Skidboot 'The Smartest Dog In The World' (5 page)

"Skidboot! Get in here!" And every time, David set off at a fast clip to catch the astonished dog, trying to herd him into a corral, or into a blind alley behind the barn, like trying to capture a light beam. He'd be one place then another, fast as a split atom, leaving David hopping around and hopping mad.

Calves excited Skidboot to no end. Calves, loose skinned, loose limbed, galloped around as if wearing pajamas. He
loved
calves. Horses, too. Especially the one that kicked him silly and nearly broke his neck. This drove David even
more
crazy, since he had to drive Skidboot to the vet's
and
pay for it. Meanwhile, Barbara drove off to work every morning after an early snuggle with her dog, while Skidboot would whimper and roll his eyes and look fetchingly over Barbara's shoulder at David. And David got more and more frustrated, knowing the day ahead would echo with the shriek of startled chickens, the thunder of running livestock, the crash of upended trash barrels, and the neighbors, reluctantly dropping by to complain. For his part, Skidboot had something to say but no one was listening. A family like this might drive a dog mad.

CHAPTER NINE

Rodeo Dreams Die Hard

Being so nervous was unseemly behavior for a rodeo champion. It distressed him but it kept happening. He unfolded to his 6'4" height, perched his hat brim square and gazed at himself. No reason a man like himself—and he glanced again—couldn't do himself proud.

The lasso tricked around his wrist, tightening when he pulled it, but firm, the way he liked it. The poly rope meant that it wouldn't stretch. Meticulous, he reviewed his throw, seeing the rope loop out toward the speeding calf, visualizing success. He'd capture the calf the minute it burst out of the gate, then wrestle it down and secure it with the piggin' string. He smiled briefly, remembering how he'd threatened to tie up Skidboot with the piggin'.

He checked the neck rope, to make sure it circled around behind the horse, ready to keep the calf taut on the line. Then the jerk line. A jerk line helps the roper control his horse while he's running toward the calf. The jerk line is fastened to the bit then threads backwards through a pulley near the saddle. The jerk line also pulls on the horse's bit, causing it to stop.

He adjusted his height into the saddle, feeling its familiar curves. "You might as well sit in a shovel," Mark Twain complained about the American saddle, cursing the man who invented it. But David had worn his to perfection, had no complaints, and felt as comfortable in it as in the seat of his truck.

Maybe today would be the big win,
he thought. With cheers from the crowd as Hank sped to victory, taking them both to the National Finals.

A serious competitor, David Hartwig. But like coffee gone cold, he felt his dedication cooling. The loudspeaker blared. Time to back into the box, urging Hank uncomfortably backwards, keeping to the left side of the chute. Once in tight, he'd nod and someone would throw open the chute. Then the calf would speed out.

He ran the steps through his mind, hands itching. First, his horse was seasoned, ready to go.
Quick, with big stops, lots of pull.
He trusted the horse, all thousand pounds. He'd have to spur Hank out of the box without breaking the barrier, a rope strung in front of the box attached to the rope loosely dangling around the calf's neck. When the calf skids midway out from the chute, it releases the roper to gallop after. The distance between David and the calf is called the score. And the time it takes for the calf to travel the distance of the score is the "get out." Techniques differed, but in North Texas, they played "caught as caught can" which meant tying down the calf however possible, as long as the calf is still harnessed by the rope. Then followed the traditional, if somewhat brutal, flipping the calf through the air to thud on the ground to be tied and then wait for six seconds for the big win.

The familiar routine flashed through his mind. His stomach heaved. The hot sun nudged along his neck, a long burn, sweltering his ears. The air vibrated with flash and sound, snapping bandanas, hats waving, boots stomping the brazen cry of a western band. He loved the wild tumult of Texas tie-down roping, his thing.

Riding next, from Quinlan, Texas, we have David Hartwig!

The crowd murmured encouragingly, not yet a roar, as David's hands clutched the reins. Hank tensed beneath him, and David braced for the ride of his life. The calf squeezed into the chute and David nodded to the gate operator,
ready
.

But no one could be ready for what happened next. The gate banged open, the calf bolted into the arena, and out of nowhere, a streak of mottled blue and black raced into the box and latched onto the skid boot Hank wore on his fetlock. Behind the blue streak raced Russell, yelling
"no, no no, Skidboot, no!!

