Skidboot 'The Smartest Dog In The World' (21 page)

The men faced each other, both embarrassed. "No" hung in the air, pushing friendship, proximity and generosity aside. One said "no," and the other countered with
I'd consider it a favor.
The words stonewalling till they dropped as the men turned from each other, Butch shifting down the steps as David retreated into the safety of the mobile home, his heart gone spastic.

What am I thinking?

The phone shrilled, jerking him toward a Checkovian world of strange complexity, where requests, buzzing neighbors, compliments, interviewers and well-wishers merged, nonstop. The State Fair people clamored, then Russell called, eager to talk to Skidboot and, excited, began to spin off tales to his dog pal about college, his interest in the law—
law, you know what that is, Skidboot?
—about going out last Saturday night, the people he'd met, while Skidboot, earnest as a professor, bobbed his speckled head, nodding "yes, yes, yes." His faraway look gave credence to Russell's eager words, he keenly recognized the tinny long-distance tones of his boy, Russell. Finally, he growled softly,
rrr-rrr-fff!
—Then:

"See ya later!" Russell to Skidboot.

"Rrrrr," Skidboot ended the call.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Riding Shotgun

Beautiful women didn't turn his head. Clothes, a good watch, fancy riding gear didn't tempt him.

But David lusted, nevertheless. And the lust that had lain dormant all those years of scraping along, suddenly surfaced. He was flooded with craving, excitement, deep interest and a longing so unexpected that the only thing he could do was stomp the brakes, prompting the usual moaning of mixed gears and cracked brake pads as Skidboot flew headlong into the dash.

He wondered, briefly, how such a smart dog could lose his seating so easily, as David broke his headfirst tumble with a stiff protecting arm, keeping Skidboot from head trauma. Man and dog sat silently in the dented truck, one transfixed, the other puzzled. David had come to rely on his cockpit buddy, nose pointed straight windward, ears flapping like mini propellers. All he had to do was think "drive" or "go" or "truck" and Skidboot was already there, vibrating in place by the closed door, whimpering with excitement. He loved the truck and would turn to David and ratchet up his smile in a show of happy teeth.
Yes, yes, let's drive, move it, more speed!

Skidboot shook with excitement if David even
looked
at the driveway or at the old pickup, so dinged, faded and encrusted with use. Anywhere else, it would be an embarrassment. Here in Quinlan, it just said
hardworking and not too lucky.
But to Skidboot, "truck" meant adventure, a way to make the world slide by at high speed, to prickle his fur with blasts of hot Texas air.

"Skidboot, look at that, buddy!"

Skidboot looked. He saw the object of David's passion, and he, too, was dazzled. Imagine, a
new
truck as bright as Lake Tawakoni in the sunset, with gleaming silver insignia and mysteriously darkened back windows that seemed to wink at him, slyly. A new truck could be incredibly fast. It could purr like the great beast that it was and finish with a roar. David, in a trance, followed his heart into the dealership, sat down, had a talk, watched the miracle figures of his credit dance across the screen, said "yes," signed papers, and still in a daze, drove home.

Skidboot seemed to like the new Ford King Ranch with a crew cab and burrowed, pawed, scratched and sniffed around, taking it all in. But his place was at the window, nose pressed to the glass, until they sped up the gravel drive to the mobile home. Then, the euphoria began to trickle away, a change in mood that Skidboot felt. They still had to tell Barbara, who might have her own plans for their newfound income.

David slowly unwrapped himself from the truck and slowly stealthed inside. He hoped she wasn't home.

Barbara guarded the screen door.

"Honey, I got us a little surprise…" David edged toward the trailer.

The door slammed closed. David turned and took another look at the truck.
A man has to get around dependably,
he told himself, hoping that he was being honest.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

What a Real Dog Trainer Would Do

The first day of the Texas State Fair proceeded like any other: hot white skies, perspiring barkers, red-faced vendors and an elemental hum of anticipation that droned like a hive. The Anderson family, just in from Pecos to visit relatives in Dallas, had paid their money and were heading for the famous Ronald McDonald show when Clinton, age 9, tugged his father's arm. "Dad," he whispered, "look over there."

