Skidboot 'The Smartest Dog In The World' (3 page)

"No
sir
!” David moved to shove the money back, but Butch moved to quiet him.

"Son, I got a family situation coming up and I need your help." With fresh snow and eager kids, he'd promised the family a sleigh ride, only the horses were unshod for the event. Since David was coming over anyway, what harm to advance him some on the horseshoeing work, what say?

"I appreciate the offer, Butch." David straightened up, no longer a poor penitent but a man with a mission. When it snowed in Quinlan, it meant that David made money. For an unshod horse, snow could be a nightmare. While the rest of town cozily watched icy white feathers drift over the hills, blurring the sun at the edges, and causing the geese to flap in frustration at being trapped in Texas, it meant money for him. For unshod horses, show could be a nightmare. An unshod horse with a naturally balanced hoof, a dense hoof horn and a sole with a rim had traction and could pull itself through freezing ice. But flat hooves might bruise on the frozen ground. Or, a horse might have a natural indent that trapped the ice and caused the animal to "snowball" or skid.

David would examine the hoof with the sharp gaze of an orthopod, then diagnose the best traction option, straight out of the
Hoof Care Manual.
He might use aluminum shoes or a surfacing material such as tungsten carbide, or maybe Borium, smeared over the horse's regular metal shoe. Or nails. If he used two nails per shoe, his total bill, with time, might be close to $125.00. That should tide them over until the other check went through.

The truck sputtered, nearly empty again, but at least the headlights worked. White shimmers of light wove through the snow veils, an exotic dance of light and shadow. Snow carpeted the penned horse, its head sunk low.

Not in the barn?
David bent himself to the icy maelstrom, trying to sooth the horse to make the work safe. He had to crouch in the cold with a hoof the size of a toaster in his lap. A nervous horse could kick you to Saturday, and the last thing he needed was an injury.

Russell, keep the lights on!" he shivered, nearly dropping the hoof. He figured that two nails would do it and began to tap them in. But Russell had jumped out of the truck and run to the barn. Minutes later he shouted,
come look, David, over here!

David pushed away from the horse and creaked to his feet. Although in his thirties, he still felt agile as a teenager, except when popsicled in the snow for an hour. He straightened up, hobbling toward the barn where a stray bitch, recently crawled into the hayloft from who-knows-where, nursed a brood of Blue Heeler puppies.
If I wanted a dog I'd get a Blue Heeler,
David thought idly, as the Heeler was the ideal round-up and work dog in Texas.

Only he didn't want a dog, he only wanted to finish up and head back to the trailer, where he might be able to snuggle up to his wife and keep warm.

His wife!
Realization slammed through him--he didn't have a Christmas present for Barbara. The puppies writhed around, tumbling, chirruping, sucking, mewling. Cute enough. Why, he'd get her one! It shamed him that Barbara had to work so hard, ten years now as a legal aid at the municipal courthouse, her knowledge and skill far above her pay scale. Whenever she flashed this ability, her supervisor, Earle, got testy. Earle watched her, hawk eyes narrowed, fat cheeks shiny with anticipation. He waited for her to screw up, and a single minute tardy was his time to pounce.

Late again, Barbara."

"You only got this job because your daddy was a military man, and we respect that around here."

We can always make other arrangements here, you know."

Her workplace bristled with opposition, like an enemy military zone with guns trained, triggered, and ready to fire. When she quietly tried to counsel people, Earle would pop up and reprimand her. It irked him that she knew so much law and he wanted to make sure no one went away with her free non-lawyer opinions.

No wonder she acted cold, no longer the clinging girl he'd met at 27, who took one look at his shirtless, sun-buttered length and came straight over, asked his name, and never again left his side. He'd been helping her with her first horse, a half-broken 2-yr. old, the culmination of her childhood dreams. As a girl in California, she'd loved horses. But now, in addition to the horse, she fell in love with him.

A colorful courtship, he'd often said, filled with breakups, reunions more breakups, and then more reunions. David had been admired by his share of women, some who tried to get his attention by offering to help him bale hay. They'd sweep the mixed-grass hay up into windrows, the simplest job ever, expecting praise and flirtation but finding instead an extreme perfectionism that brought scowls and epitaphs at their sloppiness, or at how they threw their rakes on the ground for someone to step on. He'd harass them about their hay piles, treating them like hired help while they pouted, sweeping back their hair.

