Skidboot 'The Smartest Dog In The World' (20 page)

The next day saw David pushing the big oak barrels around the arena, moving them closer, eying them to make sure there was still enough room for a healthy turn radius. Like an Easter egg hunt, he thought, as he hid a toy behind the first barrel, its stuffed paw barely showing. The barrel shielding the hidden toy lodged at the top of the first "leaf" of the cloverleaf pattern. Would Skidboot remember yesterday's moves?

The dog was lucky, really, since all he had to remember was four circles. A barrel racer would be nervously checking to see the size of the pen and how wide or long the alley was. They would have to scope out the alley to see if it was angled toward the fence or toward the first barrel, which would determine the direction. Was the ground too sandy? Could they keep their bodies on the outside or the inside leg while turning? They would review how far to reach down with the inside rein, how much pressure to put on the horse's mouth, how far to the outside to pull the horse's nose, whether the horse would catch his leads, and if he didn't, then improvise. They pad their shiny Bob Marshall saddles with impact gels for the rough ride ahead. Skidboot didn't have to consider any of this. He just had to remember his turns and think of his toy.

"Go git it!" unleashed Skidboot into his now-customary sprint. Slightly airborne, he stretched out lean as a greyhound, arching through the air to finish his routine without any further instructions.

"That is downright crazy!" The postman guffawed, watching. Neighbor kids leaned against the fence, wide-eyed. Barbara brought her horse over. And in a cluster of jeans, hats and stained western shirts, folks watched the crazy dog track David's commands, while David tried to trick the dog by slipping in new commands, enjoying how the dog began to understand them. Any athlete starts out at the bottom of the mountain, and by hard work and surprising perseverance, makes it to the top. David knew where he was going, but sometimes wondered if Skidboot was just a quick study or if he had ambition.

"You got to get that dog more venues," the postman nearly jittered with excitement.
You are reading my mind,
David jittered back.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The Mystery Barrel Racer

Doug Williams, professional rodeo announcer, would officiate at the 53rd Annual Cooper Rodeo, which had launched on Saturday night with a cowboy supper by the Dutch Oven Cooks and a Western Swing concert. Few outsiders could understand the draw of a rodeo, but it reaffirmed values and upheld the ranching nostalgia for those who idealized it and who found ways to celebrate their addiction in every small rodeo that popped up in every state west of the Mississippi. Eager contestants moved from one to the next, unconcerned about the rodeo's size or even the prize, but just for the opportunity to show horsemanship.

The Cooper rodeo, although relatively small, drew wranglers and cowgirls from Northeast Texas, Oklahoma, Arkansas and Louisiana to the high thrills of barrel racing, breakaway roping, bronc riding, team roping and bull riding. Tiny Cooper's motto was "we are a small county in northeast Texas, and we can live with that." In addition to a lake, thirty one square miles in size, Cooper could always brag about its rodeo.

A steady stream of horse trailers drew up, raising puffs of smoke like a frontier round-up. Doug watched them gather beneath the shade of the trees, drivers unfolding from behind the wheels, tugging belts, hats, greeting friends. One of the lesser attractions of the Cooper rodeo was the large, tree shadowed grassy area offering tasty grazing for the horses, as well as a bouncy soft cushion to stand on. A small thing, but small things often made the difference.

Doug had been doing this long enough for it to fall into a routine, which was why he was surprised when his producer told him to hang tight, there was a surprise coming on Sunday afternoon.

Surprise?
He didn't like surprises. He couldn't really announce a surprise if he didn't know what it was, now could he?

No, he was told. Doug would
like
this surprise, just get ready to announce it around barrel racing time.

So here he stood, relieved that the day was perfect, the crowds happy, the sky a spry blue. He checked his schedule, seeing the usual line-up, Janna on Whiplash, Cissy Sparks on Lulu, Meg Hotckiss riding that feisty and well-named Cross Purpose. All were competent and would give a tight race to the finish, delighting the rodeo fans.

Then he studied the line-up, saw a new name and frowned. Was this the surprise? He didn't like not knowing. Usually he spun out a little biography before each pair entered to show his own expertise as well as giving the girls a minute to relax before show time. But this one….he shrugged. Guess he'd just call out the name. But wait, he studied the list again. Who was the rider?

