Skidboot 'The Smartest Dog In The World' (9 page)

David played a minor key, challenging Skidboot. Skidboot tapped a minor key, although not the same one. Then David tapped C-major, a white key. Skidboot pondered, then hit D, also a white key. David tapped out "Ba, ba, black sheep" on the white keys, hitting C-C-G-G-A-A-G, throwing Skidboot a smug look.
Take that!
Skidboot mused, head cocked, and for a horrifying second David thought he was going to transpose the ditty to minor keys, but the paw hovered over the black keys, then came down lightly. Then the paw stopped.

Aw, he's just counting,
Of course dogs can count, all the so-called "talking dogs" were really copycat mutts who imitate human sound by dividing the words into beats. Someone says "how are you?" and the dog hears three syllable and howls back,
how-rrr—you!
Seldom actual words, the syllables only represent speech, at least enough to pass. But a
piano playing dog
? Astonishingly, Skidboot patted out three more notes, incorrect for the song but just the right beat. David shivered, as if he'd glimpsed something from another world.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Dog Launch

A week later, David stood at the corner of Terry Street and East Royal Blvd. in the town square of Malakoff, Texas, about 80 miles southeast of Dallas. Storefronts trailed crepe paper, and the jaunty booths hoisted crazy flags and sailed bouquets of balloons. David limped behind the dog, feeling disgruntled. He'd always felt sorry for carnival types, thinking they were unfortunate folks to earn such a living. And now, he was one of them.

Next, it's the Black Eye Pea Festival,
David grouched.
Then the Syrup Fair.
His main interest today was to avoid bumping into anyone he knew and especially Randy Coyle, who oddly enough, he'd spotted strolling near the pickle booth with a couple of cowboy singers. David ducked behind a cornbread stand, one of many scattered around the square. No one knew why cornbread counted in Malakoff, a town actually renowned for brick making. Malakoff was the production site of light-hued bricks dyed in various shades, an elegant trick in 1904, long before people had come to expect colorful embellishment. But today, a brick making festival would be even less attended than a cornbread feed.

Malakoff also bore the notorious distinction of being named after a Russian fort from the Crimean War, but more lately, was home to a colorful wall mural painted by a local artist who featured the town citizens staring down from the wall. To some, the painted people looked more lively than the real ones. But bricks and cornbread aside, Malakoff remained a dusty, one-horse town, population less than 3,000. A puny venue.

David grimaced, his knee buckling. He still had the crutch for support and hoped that this dog deal didn't call for any kind of athletics. His imagination still failed to understand how he and Skidboot could be considered entertainment.

A portly man huffed up, his shirt hitched oddly over his pants. Sweat beaded his brow, April in Texas being griddle hot. "Mr. Hartwig," he wondered, eyeing David suspiciously until he saw the dog. "You all right, sir?" He gestured toward the leg, understanding that out here, a man could fall off a log or be born handicapped and it was purely his own business. He stared at David until David finally blurted out, "I fell off a stool playing checkers."

Russell snickered, then looked serious. "That's right, except before that, the horse fell on you at the rodeo, right?" He turned to Robert Reese, the coordinator of the Malakoff festival. "He's
real tough.”

Reese nodded seriously. He turned to look at Skidboot.

"This here's the dog?" He bent down and gazed at Skidboot, who gazed back. "What kinda tricks can he do?"

Russell looked down at Skidboot proudly. He loved showing off his dog. He winked at Skidboot.

"Ask him yourself."

The man looked embarrassed and then upset. The boy must be making fun of him.

"No, really. Just tell him to do something."

Skidboot looked up at the circle of faces, which included his favorites, Russell and David. They had those intent looks, and he wondered what it would be today: The telephone? Counting games?

Mr. Reese softened, bent down toward Skidboot and held out his hand. "Howdy, Mr. Boot, and welcome to the Cornbread Show."