Skidboot?
David hardly formed the thought when his horse reared and smashed him into the barrier, grunting, panting as the crowd gasped in surprise. Up, up, over the barrier, the horse was on its last hooves when David slammed against the steel rail, jamming his right leg straight into the metal clutch. In horrifying slow motion, it kept getting worse, a deadly ballet gone wrong. The horse staggered, keeled over, crushing David. Below him, Skidboot growled and gnawed at the skid boot, clamped on it like an angry alligator.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let us
pray
this ends well!" The announcer was juggling his mike in place, the crowd keening in anxiety. A neon green clown shot into the arena, distracting Hank as he staggered to his feet, dragging David, limp and unconscious, out of the saddle. As the clown closed in and dove for the horse's reins, a final convulsion bucked David through the air. He landed with a thud, shattered as a clay pigeon.

"I do not
believe
what is happening!" The announcer waved toward the medical crew galloping across the field. The stretcher flipped out, arms hoisted David in and swiftly carted him away. Out cold, David knew nothing of the next few minutes when Skidboot, whether prompted by guilt or showmanship, did the unthinkable.

"Will ya look at
that
!” The crowd, tuned to any new possibility, buzzed. Barbara gazed astonished. Russell's anger suddenly drained away at what he saw. The rodeo clowns stared, huge mittens hanging idly at their sides.

In front of a thousand people, Skidboot pranced, leading the subdued horse back into the arena by its reins. Gone was the mischief, the growling, the snapping, the tugging. The dog, taut with zeal, guided the horse over to the nearest pair of hands, who took the horse away.

In a breath, the crowd roared. Applause, hoots, horns, and the music struck up even as David shook himself to and looked around. They were applauding him and, he realized with a shock, Skidboot, too. The demon dog who had caused the trouble was now sharing the moment.

He moaned. Barbara clutched his hand and Russell bent near. The only one who stayed away, and rightly so, was Skidboot, who seemed to understand David's unspoken vow of vengeance,
I'll settle with you later.

After the excitement of the arena, lying in bed nursing a broken leg, hammered ribs and a bruised elbow seemed a relief, a time without stress or recrimination, a time to gaze vacantly at the morning light filtering through, listen to a mockingbird in the oak tree, to dream and to drift. Then responsibility nagged him. He should go see how Hank was after the fetlock attack. Horses, skittish under the best circumstances, didn't react well to drama.

Out of nowhere, a weight hit his leg, and he groaned. Skidboot planted both paws on the cast, bright eyes inquiring. The dog vibrated with nervous energy, just having him in the room felt like an active fault line. Why couldn't the dog be still?

“
Skidboot, get offa me!
” In a flash of black and blue, Skidboot landed on the floor in a tangle of claws, vibrating himself off to the corner where he sat staring at David, every muscle quivering.

“What do you
want
?” Everyone needed something from him, Barbara to be left alone, Russell
not
to be left alone, the neighbors next door to straighten out their mixed cattle herds, the credit cards to be paid. On and on. He sighed, hitting the pillows.

"You ok?" Barbara poked her head in, curly hair tucked behind her ear.
She is the prettiest thing.
David forgot how he'd yelled and cussed at her the other day, angry about the details of training and roping. Or how, in return, she refused to take his calls while at work, seeing him as low priority. This pained David, caused him to—briefly—sulk.

Light slatted through the blinds, striping the beige walls, curling around the wall photos of Russell as a baby and the calendar with the dates crossed off.

"Today is Russell's parent-teacher conference." Barbara adjusted her purse, primed to go. "I'll call and tell them you're sick." He frowned.

"All right, then, that you're injured."

Maybe you could go for a change, he's your son.
David immediately regretted the thought, but sometimes, he felt like he did everything, while she just trotted off to a peaceful workplace.
Well, not that peaceful.
He had to be honest.

Neither of them ever mentioned "bankruptcy," but they were circling around it like driving in a full parking garage. How did they cut it so close with two adult incomes?

"We are coasting downhill," Barbara frowned. "And with you laid up, there's no leeway. Any ideas?"