Again, he shrugged. He'd been told to expect a surprise, and this must be it. He let it drop, since the powers-that-be had sent it through and probably knew what they were doing.

Almost time. He turned and strode toward the arena, as sun-struck as everyone else, his hat pulled down to create shade and his stained shirt loose. No one ever failed the regulation dress code at a rodeo, and he was no exception.

"Ladieeees and gentlemen, we have the most popular event of the rodeo today, the cowgirls' competition, the time to see the pigtails fly, the horses corner, and the barrels roll!" Doug prided himself on repartee, always looking for a lively phrase, like "pigtails." He slid his gaze around to see if there
were
any pigtails.

The girls wheeled, raised dust, cornered, reined and cornered again, laying so low in the saddle as to be almost invisible. The horses also planed in at the same flat angle, so that any upset, any misstep, any distraction—even the buzz of a horsefly—would collapse them into an unfortunate pile of legs, hooves and broken spirits. Miraculously, this seldom happened. The girls maintained the impossible angle at top speed, bringing the crowds to a standing cheer at each near miss.

He checked his watch. Nearly 3:30, about time to wrap up. But no. One more thing. He hated announcing blind.

"Folks, we have a late entry to the barrel racing. His name…is Skidboot!"
There, he'd done it.

All eyes swiveled to the horse stalls, expecting a mounted gelding to burst through. Instead, a lone cowboy, booted and somber, strolled into the arena.

Doug tried to shoo him away, "Sir, you need to get out of the way. We got a high speed contestant in the wings, it's dangerous out here."

The man tipped his hat, "yes sir, it
is
dangerous. We live in dangerous times. And I, for one, am going to stand back, because…

Then he yelled, "ok, let her run!"

The crowd sighed, a collective intake, as if clouds had shifted before a storm as a black-and-blue animal shadow shot into the arena, smaller than a horse and faster than most dogs. Skidboot didn't even glance at David, not pausing for him or for the crowd, just flashing like a bolt toward the first barrel. He rounded it, speeding as flat to the ground as a race horse, headed for the second barrel, turned it and sped straight down the length of the cloverleaf turn for the third barrel. As the crowd yelled, stomped and went raucous, he hairpinned around the last barrel and skidded through the sand to intercept the toy that David lobbed at him. A twist like a caught fish, and he nabbed the toy in midair, shimmied right, then left, then right again, almost maniacal with growling, snarling, slobbering, ripping—his usual insane toy behavior. The crowd loved it, and after several savage minutes—with the toy shredded into wads of cotton, blue velour and a lone rabbit ear—David broke Skidboot into his routine of tricks: fetch, count, paw and reward.

The applause deafened David, who tried to reach down and touch Skidboot to prevent some kind of fear reaction. Here were a thousand people standing up in the stands, stomping, hollering and yelling. David had no idea if the crowd would terrify Skidboot—it certainly had caught David off guard. Skidboot's half smile cracked into a widespread dog smile, so large that no one could mistake his excitement. He slowly rotated his head around, up and down, scoping out the yelling masses. You could almost hear his thoughts,
I like this
.

David commanded Skidboot to turn right. He turned.

Then to turn again. And he did.

Then turn back again. And he did.

Williams' face shone with excitement.
This is pure magic,
David thought, drawing the moment out, savoring it.
Even I'm impressed.

After, when David placed 9.4 in the calf-roping competition and bagged a nice pile of prize money, he and Skidboot looked at each other, two performers bringing home their wages. The family not only had a dog but another breadwinner. Barbara and David would freely share this role with anyone, dog or human. Barbara had lost her job and was looking daily for something else. Now, with Skidboot and David performing, it meant bills paid, Russell's books bought, an occasional chicken dinner out, gas money, non-stop electricity and heat— simply, life as they wanted it.

