Skidboot 'The Smartest Dog In The World' (28 page)

Take it!
Skidboot felt a tiny bit impatient, and rattled the ticket at her.

“He wants me to take it!" she squealed, and delighted by the carnival aspect, clapped her hands. Again, the little dog had enchanted people. It happened all the time. David had been proud then. Proud many times, actually.

And now, they were about to go onstage, the man with his blind dog, a different team than when Skidboot's vision was 20-20. David knew that the idea of a blind dog would focus interest on Skidboot's dark eyes, and he decided to blindfold him.

Hold still, Skidboot.
They'd practiced this before, and Skidboot patiently let him slip the scarf over his eyes. Only one advantage struck David, at least Skidboot wouldn't be distracted by the bright lights, the dangling speakers, the fly cams and mini-cams and humming, clacking, motorized paraphernalia of the television world.

"Just remember, Skidboot," David whispered to him, "there's only one you. No one will ever be anything like you!"

As if agreeing, Skidboot put his paw on David's knee and patted him. Once. Then twice.

Again, the invitation.

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

The first trick was the "is it safe to eat the treat" trick, where Skidboot kept a dog treat stuck in his mouth, refusing to gulp it down until David had completely read the list of ingredients, pondered it a bit, then finally given permission with, "enjoy!" The treat vanished, and Skidboot smiled and sat back on his haunches, ready for another routine.

They decided to go with a "canine chat," an aspect of the Skidboot show that always brought laughs. David asked, "what next?" and Skidboot barked "rr-rrr!" David, understanding the reply, said "barrels? You want to do barrels?" and Skidboot, in sync, yowled back at him,
of course I do!
"But wait," David said, "Isn't that dangerous for an old dog in your shape?" and Skidboot, anxious now, barked, "rrr-RRRR!" and nearly slapped David with his paw. Not the nice, pretty-please "tap tap" usually employed, but a big whap, as in, "let's GO!"

The audience, unprompted, burst out laughing.

David shrugged, as in "you asked for it buddy," and led Skidboot over to the plank-and-barrel contraption the crew had set up. The plank hovered about five feet from the floor, bridging two barrels ten yards apart. Carefully, David hoisted the blindfolded dog onto the starting end and secured his feet solidly in the middle of the plank.

"Careful, little buddy. You can do it, boy." As the drums rolled and people leaned forward in their seats, Skidboot took a shaky step. One, then two, then with more confidence, he inched along toward the middle. Then, the unthinkable. In a flash, he'd misplaced one paw and tumbled straight off the board, landing with a "thud" on the ground. He lay there, a pile of speckled fur, without a sound for minutes. The crowd gasped, voices called out, "Skidboot!"

At the army base, Russell and his pals yelled, "no!" Russell dove for the phone to call Barbara, but then saw David rush over, remove the blindfold and tell Mario, "he's ok. Just give him a minute."

A commercial slid into place, a jingly ad for dog chow.

The crowd, now behaving much like a rodeo crowd, began to chant, "Skidboot! Skidboot!" When the dog struggled up, looked around, and gave a short bark, they applauded. Skidboot whined, pawed David's knee and nosed toward the balance board. Again.

"Okay, Skidboot. If you want to…" David slipped the blindfold over his face, hoisted him up, and as the drums rolled and the silence grew, Skidboot, fleet of foot and sure as an arrow, swiftly trotted across.

The crowd erupted with cheers, whistles, cries.

Mario exclaimed, "amazing! Incredible!" Emotions flooded in like high tide, and minutes later, when Mario Lopez stood in front of the assembled contestants, watched the pig grunt, the Cocker Spaniel pirouette, the rest of the proudly leashed animal life cavort, whine, posture and prance—he had only one thing to say.

"Skidboot! The gold medal goes to Skidboot!"

Again, David felt like he was living some kind of golden myth. They'd been one of the top three finalists, and when the audience voted for their favorite pet, a problem arose.

"David," confided Mario, "Big problem. Everyone voted for Skidboot. Not a single vote for any other animal. And because of that, we had to vote again, just to get a runner-up."

Like a dream, David thought he'd wake up the next morning
without
the grand prize. And then he realized that was not a dream, that yes, they'd won the money, and yes, it was hard-won, but that also yes, it would be out of his hands—gone, redistributed to his investors before even earning bank interest. He sighed, briefly enjoying the sight of all those zeroes…maybe he'd photocopy it, just to remember.