In later years, David would say "I didn't plan my life out, my life planned me." Yet fate aligned itself with faith, which is something no one can plan. You have to sit tight until it comes to you.

He sighed, rolled over, hollered at the shut door and surprised himself in the bureau mirror, a monster of bandages and bruises, with a black eye and a welter of tiny cuts.

"I want that dog gone!"

Hearing David's voice, Skidboot quivered at the edge of the bed, and David couldn't shake the idea that he wanted something. He leaned toward David, looking like a dog in a high wind, nose stretched out in front, ears wiggling, every quivering inch of him completely worked up, as usual.

"Shoo!" Skidboot stared at him. David stared back. Neither blinked. Suddenly, the lights went off.

Damn
, David thought.
Unpaid bill again.

He couldn't blame Barbara, and besides, she wasn't there anyway. The dog was hopeless, and just as David tried to hobble out of bed, the doorbell rang, reminding him that, like flies in the buttermilk, things could only get worse.

CHAPTER TEN

Chicken Killer

But no, it was only Art Shipley holding something bulky, probably condolence food. Art and his wife were fine folks, and he'd probably brought over something tasty. David gladdened at the sight of whatever it might be. Covered dishes defined country living, filled in where income left off, and were the calling cards of Texas homemakers. David smiled, remembering the last covered dish event at the local grange. Hennie Patterson was the main contestant, a woman so versed in cooking that any compliment, such as "that was a mighty fine dish," produced not a "thank you," but an instant segue into the ingredient list.

"You take one cabbage, cut it fine. You sauté one onion, cut it fine. You mix up two cans tomato paste with water…." And so on. To compliment a salad only sparked up another litany.

"You take one Bibb lettuce, dismantle it, wash and chop. You get pecans and brown "em in the oven. You take a garden tomato, maybe a yellow "sunburst" and slice it in coins..."

The vision lingered as he shuffled toward the door.

"Hey, Art." He said. "Sorry, there's no light."

Art peered in, then stood back, holding something out.

David narrowed his gaze just to be sure. The dead chicken looked like a weird door prize given away at the high school Halloween Bazaar. He blinked, unsure of what he was seeing.

"Um, Art, we don't do much cooking here…not lately."

The man coughed, embarrassed. "This here's not a gift, son, it's a dead chicken and it's one of mine. I think that dog of yours mighta killed it."

It struck David hard. Anger, followed by a surge of vindication. Sure, he was angry but right now, the universe had opened up a way for him to divest himself. One less dog, a lot more happiness. Just thinking about it made him smile.

"Something funny, Dave?" Art seemed annoyed, a seamed, weathered man who ran horses and occasional sheep, and who raised a gaggle of laying hens for breakfast eggs and occasional Sunday chicken dinner. He and the Hartwigs seldom interfered with each other, a neighborly relationship, up until now.

Skidboot barked, staring at the chicken, then barked at David.
Look, look there.

Every dog responds to tone, and it only took Skidboot a second to realize that David, the man he was trying to get through to, now threatened him. Anger, dark and ominous, burst into the dog's consciousness. He whined, dropped his nose in submission, then, gripped by another idea, rolled his eyes fetchingly at David, longing up at him from under wiry brows, shooting him special glances. David stared back, furious and challenging. In the dark, Hartwig man and Hartwig dog tussled back and forth, the dog wanting something, hanging on to its own worth, struggling to win, or to communicate, or maybe he just wanted a chicken bone, who knew?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Russell's Rescue

Russell ducked out the back door to escape the ruckus. Seemed lately like everything turned sour, starting with David then ending up with his mom. He dragged a stick through the loose dirt of the yard, staring out at the darkened night of Texas.
The stars at night are big and bright, deep in the heart of Texas…
The children of one generation couldn't begin to understand the world of another--the arguing, loving, reprimanding, and unfathomable behavior of parents. Vast stretches of rye grass, chaparral, and cheatgrass breezed out there in the dark, another thing no one could understand. The horizon stretched to infinity, or at least to Dallas, an idea that warmed him because it led him to his beloved grandparents, David's Ma and Pa. Just thinking of them, he felt rock solid, able to float over the daily tide of discouragement. Life in Dallas seemed unified, sensible, and happy, a place where the lights stayed on and no one bickered. His Grandma and Grandpapa made his world feel better.