Skidboot 'The Smartest Dog In The World' (4 page)

David pulled the boot loose and sailed it across the floor. The puppy shot after it and worried it around. David retrieved the boot and flung it behind the television. Again, the dog shot after the boot, growling low in its chest, a primal sound.

"Skidboot!" Barbara brightened, "we'll call him Skidboot." David and Russell stared at the moving entanglement at their feet, a leather horse contraption atop four paws and a tail that thumped like a mutant centipede on the shag carpet, beating up dust into the air, pure comedy. They'd seen enough. Somehow it made sense to name this dog after a horse's support device, worn like gladiatorial armor to keep it from being hurt.

Like an omen, the lights flicked on, followed by the comforting hum of the refrigerator, and the radio's
Noel, Noel
. Light as air, a sense of serenity fell upon them. Barbara enfolded Russell, David enfolded Barbara, and they clustered, tight as burrs, to watch the antics of the newest member of the Hartwig family. Peace flowed like a river, and the rough edges they'd patched together seemed strong and workable. The puppy snuggled them, inhaling the scent of his new family. Later, they yawned, stretched, and headed for bed, leaving Skidboot in a cardboard box surrounded by treats—baby milk bones, a chocolate Santa, kibble. Special treats for Christmas.

So peaceful. And so unexpected when hours later, the tree tilted and crashed to the floor. Lights splintered, glass ornaments cracked. David thumped up in the dark, dizzy from sleep, tripping into a scene of such destruction that he thought he was dreaming: the tree rose up like a pine Titanic. A devilish face dangled ribbon from its gargoyle mouth, half hidden under the remains of the sofa cushions. Bleary, nearly staggering, David recoiled from a sensation so disgusting, so visceral, that he'd almost rather have stepped on a snake, at least then he could just blow its head off. Instead, he squished hopelessly into a pile of puppy poop to view the remains of the room. Dung welled up between his toes. He hopped barelegged toward the bathroom and threw himself into the tub, hearing Russell call out and Barbara answer. By then they were all awake, wide-eyed at the sticky tracks, the up-heaved papers, the shredded presents. Over there, the jacket they'd scrimped to buy Russell, the one with the cool zippers, lying in limp blue pieces. On the carpet, the remains of that pretty silk scarf Barbara liked so much. The tree tilted like a dying thing, its lights blinking "help."

"Skidboot!" They roared in unison, "Noooooo!!
Bad dog!
”

"Noooo, bad dog!" turned into the dog's real name. No,
bad dog!
harassed the baby calves, running them silly. No,
bad dog!
redesigned socks, ate underwear, and scent-marked everyone's clothing, finishing each piece by flipping it into the air to catch on fixtures on the way down. No,
bad dog!
polished off lunch by snacking on a shoe, usually one of Barbara's. No,
bad dog!
peed on David's LazyBoy rocker, the puddle so deep that it shorted out the television and cost them a week's work to get it back and running. David, angry, once hoisted the puppy overhead, but Barbara intervened.

"Poor baby," she'd say, holding out her arms, unaware of Skidboot's raised eyebrow, cocked at David. Oddly, the puppy reminded him of his childhood, of being teased by neighborhood kids. Although Skid's dark eyes, unblinking, held something other than mockery, something he'd never seen in a dog before, a kind of intelligence that caused the dog to tremble with…something. Maybe the need to communicate, to tell him…something. What was it, a challenge? An offer of friendship? An insult?

Meanwhile, shredded newspaper fluttered around the trailer, mingled with fugitive feathers, mounds of poop and gnawed toys. They might wonder
whose feathers
, and also
why so destructive?
Skidboot was a home wrecker whom his wife, for unexplained reasons, protected unduly. If he banished Skidboot to the barn, Barbara cradled the mutt, nuzzled it, and said to David, "You go sleep in the barn!" She was joking, of course, but jokes score only if there's truth behind them. At times, David wondered, who's in charge? The dog? Truth be told, the situation was getting out of hand.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Bad Dog

The possibility of a throwback to the wild Australian dingo had crossed his mind. Dingo packs wiped out the entire population of Tasmanian devils as well as a prevalent population of Black-tailed Native hens. Dingoes ravaged sheep herds from one side of the continent and down the other. Even though the puppy was an American, he was also a mutt hybrid who could throw himself into compulsive fits so primal, so self-defeating, and so congested that it seemed almost demonic, or more kindly stated, OCD, or "Out Of Control Dog." The only difference between this pup and its wild forbearers was that dingoes had short periods of rest between dawn and dusk.