Their return to Quinlan, like a war veteran's military cortege, fluttered with flags, banners and posters thrummed with the bold music. Balloons shot out of mailboxes and dangled gaily from the oak trees. The town had outdone itself to honor its furry hero, and when Barbara ran down the path to greet them, arms wide open, David felt that the last piece was in place.

All that remained was to cash that check, admire the cascade of big bills that flew across the counter as the teller dealt them out like Vegas, and seal them up in individual envelopes, addressed to each sponsor. It was the right thing to do: pay off a debt, one envelope at a time. He'd be doing a lot of driving that day. A lot of envelope delivery, but it was well worth it.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

One Last Game

Sundown lingers, then sighs away. The remains of the day, like fingers raking down the sky, vanish into the horizon. Light dims, slides away and is gone. The twilight gleams with memories, and life tilts sideways, then empties out. But when? What moment? How much time…? You never know.

Is it during vacation? While they lounged on the beach in Corpus Christi, watching Skidboot nip at the waves?

"Look at him," Barbara whispered. Like a child, he flung himself, chest out, into the waves, then splash! And he submerged. Then splash! He bobbed up again. Then under, unseeing but delighted. Then up, bobbing again. Smiling, they murmured about their dog.

"The fact that he's a dog never interfered with his ambition….!"

"Whatever else is gone, it's sure not his energy…. …! "

"He gives mixed breed a new name: mixed up!"

They laughed, giggled a little, sipped lemonade, while peace, for the first time in many years, flowed softly around them.

Perhaps the moment would happened later, back in Quinlan, on a strange, moonless night in the mobile home at 3 AM, when Skidboot cut straight into the bedroom, whining and worrying. He tugged David's covers off, nearly rolling him out of bed. "Wha?" David, groggy and dazed, sat up. "What's the matter?" Coyotes? Burglars? Skidboot nudged David's hand out from the covers and began to lick it, whining anxiously. David foggily thought back to the javalina incident…
.maybe he knows something, some danger.

He pushed himself from warm nest, struggled with his boots, thinking maybe it was time for carpet slippers and limped after Skidboot. The dog headed straight into the living room, and nosing carefully around, found the rubber football. He grabbed it, felt his way along the wall toward David and bobbed up and down.

"Football? At 3 AM?" David knew the nuances by now, but this was new. Skidboot perched on hind legs, scratching at the door with his paws, the football clutched in his jaws. He wanted to play!

"Ok, boy. But just for a minute."

The flat grassy area felt in front of the trailer lay dark and foreboding. No light touched its dips and draws, and David had to guide Skidboot through the dark. Skidboot whined to keep him on course, and they finally arrived at "their" tree, the tree where he'd trained Skidboot to paw, to swipe, to communicate. Skidboot eagerly pawed the tree, once, twice, then turned unseeing eyes toward David. His eyebrows arched, questioning.

"Sure, boy." David encouraged.

Skidboot patted David's boot. Once, twice, his paw smacking down hard.

"Hey, there Skidboot. Take it easy!"

Skidboot patted and pawed again, whining.

"Ok, let's play ball!" They frolicked, the ball rolling back and forth, flubbing underfoot as they pranced, jigged and whirled in nighttime revelry—a furious, zany, mindless Satyr icon of man and beast, legs and limbs, barks, whines and laughter.

A light flipped on, and Barbara, shimmery and distant, looked out at them frolicking.
My boys.
She yawned. Tomorrow would bring the answers, and not in a happy way. Tomorrow might bring the
moment
. The one they hoped would never come.

CHAPTER SIXTY

End of An Era

Morning. Bird trill, gentle light. The deep hurry of coffee, gulped at the kitchen table. But as David sat, still sleep dazed, something seemed amiss. Skidboot's bed, empty, told of the dog's nocturnal rambles, possibly sniffing around for mice, maybe a midnight snack. Ever since the blindness, Skidboot's patterns had shifted, and they never really knew what to expect.

"Skidboot?" More of a lazy inquiry, as in
where are you, boy?

After breakfast, as David strolled toward the barn, the inquiry picked up.

"Skidboot?" Where the heck…?

