Skidboot 'The Smartest Dog In The World' (7 page)

"I don't like you, Skidboot. Never have. Probably never will. But you live here and while you do, you're gonna understand a few things."

The voice, silky and low, bothered Skidboot. It didn't sound right, it had a nasty ring to it. He moved back and away, on full alert. But when David reached into his pocket and pulled out his favorite toy, the gnawed-up skid boot, Skidboot relaxed.
Yes, time to play!
He bounded into the corral and hauled to a stop by the boot, ears pitched forward to pick up the drift of things. He locked onto the skid boot, dangling from David's hand.

David twirled his lasso once, casually, and the noose landed with a light bounce in the dirt in the middle of the corral, where it lay like a huge eye, ready to wink. Then he casually lobbed the leather skid boot into the perimeter, another bull's eye. The dog, electrified, saw his skid boot land.

"Ok, now, " David had commanded, unnecessary permission to a dog already launched, about to explode onto his prey, a toy that reeked with the most delicious scent of horse, and of David, and best of all, of that incredible, reaffirming aroma of Skidboot
himself
.

Just as he snapped at the boot, the lasso snapped around his neck and stopped him. He heard David spinning out in low, silky tones a constant string of insults, like
you ruined me, dog,
and
you're gonna learn 'WHOA' if it's the end of you
. At the end of each sentence, he jerked the rope, causing involuntary agitation on the dog's part. Then, to Skidboot's horror, David pushed himself down on top of the dog, flattening him, waiting instinctively for the squirming and hyper-panting to stop. The moment hung between heartbeat and coma, between predator and prey, between master and slave. There was nothing or no one—not Russell, not Barbara, not the SPCA—to rescue the one or dissuade the other.

If left up to professional trainers, the human/dog bond might be encouraged in a different way. Standard obedience exercises take place, both on and off leash, with an objective to teach a dog to heel, to go, to sit, stay or come while working through behavioral difficulties. Their aim is to "realize the dream of what such a relationship can be" by employing "a philosophy of praise, fairness and discipline, set against a background of patience, repetition and dedication." Had David any knowledge of, or ability to pay for professional training, he would be entitled, at the end of the session, to an extensive written report on how what he was currently doing was all wrong.

David whispered,
God help me do this one,
as Skidboot's new regimen began, hesitantly at first, seeking the next step based not on anything he actually knew, but just on instinct. And one instinct led to the other, until, with a final pull on the rope, David nearly cut off the dog's air. Skidboot froze, his eyes glued on David.

"No more skid boots." David jerked the rope again.

"No more trouble!" He ignored Skidboot's eyes, which were begging for mercy.

Power, dominance, alpha status and life itself hung in the balance. Without precedent or guidelines, David simply
knew
that first you ruled, then you gentled. He'd established his dominance and now it was time for something else. He ran his hand along Skidboot's head, feeling the raised bump of his forehead, the long thin nose, the surprised brows with a few light hairs sprouting out. Then he ran his fingers up and down the snout, feeling the skin quiver under his touch. No snapping or growling. Hardly even a breath. Only silence.

Good!

Then David firmly rubbed along Skidboot's back, making sure to raise his hand before repeating the motion, not wanting to run counter to the line of the fur. Again, not a tremor, the dog frozen as a statue.

Calmly, he reached down and untied the hog loop binding Skidboot's legs. Skidboot lay inert. Only his muscles quivered.

Good!

It was all instinct. Since childhood, he'd had such instincts, and they usually turned out right. If someone said "no" he'd ignore it. He never accepted anyone else's version of anything. As a child, he'd squall and scream, throwing one tantrum after another because he
wanted things his way,
a boy who turned to a man with an obstinate streak, what others might call
eccentric
, to put it kindly. Eccentric meant he usually failed to pursue normal, everyday behavior,
not unlike this dog.

Right now, he'd invented the new normal. No more screaming at this dog, swearing at it up and down, threatening death. That debate was over. Now it was time to get down to work, although
what kind of work
still remained unclear. David, like a sculptor, was feeling his way around the block of stone, trying to get the dim outline of the future, tapping with his hammer, tracing the path, about to take the first chip.