What's wrong with you?
David thought as he watched the dog windmill around their tight trailer, mouth snapping, saliva flying, shaking himself into a frenzy. A grocery bag, Barbara's shoe, an unsecured personal item threw it into a hyper-drive of yipping, panting, shaking, gnawing, followed by prey-dragging the item off into a recondite corner beneath the trailer where the panting, heaving and growling mounted with embarrassing intensity. The sight of a stuffed toy turned him insane. He moaned, howled, kicked his legs into a frenzy and gnashed his sharp teeth. Skidboot could repurpose a tennis ball into shreds in a minute flat. He could dismember a doll as quick as eating cobbed corn. And the more he ripped things apart, the more obsessed he became. Skidboot knew no limits, and the family sank beneath a tsunami of destruction that roared through their daily lives. In more forgiving moments, David thought
ambition
, followed by another thought,
mayhem
, followed by some punishment or another, usually insignificant.

"Into the barn!" David roared.

"This is not your dog to throw around," Barbara read his mind and scooped Skidboot up, nuzzling him, and David
saw the puppy smile!
But even without Barbara the dog held his ground. A handsome animal by now, rounds and hollows once thin had filled out, his sleek flanks glowing with mottled flecks of blue. If such confused coloring turned up on a flower, it would be a toxic bloom warning its predators away. His coat was mottled, as if someone had shaken oil with blue and white paint, then jiggled it around so that it flecked and spotted but never really mixed. Skidboot often lay, snout in paws, watching David with such intensity that David's back hairs crawled. It was like being stalked by a resting cougar. He felt as if Skidboot were relaying a message, broadcasting from inner space in a different language—in doggerel--urgently as possible.
Let's get to it,
the dog conveyed. Now.

They headed toward the truck, ready to go to town. David had a few invoices to drop off and hopefully one to collect. It may seem petty, but replacing the dog's damage was getting expensive. He looked out over the wide expanse of Texas, which was still home to a festival of creeping, flying, slithering and stalking mammals and reptiles that prevailed in spite of the onset of malls, parking lots, highways, back roads and power installations. Mockingbirds poked fun from telephone poles, and scissor-tailed flycatchers sheared through the air. Rattlers curled invisible in the dust, awaiting some misstep. Bats and rats frolicked. Foxes lurked in the scrub forests and tall grasses of the north hill country and coyotes howled down the stars at night.

He swerved the old Ford to avoid the Texas state mammal, a nine-banded armadillo slugging its way across State Route 34, a probable victim of one of the big farm pick-ups barreling back and forth. One of the earliest border-crossers, this strange mammal made its way from Mexico by self-inflating, sucking in air, then bobbing like an inner tube across the water.

As the truck swerved, he felt someone lightly touch his leg.
Barbara
he smiled. He reached out and felt fur. Disappointed, he flung the paw away, and Skidboot whined. Too bad he couldn't put the dog to work, David mused. Someone was going to have to pay for all the damage.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Cowboy vs. Dog

It wasn't really the dog's fault. Nearly grown by now, he'd run rampant for over a year, with David stifling his instincts out of respect for Barbara -- Skidboot was her dog. But he'd racked up so much damage that their fragile budget was shattered. Problems seemed to heap up exponentially, along with David's temper.

"What's this hell hound gonna do next?"

Next
always turned out more baffling, more insidious, and more destructive than before.

Next
happened one day when the dog followed its native cattle herding instincts, unfortunately, with someone else's cattle. Texas ranchers traded farm machinery back and forth, might be in debt to one another for an advance on a new heifer, or, even occasionally, borrow trucks. But cattle were sacred as a bank account. Grazing idly out in a field, a herd represented investment, and no one could or would interfere with another rancher's investment. Skidboot continued to break the rules.

One day as David tucked a horseshoe up to a steady position, a cavalry of cattle exploded over the hillside, heading for the gully.

"What the hell!" a voice yelled. Behind them, the furry rustler yapped and darted, nipping at hooves, keeping the herd fast but orderly. In cattle country, running off pounds of hamburger was like scattering fifty dollar bills to the wind. A fat beef cow sold by the pound for up to $3,000, which made Skidboot's juvenile cattle rustling serious business.

"Skidboot, you fool, get over here!" Alert, shaking with nervous energy, Skidboot froze. Blue sky hung peacefully, the sun rippled like taffy. A slight breeze blew butterflies in circles and everywhere, the earthy waft of manure drifted on the wind. Finally, the cattle settled back into the lazy rhythms of a sunny day.