All heads swung toward the pointed direction.

They saw the man, tall and seemingly disinterested. Swirling around his feet was a sparkly looking black and blue dog, real alert.

"What, son?" Nothing special there.

"Watch!"

The man strolled along casually, then pointed out a litter of trash,
over there!
The dog responded by pouncing on the litter and bundling the wrappers and a tin can in his jaws and trotting over to a nearby trash box. He hoisted himself up to the top and dropped them in.

"Jim, did you see that?" Angela and Jim hurried to catch up, and as they did, several others swept up behind them. Eager whispers, disbelief, as the man and the dog continued down the parkway, taking in the sights, no hurries, no worries. Only every time a can glinted, glass glittered or paper rustled, off went the dog to retrieve it. Within minutes, the crowd had grown, people were murmuring, wondering.

This should be entertainment,
someone said.

Why, it already is,
someone else answered. And each time the dog retrieved, the man very politely thanked him.

"Thank you, Skidboot," he said. Soon, the followers were murmuring, "thank you, Skidboot," as the pilgrimage wended toward the "Birds of the World" pavilion. Plans were dropped, mouths hung open. This trash collecting dog was a first.

Then the man started to vary the routine, perhaps conscious of the attention, although he kept his hat pulled low and seemed not to notice the growing crowd behind him. "Skidboot," he instructed as the dog went loping toward a torn newspaper. "You stop now."

The dog froze.

Everyone stared.

Then, gently, he released the dog. "Ok, sneak up on it now." Skidboot hugged the ground, a canine commando inching toward the trash.

"No," the voice insisted. "Back up now, too close."

The crowd felt more and more irritated. Why won't he just let the dog get the trash?

"No." "Back up." "Now go." "No." Under the flurry of commands the dog lay, crept, retreated, crept again, froze, retreated and advanced, as choreographed as a western line dance. Tension sparked through the crowd, they wanted this dog released!

Finally, the order, "go get it!" and Skidboot leaped forward, only to freeze in place with the following, "just touch it, now." The dog reached out a paw and ever so delicately, patted the trash.

"Ok, Skidboot, now you go get it." Palpable relief flowed as Skidboot careened toward the huge trash drum, scaled it like a rock climber and dropped the trash inside.

The Anderson family phoned their friends the Oddwaters, who were meeting them at noon and urged them to find the Bird Show area, there was a trick dog wandering around that they shouldn't miss.

David and Skidboot tried to wrangle free, but crowds pressed in, people asking for another trick, to pet the dog, to find out who they were, and by the time they fought their way free, David felt worn out. They "strolled" three more times that day into different parts of the fairground, trying new tricks, improvising. Around noon, stomachs growling, David spotted a hot dog stand.

Why not have Skidboot buy him a hot dog
? He and Skidboot seemed to have the same thought at the same time, and just as Skidboot started toward the stand, David remembered to "instruct" him to go get them a hot dog.

The vendor, accustomed to human faces, peered down at the eager canine, then over at David, who gestured, hot dog please. The vendor, Marie, laughed. She'd never seen anything like it, but noticed right away that the dog was good for business. The minute he trotted off, the hot dog held delicately in his mouth, about fifty people all wanted "hot dogs like the dog had," which caused Marie to think
one good dog deserves another
and she threw in a free one—no condiments since he disdained relish or mustard—for Skidboot.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The Pied Piper

By the end of the day, David was bushed. Like the Pied Piper, he trailed a line of people. He wasn't even sure this was his assignment—to just wander around, playing with his dog—and this made him nervous. He didn't want to jeopardize the $400 he'd make today.

Just then a burly man planted himself in front of David, and he glimpsed the official badge swinging from his neck.

"Sir," he said. "You two are causing a lot of commotion."