With bullheaded precision he knew that the only way to train a horse was to scare it to death. Not with brutality, but with extreme, extrovert behavior, like jumping around on one foot with a handful of feathers or singing off key while making faces. If he could get the horse's 100% attention, then he could put the horse into a state of complete neutral. When in neutral, it didn't have to make its own decision, be fearful of predators or get jittery about shadows, low-hanging branches, gopher holes, rattlers or windstorms. It would idle away, almost inert, ready to do what a man wanted it to do. The minute you lost control, the horse's eyes would bulge outward, startled as a sand crab. It would search frantically around for danger, scenting the air, bucking, shying at any shadow. By then, all was lost.

If David knew anything, it was how to keep an animal frozen to attention.

He looked down and saw that Skidboot was still, not even a tremble, although he saw the sensation rippling beneath his fur, both agitation and excitement. As Skidboot lay there, his mouth curled
just slightly
into a whisper of a smile, it was almost as if this was something Skidboot
wanted
, not a dreaded punishment.

"Get up!" David stood tall over the dog, saw his shadow ripple as Skidboot sprang to his feet, waiting.

What? He didn't expect this kind of attention, this quickly.

Good boy,
he thought, but didn't give Skidboot the satisfaction of his sentiments, not yet.

Any dog can fetch, David believed. But this dog had to follow
all
the rules.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Good Dog!

Then nothing much happened. David had three calves to deliver over to Sheffield's and needed to pick up some tackle odds and ends from town. He'd promised Barbara dinner out that Friday night so he made sure his shoeing was finished in time. He'd avoided Skidboot the next day, not for any particular training reasons, but just because he hadn't thought up the next step. Not yet.

Barbara had the next good idea. As Skidboot ranged around the house, flicking his tail, eyes darting, looking for something to gnaw, she grabbed a pair of David's knee-high white athletic socks, the kind with a double blue stripe along the top and tied them in a knot in the middle. Skidboot perked up, one eyebrow raised.
Now what?

She dangled the sock foot and Skidboot, like White Fang of the Klondike, flashed through the air and chomped on the sock, pulling, gnawing, flailing to devour, destroy and denature the flopping thing. She let go. The sock-and-dog dervish spun though the living room, scattering magazines, barely missing the glass figurine, tumbling over a wastebasket and raveling up the carpet into shaggy peaks. No one could believe how many directions Skidboot could spin, and the show went on for half an hour. Finally, wrung out, Skidboot panted in place, the long sock draped over his head.

"You know, if we just clap…" she hesitated, feeling silly. Then she clapped. David clapped. Russell shouted,
yay
, and Skidboot, used to hearing only yells and curses, stared at them, eyes wide.

Skidboot, GOOD DOG! They jigged in place, clapped like bells, yelled
hoo-rah
and
yay
and with terrible impatience, waited for him to either start again or fall down in a faint.

Skidboot factored. He pondered the idea of applause, savored it, and then with a flip of the socks, threw himself back into a spin, beating himself side to side with the dangling toes of the sock, spinning around himself a halo of spittle, a frantic doggie vortex of agitation. After an insupportable amount of time, he simply had to stop. And when he did, they clapped again, loud and hard and yelled his name.

This gave Skidboot his first taste of cause and effect, but in a
good
way. First David, now Barbara, it made Skidboot almost dizzy. New things were going on. He couldn't wait.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Lending a Paw

"What are you all doing?" Russell, always observant, had picked up on the fact that instead of his parents running through the mobile home yelling and chasing the dog, Skidboot was mincing after them. In fact, Skidboot followed David around now, glued to his heels despite the fact that David made a big show of ignoring him, which was also different, and difficult, since Skidboot imitated his every move, even limping pathetically. They'd traded roles. It seemed weird.

"Nothing much, at least not yet." The subject of the dog clouded over them like a toxic smoke, smothering their natural upbeat repartee. A damper on the spirits for sure.

David couldn't figure out why he felt so grudging about this training, like it was some dark secret, some unnatural act. Dark and gloomy but also on the threshold of something. He just had to figure it out.

