Skidboot 'The Smartest Dog In The World' (23 page)

And now, Skidboot and David Hartwig.

It was enough. The specialness David had always felt inside, the knowing of his gifts, all of it had come together here.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

No Applause Sign Needed

By noon they were at the theater, through the Green Room and into the make-up area. Impossibly artistic people glided up to them, offering drinks, taking sound checks. "Skidboot, feels like we're at NASA getting ready for liftoff!" Skidboot nodded, and David stifled a laugh, wondering what kind of make-up a dog might need.

Backstage. Pets and owners cast suspicious glances. Feathers drifted from a rare pygmy parrot that snapped its beak in 2/4 time and rolled its eyes nearly backwards. A python draped casually over the sofa back, but they noticed that its owner always kept her thumb and forefinger pressed hard under the python's chin. None spoke, only pulled their pets close.

David, a notorious icebreaker, noted an older woman clutching a pet pig, her skin tight as her pig's. David leaned across and whispered that he, personally, didn't think it was very nice what people were saying about her dog,
ha ha.

"What?" She jumped. "Excuse me?

David grinned—that long, drawn-out smirk that presaged comedy and that boosted him right onto the brink of cachinnation.

"Ma'am, when that hair grows back, I'm sure that dog will look as pretty as ever!"

Wide-eyed, she swept her pig into protective custody, where it nuzzled into her bosom and peered out at David. She staggered up out of her seat and swept over to the other side of the waiting room, looking alarmed. David grabbed Skidboot's scruff and sat quietly, waiting to be called.

If life is just a series of firsts, thought David, then this is really living. He'd never been this frightened before. So much fear that it felt catastrophic. He might choke! Skidboot could go rogue. Anything could happen. Then he began to talk himself down. No, this was
playtime
. He and Skidboot were having fun!.

The producer came into the Green Room to deliver last minute instructions. "Ok folks, once Mr. Letterman announces your name, you'll follow me through that curtain. He'll greet you, ask a couple of questions, and then you'll show the audience what your pets can do."

Simple enough. David shuddered, his nerves jumping.

Through the curtain they heard the announcer welcoming the viewing audience to
The Late Show
, mumble, mumble...

"And our next star hails from Quinlan, Texas. Folks, let's welcome David Hartwig and Skidboot. Vivid red applause, lights flashed aggressively overhead and the audience responded by clapping and yelling wildly.
I ought to get me one of them for around the house,
David thought. Things might go a little better.

David Letterman, like Oz, stood at the middle of his vast, bustling, television kingdom, his face genial, bent forward to hear the hoarse response, the failed answer. His glasses glinted, he smiled benevolently. He was here to entertain, not humiliate. Kindly, he asked David what he was about to do.

David's rodeo years slid into effect as he began joking, easily managing the moment right into the game of copycat.

"Copycat?" Skidboot barked impatiently.

"Cat? You don't like that word? Well Mister, there's no such thing as copydog, so we're just going to have to go with it."

Laughter, applause. Skidboot shook his head a few times, then got over it.

And then they began. As focused as a surgical team, David moved and Skidboot mimicked. One boot forward, one paw forward. One step back, one paw back. Hand up, paw up, hand down, paw down. David threw his long length down on the carpet and rolled over, then hopped to his feet nearly stepping on Skidboot, who had thrown himself down, like a soldier navigating a minefield, and was also just hopping up. The drummer rolled out a cadence with each movement and quickly, the audience began to clap.

The crowd was ahead of the "applause' sign and roared out approval. The applause light begged them to laugh, but everyone was already up and clapping.

David knelt down to Skidboot's ear and whispered, "you done it, boy, you done it."

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

The Phantom of the Mayflower

After the show, David and Skidboot relaxed in the lobby, trying to settle down. As usual, people flocked around, eager to see the man in the boots and the dog in the dark glasses. David had succumbed to show business glitz, and bought Skidboot a hat and shades,
just for fun.
He hoped to snap some celebrity photos of themselves in the limo, out of the limo, getting served by waiters—to show Barbara how it was going.