David's stomach dropped. He knew he'd forgotten something, gotten off into the wrong area or had a time conflict—he'd had this bad feeling. He gulped, apologized, kicked the dirt with his boots, held onto Skidboot's neck, ruffling his fur, feeling the familiar vibration of excitement ripple along his back. Skidboot loved a strong caress, the probing fingers that worked around on his muscles, stroked his neck, grabbed his chest fur, pulling and playing.

"People are calling up the fair, talking about you and the dog."

"Sorry, we were just..."

"Sorry? By Gosh, no need to be! We've had so many calls that management made the fastest decision I've ever seen at the Fair. They're hopin' you two can be regulars here."

He paused. "As long as the dog is healthy and so forth..." They turned to look at Skidboot, whose bright eyes and bristling fur brimmed with vitality.

"You mean..." David's confusion left him almost speechless.

"That's right. Every day. You get the same pay, $400."

Like a human calculator, Skidboot looked up at David and began to pat his knee lightly with his paw. Was he counting? David was. And 400 times 30 days turned out to be more than he could fathom. And just for playing with the dog.

They shook on it, agreed that the contract would come later, while Skidboot rippled up and down with excitement. Balloons floated up from the Midway, and the bright colors of the day turned into a carnival of light, sound and frolic, as if angels were playing nearby, whispering his good fortune. David paused a moment to try and understand why such luck would come his way. He had no idea where it was headed, but he liked this new direction better than anything yet.

"Thank you, Skidboot," he whispered, grabbing Skidboot's staunch little shoulders, pulling him close.

The day proceeded, and then the day after, as the pair turned into regulars who dragged along behind them, a wedge of humanity—the people who followed the dog show. In the way that adults love children, they loved the dog. In the way that parents see themselves as models and trainers, they identified with David's brand of dog guidance. People tried to figure out where they'd be next. They would spread the word, and daily, the crowds grew.

By now, both David and Skidboot were less edgy about confrontation. The last run-in they'd had with an official had ended well—
with increased benefits!
—so when David saw the thin man, well-pressed, striding toward them, he gave it little thought. But after the first words, he shuddered to realize that this was a professional dog trainer, come to tell him his mistakes and tear apart his techniques.

"Been noticing you and the dog," the man began, self-effacing, keeping his distance.

"Um-hm" David noticed that, like two dogs, they were circling and sniffing. One of us is gonna pee first.

"Wonder if you've been using Clicker training? I notice that your dog responds to hand gestures.

"Um-hmm."

The man dropped the self-effacing role and moved in for the kill.

"You know, there's an entire school of discipline that I myself promote, it's purely positive motivational training, using rewards to reinforce good behavior. It's based on Thorndike's Law of Effect, which says that actions that produce rewards tend to increase in frequency and actions that do
not
produce rewards decrease in frequency. We use an assortment of crates, tethers and head halters. It seems to me that your dog here might benefit from some reinforcement."

And so would you.
David felt unkindness well up, as well as unease. These professionals were always turning up, and he should have spotted this one. They were compelled to offer him tips on training and point out what he'd been doing wrong. David had one response.

"Mister, I am not a dog trainer and this dog is not trained. I'm just playing with my dog, that's all. He and I get on together. All I look for in a dog is good manners."

Then, making a small shoving-aside gesture, which really didn't touch the man but just cleared the path, David and Skidboot circled out from the heat of his analysis, suggestions and weighty schooling, and made their way down toward the Texas Skyway, the five-million-dollar gondola that transported Texas State Fair revelers from one end to the other.

By the time the third hombre had planted himself in front of David, official tags dangling, he was used to it. Oh well, he thought, we're either washed up or in spin cycle, might as well relax. He'd always been opinionated, and no telling who he'd offended. So he smiled, shook hands and waited for the complaints. Instead, he heard that Mr. McCoy, the producer of the Texas State Fair, wanted to see David in the office, pronto. And the meeting that took place, pronto, was a surprise.

"David, we've got a problem with you walking around this way."

David's heart lurched. The idea of losing this job, the money, the fun of it saddened him. But life had prepared him for any vicissitude, and he'd handle this one. He could go back to horseshoeing and be perfectly happy, why he could...