That's easy!
Skidboot placed his paw delicately in the large hand, and they stood momentarily, two males deep into the kind of handshake agreement that had sealed deals throughout Texas history. And since history was only that very minute just rolled away, and history proceeds without ever stopping, it was clear that this minute marked a new kind of history, the first time in Malakoff that a dog had shaken hands for his own $500 contract.

"Well now, the dog and I agreed on the show today." He stood back, balancing on his Tony Lamas that bit the dust with wedged leather points. An overdressed man for the occasion, everyone thought.

"This dog seems to have a high level of cognitive reasoning.!"

David was quick. "No sir, he's been to the vet and had all his shots. He don't have anything
like
that."

They laughed, easy and companionable, everyone getting more comfortable with the idea of performance. David had swallowed his discontent and gritty sense of embarrassment, deciding just to go with events and see what happened. It was a sunny day, clear as glass, a day without horseflies, some might say. Why not take advantage of it?

"We'll have a booth set up for you, probably over there under the trees." Reese gestured at a line of drooping oaks that spattered shade on the fuming ground. The dark line looked inviting. Maybe people would stroll over there just to avoid the sun.

"Now, this place fills up fast. They come for cornbread and lemonade but they stay for the fun. And when I see a crowd out there enjoyin' your dog, then I'll know that Skidboot here is a real show dog."

Reese reached down again toward Skidboot, who stared at him.
What now?

Russell whispered, "shake hands, Skidboot!"

Skidboot reached his paw delicately up toward Mr. Reese, who failed to understand the gesture at first. Skidboot tapped him on the thigh, once. Reese stared down, looked surprised, and stuck out his hand. Again, they shook.

David felt a flash of something. Not exactly anger, but a feeling of being secondary to a Blue Heeler dog that seemed capable of making his own arrangements.

"And the money?" Now he could get tough.

"Well, when I see that crowd, son, then you get your $500. You know this is pro-ba-tionary to start with."

David nodded.
Wasn't everything?
He understood that a small venue like the Cornbread Festival had low expectations, and the crowds would be mesmerized by anything different, even if a dog just barked out "hello" or rolled on command. Lucky for him, their booth was at the perimeter, which meant that maybe, just maybe, Randy and company might stay toward the center and not stroll out to the edge.

Still, as he watched the cocky cowboy strutting closer, David felt a surge of anger.

"We're going," he urged Russell. "This is not going to happen. Russell sized the situation up immediately and instinctively threw a stick into Coyle's path. The stick sailed in the air and landed with a plop. David swiveled around, Skidboot quivered. They both looked at Russell, who looked impassively back. Like magic, the dog flashed through the air and landed in front of Coyle, in front of the stick.

"Stop right there." David's voice was low, authoritative as he purred through the rest of the commands, "ease up on it," " a little more," " raise your left hand," "raise your right hand," "turn this way," "turn that way." Skidboot slid through the commands, ignoring the crowds that gathered around, ignoring the red-faced Coyle.

Skidboot delicately touched the stick, a touch as light as a moth. Coyle spat on the ground, jostled his friends, complained loudly that
any dog can play fetch
.

"Can any dog do this?"

David instructed Skidboot to pick up the trash. Why, he said, there was so much trash around, ice cream cone remains, hot dog wrappers, newspapers and such that Skidboot should do his civic duty and help out. "Go ahead," he urged the dog, "go and pick up all the trash and put it in the trash bin."

David shook inside. He'd given Skidboot a fresh new order, one never voiced before, and even though they had played versions of it, he had no idea if Skidboot would understand or not. David sweated as Skidboot stared at him, so intently he thought they'd both fall over from staring. Then Skidboot calmly trotted over to a dented coke can crushed beneath a wire fence, picked it up by its tab, lifted himself up to the trash bin and dropped it in.

The crowd gasped.

Skidboot found a corn cob, a mangle of deflated balloons and a candy wrapper squeezed flat with chocolate. Solemn as a surgeon, he daintily nipped the trash items, transported them and disposed of them. People clapped, Coyle frowned, and David marveled at how this dog managed to pick up cues, or recognize words, or read his expression, or even understand his words. How? He didn't know. But dawning on him every day was the knowledge that God, in His heaven, had sent David something very, very special to liven things up.