Barbara. David had a slight pang. He sure was having a great time, he wished that she could be there. He tried to call the home number, but no answer.

Then came the hit. The shark circled at first, a well-dressed one, with polished shoes and a narrow cut shirt, slightly unbuttoned, GQ style. All he lacked was a cane, a valet and background music to plunge them into a noir flick.

"Mr. Hartwig?" David couldn't deny it.

"Skidboot?" The query sent Skidboot's back into an angry ruckle, followed by a low snarl.

"Skidboot, you behave now!" The Blue Heeler seldom took dislike to anyone. He expected any new face to be a new fan, but he was having a reaction.

David collared Skidboot, holding him in.

"Jerry Schwartz here." His hand was still outstretched. David managed to shake it but kept a firm grip on Skidboot. "I'm a movie producer, and I have to tell you, I've seen you two perform now a couple of times, and what you have is puuuuuure gold."

David smiled. It never hurt to be showered with praise, and Jerry was a rainmaker of the first order. One velvety blandishment after another. "Dogs like this..." "a rare event..." "something that the film world would..." "never seen anything like it..."

David finally had to stop him. "Mr. Schwartz, let's sit down a minute." The man obliged, lowering himself deeply into a velvet chair where he reclined in a slightly serpentine way, drawing into himself like a man who didn't get much exercise.

He waxed and waned. He vociferated and palavered. He spun out Hollywood success stories as if he was George Lucas. On he went, with much to say because he'd been thinking about it for such a long time. In buttery tones he explained the need for an entire series of Skidboot videos, a Disney-type event, real wholesome. Why, did David know the number of dog owners in the US? The number of people who owned pets? There were pet expos, dog restaurants, even dog matrimonials! There was even talk of a Puppy Channel. Why, with the world as harsh as it was, people needed to enter the world of the dog, to see things in a simple and open hearted way...

"So, what do you need, Mr. Schwartz?" David, used to the handshake agreements of the rodeo circuit, was getting restless with the schmoozing. They'd been at it for nearly an hour, and all he could understand was the repeated "win-win." Jerry would make the videos, Skidboot and David would of course perform, and....

"Well, who pays for this?" David leaned forward. He thought he saw Schwartz flinch.

"We got us a foolproof money raising scheme. Foolproof! It's worked before, it will work again."

Later, David would kick himself for not seeking proof. Which movies had he made? Who had funded them? Where was the paperwork? Then he heard the words, "just sign here and we'll be on our way." Maybe it was New York, or the euphoria of room service, future bookings, private escorts, limos—whatever—that brought the pen into his hand, and after which, he found himself signing, and then heard with perfect clarity: "All we need to do now is to raise the money. And we're on our way!"

Money?
David wondered.

What money?

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

The Hollywood Fiasco

Success had turned into a gravitational field. Wherever they went, it pulled them along, snapping them up short like a rubber band then stretching them out into the future. No sooner home than Art Chapman of the
Ft. Worth Star Times
called up with something about the "Mayflower hotel."

"Beg pardon?" David couldn't quite make it out, but it seemed that someone in the lobby, an oil man from Houston in town to make a drilling deal, had caught their impromptu act in the lobby and called the newspaper. David's celebrity pulled around them like a blanket.
And yes, of course, sir, come on out to the ranch and meet Skidboot.

When Chapman arrived, he found a ranching family in the middle of a transition, moving from their usual daily chores into the heady chaos of publicity, appointments, trick rehearsal and training. He spent the day photographing, interviewing, and in the end, published a feature story so detailed, so colorful and so moving that Skidboot's rise to stardom was picked up by the wire services, which shot the information to newspapers all over the country.

"What now?" Barbara wondered, her voice nearly drowned out by the ringing of the phone.

"Someone called from the Crook & Chase Talk Show," David yelled back.

"Telephone!" she announced for the fifth time that day. The phone just kept ringing.

"In-cred-i-ble! It's
Inside Edition
, that TV magazine show."