Barbara had gotten herself a headstrong man, a demanding perfectionist who yelled, cussed, ordered people around and insisted
no short cuts
and
push the limits.
Ask his parents, Pat and Rudy, and they'd remember the temper tantrums he threw, lying on the floor like he was dying, stubborn and unrelenting until he got his way. Thus life flew along—exciting, uncomfortable and fast paced. And when marriage finally jammed them together, they understood both sides of
better or worse.

Russell, pick one out. We'll see if it's ok with Butch to give it to Barbara."

Russell stared at the puppies, and locked in on a fat, variegated one with bright eyes and a bulging tummy, signs of a lively alpha. The pup stretched out his sleek head and licked David's hand.

"Yep, that's the one." Butch approved, wishing they'd take a couple more home. A pup in the hand meant one less to feed, but they said no and bundled up the chosen one, yapping and whimpering. David pulled up tall and stood looking down at the mother, content amid the suckling, smacking and yipping. The fat pup already strained to get back, and they gripped it more tightly. In the corner, David noticed another dog, thinner, more fierce, lurking back in the shadows, staring at them, eyebrows cocked, its eyes brimming with what, amusement? Or curiosity, he couldn't place it.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Exchange

Five minutes later, David slammed on the brakes. The truck skidded sideways and Russell looked at him, inquiring. David suddenly knew what had been bothering him. That other puppy, the smaller one, had given him a
look
. It was a challenge, the same kind Randy Coyle threw down, the same kind he felt when the gun went off and he flew into the middle lane, swimming. That puppy had communicated, while the other one—and he glanced down, seeing the fat ball of fur playing with its own paws—was just having fun.

"Russell, we got to revisit this puppy choice."

Russell looked surprised. The fat puppy stopped fiddling for a moment and also looked surprised.

"That other dog, son, he had
something
. We need to go back and find out what."

Minutes later, they slipped Fat Boy back into the brood and stepped back to watch. The big pup eagerly clamped itself onto the mother's teat, sucking, drooling, and wagging its tail. Cute as anything, and certainly more cute than the other pup poised at the rear, alert as an owl, head cocked, guarding the nest. That pup caught his gaze and held it. Then it seemed to relax, his muscles sagging briefly under his thin coat.
They came back.

"Russell?" David queried.

"You betcha," Russell scooped up the puppy, which first resisted, rigid and fierce, its nails splayed. But sheltered in the boy's arms, the dog relaxed again. David pried open the dented truck door and prayed for start-up. It was time to head home. As the truck chugged on fumes, they stared at the new Hartwig. What would they name him?

Famous show dogs paraded through their thoughts. Lassie, the show dog. Rin Tin Tin, who sprang from a litter of bombed-out puppies found in a kennel in the German Lorraine, named after French children's finger puppets that they gave to the American soldiers for good luck. There was a litany of "Wonder Dogs," starting with Ace the wonder dog, a German Shepherd in the 1930's, as famed a star as Lassie in his day. Then came Pal the Wonder Dog, Rex the Wonder Dog, and all the Wonder Dogs to follow. "Wonder Dog" was out, but David and Russell both agreed that if left to Barbara, they'd end up with Spot, or Pumpkin, or worse. Names burst out: "Bob Wire," "Hot Shot," "T-Post," "Lasso." They laughed together, their disjointed cowboy rap shooting back and forth.

"Let's hold off, then." David concentrated on the road ahead, puzzling through mounds of braided snow and ice slicks toward the spot of light beaming through the curtains, a warm homecoming.

Blizzards roared so occasionally in North Texas that each was a rarity. For kids, snow meant closed schools and popcorn days, but David would rather have blue pigs than falling snow. The lights were off, the heat was off, and they were in for a session of maximum mobile home discomfort. He was sure he'd paid the bill. But maybe it was the lag time that now put them in the dark. Lag time always got you.

Barbara flashed the battery light, its beam like a warm pool of welcome.

"Russell, this is the right dog. Let's not bungle it with the wrong name." They nodded, grinned, but failed to see the dog grin back.