David had lunged after the dog so violently that he probably lost a pound or two himself, and then he noticed something worse—a monstrous Brahman bull grazing isolated under a tree fifty-yards away. Skidboot followed his gaze and sprang toward it. David yelled, running after. The bull sniffed, head up, its back hump trembling. Pendulous ears gave it the look of a nun in full habit, drooping eyes half-shielded by twin wimples. Its neck wattle rippled like seaweed. Looks aside, a 2,300-pound bull takes its time making decisions, and this one switched in and out of interest, black tail flicking its white haunches, slightly bored, yet also alert. A peculiar import from India, the Brahman thrived in Texas due to its placid temperament, heat resistance and an astonishing, rubbery hide so naturally oily that it repelled Texas bugs, including mayflies, stoneflies, nits, mosquitoes, blackflies, horsebot, blowfly, and more.

Skidboot snapped around its hooves, trying to get a response, but the bull's interest flickered in and out, like a weak porch light. When it finally perked up, Skidboot's DNA whispered,
this bull can be herded.
It was the first normal behavior Skidboot had shown, and David, who had just about given up on him, rekindled. Even the most ornery horse had dignity, something the dog sorely lacked. And up until today, he suspected that Skidboot might be, well, insane. That is, if a dog
could
be insane.
And, if a dog really is insane, how can you tell?

But now, actual herding! Skidboot snapped to as the bull lowered horns broad as a wagon bed and sharp as razor points. A man could imagine their impact and stay clear. But the dog, lacking vision, was right on the bull, only seconds away from getting kebabbed.

Skidboot barked. Down tilted the horns.

He barked again, and the bull looked confused.

"Skidboot! Get over here!" David caught' Skidboot's back leg and pulled him, snarling, skidding, paws planted, downhill. The bull shook itself and resumed grazing, bemused by all the commotion. It lost interest quickly.

The day was still fine as David threw open the truck door, blue sky outlining the twisting shape of the dog. A harsh slam of the door, and he locked it from the outside, trapping Skidboot inside. His canine Houdini could sneak out of anything they'd devised so far. He keyed the door shut and faced Skidboot through the glass, as Skidboot's eyes widened with excitement.
I love this man.

Just to let him know, Skidboot whimpered, pawed the window, and pressed his nose to the glass, a dark olive that dragged a film down the pane as he sank back onto the seat. The two stared at each other, David trying to read the dog's gaze, the dog whimpering. Then he turned and pawed the wheel, like driving. Then he threw another look at David.

"I suggest you tell Lassie there to gun it up and drive it home," said his neighbor, who'd heard the ruckus and now watched his cattle amble slowly back up the hill. It would take another day's grazing to make up their lost weight. In a land devoid of amenities, in a harsh world of privation and risk, people had to collaborate to get along, and such unions, sprung from need or friendship, depended on reputation. Reputation was nine-tenths of interaction, and David feared that his was suffering. It wouldn't be long before clients stopped calling. No one wanted a farrier with a demon dog.

David flushed. He'd never raised an infant before, but the stigma of this one's bad behavior stuck to him,
trapped
him, making him unable to move around freely. Now he knew how young mothers must feel stuck at home. The best he could do was to leave the dog locked in the truck and hope it matured.

Sorry, it'll never happen again.
Apologies all the time! Once again, mopping up after Skidboot. It didn't seem right that a Blue Heeler, the premier breed of the cattle running dogs, should be so dithering useless.

It wasn't really the dog's fault. For weeks now, Skidboot's every move had a true purpose, and that was to
get the man's attention.
His teeth had just come in, so when he attacked a stuffed toy, it had meaning, a message,
look, look at me!
He found life with the cat upsetting, the thing wanted to cuddle and claim attention from
his people.
Skidboot would stare at the cat as if it were a rattler, eyes drilling, and then begin to yap. The cat, startled, arched and hissed, and then they were off, Skidboot straining to wriggle from David's grip, the cat skidding across the floor. Skidboot chewed David's hands to escape, until he couldn't hold on any more. Skidboot envied the horses David handled, the ones he would sooth with his voice, but right now, Skidboot was thirty pounds of potential, cocked as a pistol, and he had to catch the cat.
Sure, he nipped at people, chickens, cattle, stuffed toys and those strange chickens with blue feathers, the peacocks...that's what cattle dogs did.
Everyone yelled at him, but when he got David's scent, smelled his boots, his lariat ropes, his piggin' strings, the only thing he could do was attack them and chew them up. David's historic Willie Nelson Yamaha guitar, found in a barn, restrung, polished and doted over, was now festooned with bite marks. Worse, by the time Skidboot had worn off puppyhood, he was fast and tricky, and his favorite pastime was whimpering at the door to go outside.
Outside
shone like gold,
outside
was his destination, his place to mark, to pursue, to play! David would stride over to the door, open it a crack, and let him slide through like a shadow, and when Skidboot was finished, David actually expected him to come back.