the touch on the paw was, well, good, but David had something better in mind. And it involved a touch of risk.

The barrels were about five-yards apart. The plank laid across them was four-feet from the ground. Not exactly a tightrope scene but enough to cause Barbara to clutch Skidboot to her chest, holding him tight in protest.

"A blind dog, walking a plank, what are you thinking of?"

David shuffled a little, then told her that he was thinking of a
blind dog walking a plank,
that's what he was thinking of. He explained that Skidboot, like everyone, needed a challenge. He'd mastered the touch-a-paw-retrieve-a-toy routine even though handicapped and was clearly ready for something new. Like this.

David scooped Skidboot up to the top of the barrel, where he teetered, his nose sniffing actively, trying the wind in every direction.

Barbara was not convinced and told David that it was
his
challenge he was working on, using the dog. But David just continued. He spoke to Skidboot calmly, urging him along the beam
. I'm gonna be here with you buddy, you just walk slowly. One foot, another foot, that's the way. Keep your feet moving, buddy, let's go.

Skidboot held his nose toward the plank, sniffing a path. His paws prized slowly along the scabby wood, nails scrabbling as he memorized its feel, its width and length. Suddenly, one paw slipped off the beam and Skidboot pitched forward, a flurry of frantic legs and beating tail.

"It's ok Skidboot, steady boy." David caught him, cradled him briefly, but Skidboot fought the embrace to get back on the beam.

"Look at that, Barbara. Blind balance!"

Skidboot, back on the beam, nearly pranced with excitement.
The plank! He could feel it!

Every day thereafter was Plank Day, with Skidboot inching, slipping and prancing along the plank. He had a movement for every inch of the board and loved to hear David announce: "And now, ladies and gentlemen, we have our dog, Skidboot,
walking the plank!”

Skidboot was now seasoned as a buccaneer, and by the following Tuesday, as the Buffalo grass rustled gently in the spring air and Straggler Daisies poked through the warming soil, a quivering dog, nose high, minced across a 10-foot beam like a fashion model and then back again. And then turned and repeated his path. Again and again.

Barbara, washing dishes in the kitchen, watched. She wiped her eyes and then remembered her soapy gloves.
Even more to cry about now
, she smiled and turned away.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Trembling Towards Success

"Mr. Hartwig, they're ready for you."

He'd been dreading these words. He heard these words in his nightmares, and just a minute ago, had felt sick to his stomach with anxiety. He could never figure out why
he
was so upset while Skidboot, the one who couldn't even see, seemed like a poster child for canine sanguine.

Calm. Bright eyed. Eager to perform.

In fact, the night before, they'd watched
Pet Star
, and David pointed out why Skidboot had more to offer than the dancing pig, the Cocker Spaniel that twirled or—what next, the cat speaking English? When the bulldog on a skateboard whizzed across stage, Skidboot, even without seeing it, let out a rare howl. David laughed, and then he, too, let out a howl. And they ended the Pet Star show by diving under a pillow and upsetting the bowl of popcorn, two television critics having their say.

"Skidboot," David laughed, dusting off popcorn, "it doesn't get any better, does it boy?"

What followed the next day was a first class flight, a four-star hotel and their arrival at the Pet Star studios, while still enjoying the last-minute improv trick they'd played at the airport. David noticed how he always said "they" and realized that he, too, was basking in the stardom.

The "trick" had been fun. About to hand over his ticket, David hesitated, then told Skidboot to take it over instead. The slightly bored attendant, accustomed to watching children, the disabled, sports folks, rock stars, baseball teams, giggling girls, and squalling families board the plane, had yet to take a ticket from a dog.

Until then.

He pranced up, snout lifted high, the ticket delicately held at the edge, as if he knew that too much bite would deface it, and offered it to her as she brushed her hair aside, bent down, and laughed, "look! It's a dog with a ticket!" Others glanced over, then murmured. Coffee cups stalled in mid-sip, magazines fluttered, cell phones went unanswered at the sight.