This was different.
Where was his dog?
He never went anywhere without Skidboot sniffing and bounding by his side, and now with the blindness, he usually stayed closer than ever. David strolled around the perimeter of the property, thinking that Skidboot might have done a little cattle chasing, just for old time's sake.
What next, maybe chickens?
David smiled, thinking back on those hellish days, amazed, all over again, at how far they'd come.

Then something caught his attention.

A stillness, where there should have been motion.

A space, unfilled.

A ruffle of fur, animated only by the breeze.

He saw Skidboot under the "pawing" tree, their tree, and his posture, thrown straight, legs stiff, was as unnatural as his stillness.

"Skidboot!" The cry was pure anguish, speaking loss, mourning, even a last-minute crazy urge to "count" him back to life. Maybe if he heard "one-two-THREE…?"

David strode over to the limp form, kneeled beside him, his head bent in mourning. Then, with a sigh, he acknowledged the end of the dream, a friendship, a miracle, a frenzy of daily delight—the end of an era. He scooped Skidboot up in his arms and walked into the future, a place of bleakness, at least for a while.

EPILOGUE

Skidboot, gone.

But never, never forgotten.

In fact, in passing, he grew in memory, taking on a virtual life that brought Barbara and David to the Fess Parker Doubletree Resort in Santa Barbara, California one sultry beachfront evening, a little more than a few months later. Dressed to the hilt, they stood in tuxedo and spangles, Barbara glamorous and David handsome, surveying the waving palms and the blue beach horizon. The sign, "pet friendly" nearly brought tears. Instead, they giggled.

He would have loved those waves. He would have sucked down one of those ginger mint lemonades. He would have camped out on the balcony and watched the stars.

And, he would have been proud of them both, gowned and groomed and outfitted like movie stars, part of an elegant crowd gathered in the grand ballroom at a black tie pet rescue gala. Not just part, but the star couple!

As so many times before, David anticipated his name sounding over the microphone. Calling him to the calf roping contest. Calling him out to perform with Skidboot. And now, calling him up to speak, off the cuff, to hundreds of upscale dog lovers, people who had known Skidboot and wanted to hear a memorial talk. His stomach clutched in the same old way, but incredibly, he took a long, clean breath, straightened up and strode up to the stage.

He told them what they already knew but just wanted to hear again.

That Skidboot was more than his actions, his counting, fetching, dropping dead, fake limping. He was more than his breed, Blue Heeler, descended back to a dingo. He was more than the money he unleashed into the Hartwig's life, as pleasant a surprise as it had been. He was the sum of his parts and more, a direct infusion of love to his friends, his family, his audience. The supercharged little dog could shoot love like an arrow, and it pierced every heart; no one went away from a Skidboot show grumpy, glum or self-involved. With a flip and a smile, Skidboot conveyed love, and, well folks, David continued.
It's our job to keep up the good work.

Applause rang out, shaking the crystal chandeliers, shimmering the wall-length ballroom mirrors. Even in his passing, Skidboot could still rock an audience, especially with the showing of a special Skidboot video which looped together children's stories about Skidboot, Barbara's first encounter with him, the Letterman, Leno and Oprah shows, his injury.

More cheering. A standing ovation. David thought he felt a gentle tap on his knee, and looked down, expecting to see his dog. But no, he'd brushed the table leg. All he had now was the memory of Skidboot.

Until the next week.

The doorbell rang. David rustled down his newspaper, noting that bad news weighed so heavy that the paper collapsed on its own.
Bad news, all the time.

Barefoot, he limped over to the door and threw it open. He saw the basket covered with a blanket and his first thought was,
abandoned baby?
That's all he and Barbara needed right now, with Russell starting his law practice. A baby.

The bundle whimpered,
Of course not, don't be a fool!

The Blue Heeler puppy stared up at him, eyes still milky, nose wet, its pink tongue darting about. He clutched a squeaky toy in his mouth, and as David bent down to pick him up, he bit down hard with a fierce little growl.

"Ok, boy! Take it easy now." David grinned, looking at the mini-Skidboot. The puppy was sired by Skidboot's nephew and would launch many lively, squirming Skidboot progeny, so to speak. Specifically, they were part ABCA Registered Border Collie, one of five boys and four girls, all with color, collars and masks.