But every blessing has its drawbacks, which David discovered when someone asked the unfortunate question. One that children have always asked of dogs, one that called for the most obvious dog-trick scenario which, for some reason, they'd never rehearsed. "Mama, can the dog play dead?"

"Play dead!" Voices chimed, people catching the notion. Of all the tricks, this one was so obvious!

Dead?
David thought.

Skidboot hitched up one ear and gazed up under his brows.
Dead?

The moment dragged on, voices clamoring. David repeated the command, an unfamiliar one, one that he wished he could interpret in some kind of dog shorthand, something that Skidboot would pick up. After all, he'd learned the trash trick...David thought he might throw himself down on the ground and show him how, but that wasn't part of the plan. Skidboot looked genuinely confused. David had never seen this dog confused before.

Kids complained, adults muttered. Gradually, the crowd drifted away, and David pulled his hat was so far down low on his head, trying not to watch. His hat was so far down he didn't see the man approach him, stand still, blocking the sun, until finally his shadow announced him. And when David looked up, the man coughed gently, then said, "Howdy there, aren't you David Hartwig?" And when David nodded, he recollected that time that David had won the calf-roping championship, described in such glowing terms that David cheered up.

"So, you laid up a while?" David nodded. Yes, obviously.

Gus nodded sympathetically. He was scouting talent acts for the State Fair rodeo talent contest, offering a thousand dollars to the winner. David looked surprised, pointed to his leg, said he wouldn't be riding any time soon.

Gus looked surprised, then pointed to Skidboot. "I'm thinking about the dog, actually. We're always on the lookout for animal talent." Then, as an afterthought, he said kindly, "Of course, that's until you get back in the saddle."

He handed David his card, tipped his hat and walked away.

"A thousand dollars!" Russell was practically dancing, one boot to the other.

David mused about the
easiness
of this so called thousand dollars. He considered how long he'd have to shoe horses to earn a thousand dollars, doing hard work he never regretted, work that strained his muscles and taxed his patience and had to be completed before earning a penny. He had to eye the horse first, see if it walked level. Any misalignment meant he had to trim to even it up. He'd take off the dead sole, trim the wall back, shape the shoe right up to the white line of the foot. That's where the nails go, right into the white line. Then he'd clip off the nails that protruded out. David never regretted farrier work, which was an honest, hard enterprise. The good news was that a horse's feet grow a half-inch every thirty days, which meant that most saddle horses needed their shoes reset every three to six weeks. A man's work. Unlike this carnival business of telling a dog to fetch and
winning money from it.

David sighed.
Worse things could happen,
he guessed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Play Dead,
now
!

Barbara was up early, bringing coffee to David, curious about the day's events. She'd come home too late to hear the story.

"How'd it go?"

Both looked at her, David with a long face, Russell excited. "Mom, someone offered Skidboot a
thousand dollars
just for doing tricks!"

"Is that so?" She eyed David, thinking that this was good news. Why the long face?

Then he told her about the humiliation, the crowd that had gathered, the $500
not
given because the dog didn't know how to
play dead
. She slowly stirred her coffee, adding just a dab of milk, watching the dark liquid swirl around. She needed to point something out to him, something peculiar.

"Like that?" She gestured to the floor just as Skidboot teetered over, stiff legged, and fell to the ground.

"What the…?" David's first thought was
poison
that some neighbor had had enough of his chicken killing, peacock chasing and calf rustling to take revenge. His next thought was,
the dog did it!

Skidboot lay rigid on the ground, paws clawed outward in a final rigor, eyes staring straight ahead. Barbara giggled, Russell laughed, and David, flustered, yelled at Skidboot to get up.

The dog contracted all its stiff, dead parts and sprang to his feet, quivering and alert.

"Play dead!" David instructed, wondering if he was crazy or the dog was.

Skidboot fell like a stack of firewood, feet straight out, eyes glazed. He made no effort to break his fall, just landed with a "thud" on the trailer floor, obviously doornail dead.