He hopped into the truck, noting the cup holder still had the morning's coffee, half-drunk. He'd been so preoccupied, he'd forgotten. He tossed down a swallow, but cold coffee made him unhappy.

He hollered for Russell to jump in. He wanted to show the boy a few horseshoeing tricks, particularly the part about gentling the horse. Not showing fear or anxiety was key. Why, there were tribes in the Amazon that made little shamanistic bracelets for themselves out of snakeskin, believing that it protected them from snakebite. And it generally did, because just having the bracelets made them feel safe. And the flash of fear was what panicked the snake and made it attack. No fear, fewer attacks. All animals were spooked by fear, and it was a man's responsibility, being the reasoning one, to eliminate their fear. To work with animals was easily the most sacred and most presumptuous, the most fraternal and rewarding pastime imaginable. People at one with animals lived without pretension in a world of mute dignity. David was one of them.

David caught Russell's eye and grinned. He'd been lucky with this boy, a son to him, the cutest little guy he'd ever seen at age three, and they'd been close ever since. His wife didn't want more children, thought that childbearing was hard work and was done with it. Russell was the only son he'd ever have, and he enjoyed every minute of it.

Barks, sharp, increasingly desperate, hit the truck.
Nuisance dog.

"Ok, Skid, hop in."

Nodding sunflowers followed the truck as it chugged down the back roads through Quinlan, West Tawakoni, Tawakoni South, Able Springs and Cash. Dust billowed behind. Alongside the road, young green shoots of mixed grasses shimmered, and the brown slush of winter had hardened into ruts that bumped and jammed beneath the tires. They passed fences mended with plywood planks and a bingo hall as bullet marked and peeling as the Alamo.
Ahhh
, David thought, long legs stretched out, blue sky ahead, dotted with innocent white clouds.

An hour later, he held a hoof in his lap, hammering away on a 7-year-old Friesian gelding, a smart and desirable breed, popular in Quinlan and surrounding ranches. This one had the cuticle of an elephant. Russell might enjoy seeing it.

"Russell, want to see this?"

Russell looked a bit sulky, scuffed his boot in the dirt. "Why don't you let me shoe him? You know I can do it."

David hesitated. A frisky, nervous horse…no, this wasn't the place to begin.

"Son, you can help me a lot just by keeping an eye on things." Russell shrugged in an enormous, teenage pantomime of angst, jammed himself back into the truck and made an elaborate show of falling asleep. Hat pulled low, he dozed.

David pulled, plied and hammered. The rim, thick and overgrown, needed a big trim and to do it, he needed his other hammer. "Russell," he shouted, "hand me the hammer."

Back to the car, hunched over his work, David felt a presence behind him, reached around and felt the cold nudge of the hammer.

"Thanks, son." He continued working, but felt the eager presence still behind him. The sun was nearly at noon so the shadows had shortened, but nothing would have shortened Russell's shadow to this size. Or given it a sharp nose and four paws.

"Skidboot?" David struggled around under the weight of the hoof. The gelding shuddered, suddenly spooked. Skidboot sat impassively by, staring at David with gleaming eyes.

Unbelieving, David yelled over to Russell but could see from the slouched hat that Russell was sleeping or pretending to. Hammer? Russell sighed, rudely interrupted. Then thumbed his hat lazily back on his head, and sat up. No, he had not gotten David the hammer.

They stared at the dog, and David, in full experimental mode, ordered Skidboot to take the hammer
back
to the truck

Skidboot processed the idea of "back" as opposed to "bring me" and, slightly smiling, bent down, gummed the wooden handle and dragged it back to the truck. He paused then because jumping up with the hammer was more difficult than jumping out. But the message was clear.

Here's your hammer. What now?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I had A Dream

David looked at the seat beside him and saw Skidboot, wearing dark glasses. The dog had his own seat; they were flying first class. Skidboot's dark glasses were too loose and kept sliding down, while David's own shades felt theatrical. He felt like a movie star, and he knew that these first class seats cost more than he made in a month. David sighed in contentment. Skidboot sighed too. In a few hours they'd meet a limo at the airport with a driver who held up your name so everyone could see that you had a limo.