CHAPTER SIX

Barbara's Surprise

Barbara was not happy. She'd fallen out with her boss, Earl, again, a conflicted man who circled her like prey, ready to pounce for the tiniest error. She couldn't help herself, but when people came into the courthouse needing information, she gladly gave it. But what had it gotten her?

The trailer door shook as the men blew in, stamping ice, shivering, scraping boots and battling it closed against the wind. The trailer shuddered like an old Frigidaire. Barbara noticed right away that David seemed hurt, bent over himself in a weird way. She imagined a horse kick, him being laid up, no work...

"What happened?"

"Horse kicked me, shoulder out." David sidled into the trailer, nearly knocking over the floor lamp. In the dark, the EZ boy rocker lunged at him, and he tripped backwards. Ouch! The battery lamp swiveled his way, and, sure enough, Barbara saw he was hurt, heard him making a strange sound, like whimpering. He straightened up, opening his jacket to expose the damage but she saw only a tiny face, staring at her. What was it, a bat? It had pointed ears, a black face, and piercing eyes.

"Merry Christmas, hon." David swept his coat open and the puppy huffed at her, an explosion of sound. Nose first, it wriggled along David's arm to inspect her, as Barbara stared back, surprised. They held eye contact until the puppy let out an approving yip.

"Oh look at that!" In a second, the puppy was in her arms, squirming, nestling its butt into the crook of her elbow, licking her upside one arm and down the other. It knew instantly that this woman offered safe haven, much like a mother Heeler. Warm and nurturing, she would be his place of refuge, of food, of defense. For a dog just born, this one had already learned a lot. He sighed,
finally
.

Christmas found David, Russell and Barbara huddled together, a cluster of Hartwigs mulling over the newest addition to their home, the Heeler named…

"What…?" Barbara scrolled through the possibilities. They laughed at the Hollywood dogs, Axelrod the Basset Hound, Cheeka the Pug, Gidget the Chihuahua, Honey Tree Evil Eye, even Lassie, Buck, Cosmo, or Higgins. Then David and Russell added their cowboy litany, but she didn't hear anything she liked. It sounded like a rodeo roster.

"Let him play," she instructed, and the puppy slid to the floor, claws splayed for balance, wobbling off but soon gaining traction. Barbara thought,
warm milk,
and the puppy waddled after her toward the kitchen, throwing a triumphant glance back at David.

"Oh, he's following me!"

Then the dog veered off, attention caught by a woven straw basket in the corner. It pulled itself up over the edge of the basket and studied David's loose collection of old rodeo gear. This was the Basket of Failed Dreams, where the paraphernalia of calf roping gathered dust, where occasionally he'd dig through and sort out something useful, like one of his many pairs of skid boots, or leather shin protectors. A rodeo horse without skid boots was like, well, a ballerina without slippers, and he had a skid boot for every occasion. The basket reminded him of his early passion for the calf ropin' heroes, like Toots Mansfield, seven time world champion calf roper, who won more buckles, saddles, trophies, awards and honors than any other tie-down calf roper in history, a legend in the Frontier Times Museum's Texas Heroes Hall of Honor. Toots could levitate a calf with his huge hands and lay it down faster than any man alive. People sent their sons from all over the world to Mansfield's roping school on his ranch outside Big Springs, Texas, where Saudi, Scotch, Canadian and Australian teens teetered on the corral fence, stiff in new jeans and new boots to learn to sail a lariat loop through the air, easy as smoke. Maybe if he'd gone to
that
school instead of Dallas High, some of the speed and dexterity of the master would have rubbed off.

Regret had drained out of him long ago, leaving a thin film of worn out ambition. He still possessed some memorable events, though, like the time he'd scored 45 straight calves in a row for practice, some kind of record, since the usual practice was, tops, fifteen calves using two to three horses. Hearing his friend yell, "go plumb wild, kid!!" and he did.

"Bang! The basket upended, spurs clanked on the floor, and the puppy shuddered backwards, trying to free its paw from entanglement in a leather skid boot that smelled richly of horse fetlock. The pup yipped itself wild, huffing and gnawing, cart-wheeling around on the floor. It was odd behavior for something so small, and they watched it with curiosity. Leather frayed as the dog snarled and rocked, slapping the skid boot right, then left, as if killing prey.