Barbara, always Skidboot's champion, wrapped the Heeler in a tight embrace, his narrow face turned up toward her, his eyes bright and appealing. Times felt good for the Hartwig family. The chickens were laying, the rodeos were paying and the neighbors flocking around them, intrigued by the afternoon practice sessions—they'd rather watch the Hartwig circus than bale hay! So good, in fact, that David could almost remember their courtship days. But time and troubles drifted in, a smothering thing, hardly recognizable. What seemed like family stability began to feel like military entrenchment, not the sustaining union it was meant to be. But now, in the pure excitement of their success, tenderness welled up. If they were not the family that prays together—Barbara resisted being part of that loop—at least they were a family that stays together.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The Trials of Fame

"David! Telephone!"

Daily, a new call. Newspaper interviews, TV stations and now, The Texas State Fair in Dallas again, wanting them as full-time entertainment. Errol McCoy called him first when he was in Charlottesville, Pennsylvania, on a dog-and-rodeo tour. "Think it's about time we make a deal," McCoy said. "Come in and talk."

Not just a one-time appearance, but a contract for every single day of the fair or almost a month's worth of income. David tried to imagine how hard he'd have to work to make this kind of money shoeing horses. And they were not even arena performers, which would be hard work. No, this was just
walking around
, doing a few tricks in an offhand way, gathering crowd interest, being Mr. Hospitality with his dog—a State Fair personality.

David put on his math hat. After the past two years, he'd grown more bold with the numbers, seeing in their growing celebrity a one-time opportunity to net profit. As an exercise, he'd dream up the most improbable amount and throw it out, just to see the reaction. David loved to gauge reactions, and if they went for it, well…

He needed a hundred dollars a day, yes sir.

A hundred a day,
he was almost embarrassed to ask.
A hundred dollars a day just to strut through the aisles playing with his dog.
He wobbled mentally for a minute, unsure.

"You got it," Gus said, not a moment's pause. When David explained the job to Barbara, she, too was confounded.

"Not the floor show? Not in the arena?"

"No, and listen to this. We just walk up and down the street four times a day and do about five minutes of tricks!"

He turned to Skidboot. "That's $2,400 for just hanging out!" Skidboot barked
, 2,400 what?

Pure euphoria. There prevailed a sense of
rightness
, which so often turns into self-worth or even callous disregard. It lands gently, an insidious and subtle feeling, hard to resist. It plucks the juicy fruits of success and turns it soft around the edges.

When Butch knocked at the door of the mobile home—
bang, bang
—David felt a chill of inevitability. The sight of his friend, broad-faced, sunburned, ever-friendly, conflicted David. Butch was one of the few people who understood that if anything special was going to happen in Quinlan, it would happen to David. He'd seen David build his own horse stalls, thresh his own hay, puzzle over building his own pump, wire his own house. He never saw David require anything from anyone else, except maybe that sad night before Christmas when he'd run out of gas money. David was a fix-it polymath, which was why Butch had come to call.

"Got a few horses needin' your services, David. Think you could fit me in?"

There. He'd said the words they'd both been dreading, because now David had to shuck and sputter and finally blurt out "no." That is, no, he wouldn't be doing any work, not now or not—possibly—ever. Things with the dog, you know. Complications. Performance obligations…

He trailed off, seeing Butch's crestfallen face.

"Sure wish you might of told me sooner." The moment, brief in time, tested friendship against need and utility, and the two men, whose natural impulse of help and share was pushed sideways by this deliberate calculation, edged away from each other. David would remember the moment, as Butch studied the backs of his hands, flecked and corded by work, sun and time, his eyes locked down as if each scabbed knuckle bore information. This moment would haunt them, try their friendship.

Then Butch jammed his hands in his pockets and persisted. He hoped David could do it just this once, as Butch was in a bind, well, nearly an
emergency
. The county had more horseshoers than horned toads,
you just kick the bush, and out they come,
David once said. But many of them were part-time, poorly-trained men who thought they could turn a dollar by blasting the cracks off a hoof, need it or not. Others showed off their high-tech equipment, designed to scare owners into paying high prices, but, according to David, were "all hat, no cattle." Instead, David Hartwig paraded a low-tech, competent approach along with a casual billing attitude, as in,
if I can get paid, so be it.
Few of the locals could do David's work as quickly or as well. His hoof wall restructuring set a record—like calf roping, he had perfected performance horse shoeing.