They stared at each other. Keeping an appointment book was falling short. What they needed was a wall-sized blackboard, a flow chart, maybe a retired air traffic controller. Everything felt crazy, lopsided, nearly teetering out of control. Like Jack and the beanstalk, celebrity shot them up into the clouds, exploding new tendrils around them, pushing them ahead of it whether they wanted to go or not.

Skidboot stories spread internationally, bringing a Japanese production company out to the ranch. Dogs in Japan, coddled as children, are dressed up, paraded, fed special dishes, and generally infantilized and idealized. The producers wanted to introduce a new concept, a dog belonging to a "crazy cowboy." But their real agenda was to break Skidboot's concentration using any means available.

They scurried around the ranch, filming David in the saddle, David riding away, leaving Skidboot poised over a toy, far back on the road, quietly waiting for the release number, "three!"

"They keep calling you Ski-boot," David remarked, and Skidboot shrugged. The TV crew kept up their routine until afternoon, when they went to the back room for the final test. The producers cried, "
Ski-boot
will go crazy and bite!" as they tempted him with a bright red plastic truck filled with sushi. Skidboot held his position, never even glancing at this oddity weaving back and forth and smelling weirdly of fish. Tiring of this, they poured tennis balls on the floor, hoping "Ski Boot" would break gaze and attack. Finally, they unleashed a fat Dachshund, which wiggled like a live hot dog across the floor but provoked only
more
disinterest. Finally, they sighed, conferred, called everyone "crazy," packed up and left.

Everything takes its toll, and in their case, Barbara worried that Skidboot was overworked. "He can't be on all the time, David. He needs to play, to just to be a dog."

"You're like a stage mother," David tried to joke. But it was true. Their family life was skewed. The idea of all of them gathered around the TV, eating popcorn, laughing and relaxing, seemed a thing of the past, and sometimes, no one could remember whether it was even a true memory or not.

Wistfully, Barbara mentioned going to a movie. "How about tonight?"

David grew still. A movie? Weren't they going to be
in
a movie? That seemed to take precedence over just
going
to a movie, and he reminded her that the movie producer, Schwartz, was due over the next day. She stared at the floor, alone with her thoughts, while David herded Skidboot out to the truck.

"Come on, copilot!" David laughed, hopped in and opened Skidboot's door. That stopped him for a minute, thinking. Why, the dog had been shotgun in this truck more than his wife! Or Russell. But then, Russell's studies kept him in Dallas. He shrugged it off.

They sat in the front seat and both felt that prickle of excitement when a trick was about to take place, almost a kind of ground charge.

Skidboot stared intently at the ignition, nearly trembling.

"Ok, ok," David put in the key.

Skidboot stared at the gearshift, again, nearly trembling.

"Ok, ok,? David shifted to drive.

Skidboot, now on four feet standing on the seat, touched his nose to the wheel.

"Ok, ok, we'll go." But Skidboot was still frozen near the wheel, pointing.

"What, you want to drive?" Skidboot yapped, a quick one for "yes."

"Well, pal, that's one thing you can't do, at least not on public roads." With that, the truck roared to life and jumped away from the curb.

Barbara retreated back into the mobile home, shuffled furniture around, dusted a little and washed some dishes. Suddenly, she jumped. Someone had shouted "David Hartwig" loud, right in the study. With no one there, she had a moment's unease before she realized it was the radio. Then she heard David, in a low drawl, telling the story of Skidboot to anyone tuned in to nighttime radio. Must be some kind of religious program, Barbara thought. Not religious herself, she shied away from programs like this. She heard some preacher—she strained to hear the name—making a mighty thin comparison between discipleship, a man and his dog.

She swept over to the radio.

"A special word found in discipleship is disciple!" The preacher droned on.

Okay,
she thought.

"That's what God wants for us all! And before we can disciple, we must learn discipline. Without one, God can't have the other. And right here in Quinlan, Texas, we have a manifestation of His work. Right here with David Hartwig and his dog." Deep, oratorical tones, revival style, bore the name "Hartwig" out to a thousand listeners. When the preacher said "his dog," Barbara tried not to sulk, but the slights and oversights just kept mounting. David might be the trainer, but Skidboot was HER dog!