Skidboot 'The Smartest Dog In The World' (24 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Film Financing?

Life out of balance will inevitably self-correct. It happens in Nature, it happens in history, and it especially happens in Greek tragedies. Even in modern American drama, the struggles of the common turn tragic, although the better word might be "poorly." Heroic struggles involve heroes, and David, despite his sense of being an exception, was still a rancher and a cowboy. And today, he had a strange, sinking feeling, as if something astonishing was going to happen.

And it did.

That night was the neighborhood round-up, the night that Jerry Schwartz, the movie producer, had nagged him about for the past month. "Get your friends together as investors, David. Give your buddies a place on the bandwagon."

Barbara had met the man, and had one word: "creepy."

"Why so, Barbara?" David kept trying to make things right with everyone, and here was a chance to promote Skidboot. No, actually, it was a chance to honor Skidboot, as well as help out all the friends who had helped him over the years. If anything was win-win, this was it.

"There's just something about him."

Of course there was, David pointed out. The guy produces movies. He breathes, sleeps, looks and acts Hollywood, and even in Texas, people should understand what that means. Hollywood meant money, bent values and a craving for novelty—its alien aura just flowed off Jerry. But then, if he were just a humdrum guy, steady as a bank teller, he'd hardly be out there producing movies, would he?

They were thrown into the odd dilemma of believing that distrust might equal success, while in the deepest places of understanding, they also knew it just wasn't true. But people were arriving. It was their first investor's meeting.

Cars pulled up, doors slammed, headlight beams crisscrossed, then died. The dining room table groaned under the spread—David wanted to treat his friends to a nice repast as well, homemade carrot cake, chips and beer, an ambrosia salad from the Deli, cold cuts and cheese. Surprised, they settled around the table, Richard Banks, Della Cathcar, Howard and Mindy Atkinson and others. More could have come, and maybe would have, if he'd extended it further. But this was a core group, a special group. David glanced over at his parents and met his father's direct gaze.

I trust you,
the glance said.

David felt a pang. This was a man on a pension.
What if....?
He refused to think about it. He had to stay positive. Thanks to Skidboot, David had a chance to
give back
. The golden moment shimmered, invited. It was a supercharged and miraculous moment, like so many others this past year.

"Thank you all for attending this investor meeting," Schwartz began. They noted the man, his basic otherness. Everyone here wore jeans, but his jeans looked iridescent, and hung differently. The men all wore belts, some glinting with championship roping buckles, but Jerry's belt, flat and silver studded, seemed faintly Navajo. Here the men wore western work shirts, narrow cut, pearl buttoned, fit for the saddle, while his eggplant dark shirt, casually unbuttoned, two down, shouted "film director."

"And so I'm a film director..." he continued, tracing out the path of his many credits, dropping names, striding back and forth, which made everyone nearly dizzy trying to follow the gist.

But the gist, clearly, was investor output, meaning money. The money to finance a Hollywood movie about Skidboot, a movie that would touch hearts everywhere, rival Disney for family appeal, tap into a national psyche that had never, really, gotten over the
real
Rin Tin Tin, the
real
Lassie, and provide the perfect sequel. Schwartz spun out his vision, his voice soothing, while people glanced down at their hands, embarrassed. This never happened in Quinlan, except maybe for Mary Kay house parties. Seldom was there the public drumming up of money, the promise of rewards. Simple folk, country people—they watched Barbara and David to gauge their reactions.

David looked serious, nodding in agreement. Barbara had gotten up to make another pot of coffee but stayed there for a surprisingly long time.

By evening's end, everyone had pledged an amount, each to the ability to give, but all persuaded that this homegrown miracle—Skidboot and the Hartwigs—deserved their support. For many, this was as close as they would come to a speculative investment. Few of them even had stock accounts. Although the individual donations were modest, for everyone that night, it felt enormous.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Skidboot meets Oprah

Barbara opened a groggy eye. Light filtered in, suffusing the room in a pale hue. She had a moment's confusion because outside she heard the sound of David yelling, "What on earth...?" Usually she was up first, ready with coffee. But after last night she'd slept in.

Throwing her robe around her, she peered out the front door.

David, hands on hips, was lecturing Skidboot, who sat obediently, head cocked to the side, bright eyes unblinking.

"...and you know this is a new truck, and you know that you DO NOT jump up on this door here and leave scratch marks."

"David!" She didn't like the way things had been going. One minute, the dog was their teenager, someone to instruct, hang out with, make plans with. The next minute, he was a bad dog, getting disciplined.

"Give him a break. He's worked enough! Let him play."

David shrugged, muttered. And she heard, "that dog's gonna make us money at the
Pet Star
finale. You can't have it both ways."

She knew that. Her Skidboot, that cuddly Heeler she loved to slip snacks to, who waited in the dirt outside the corral for the sound of her truck, who panted for her like no one else and who now earned more than she and David did together. Confusion welled up, but thrilled her, too. Who wouldn't be excited?

And that truck! Shiny as an ice palace. Why, it had such high gloss she wondered if there might be a safety issue for oncoming traffic.

She couldn't resist pointing out how nice the truck was, glamorous, really. In fact, a truck like that would just about pay for the roof they so desperately needed.

Silence.

David shrugged, trying to be patient. "Honey, we are gonna get a new roof for sure. It just won't be the kind you're thinking of."

She frowned. Now, what did that mean?

And as surely as the sun sets, she found out.

David squealed out of the driveway right after their discussion. He felt empowered—the movie, ongoing prize money that pumped their bank account up above "flush" into record new zones. Heaven had opened up, spilling blessings down on them, so many that they spattered around, overflowed. One of the things David had learned in his life with animals—being a "whisperer" type—was to tune into the fine vibrations of meaning.
You might not understand, but you never walk away.

And this theory brought him to the finance office of a mobile home dealer in downtown Quinlan, situated in a maze of tidy offices and behemoth double-wides, parked tight as tuna, just waiting to be paid for and driven away. Some were up to 3,000 square feet, true luxury living. He'd made the call simply in the spirit of inquiry, thinking that he and Barbara could talk it over when he got the details. From past failures in the credit world, David didn't have high hopes. But it never hurt to try.

So he leaned across the shiny laminate table to squint at the figures that Elm Baker, the finance manager, had compiled. His eyes blurred when he heard the words "credit score a little low..." Well.
Tell me something new...

David settled back, sighing. Then he made to rise, held out his hand.

"Now wait a minute, David," Elm grew moist and inviting, his big brow gleaming with presale shine. Wouldn't do to let a hot one get away, even if the score was low.

"All that means is we can't get you top-tier financing, but with a $10,000 down payment, we can swing you $60,000 at 16%." David heard him through a blur of excitement...
$10,000? Why, Skidboot could cough that up the next time the phone rang!

Before he knew it, out flew his checkbook, out came his pen and zeroes were looping along the money line of the check like a counterfeiter.

Every man—and woman—deserves the luxury of writing a big check sometime in life, and this was David's moment.

"You'll hold onto this for three days, as per the agreement?" He wanted to be sure, as if viewing the new mobile home wasn't enough. Unsaid, of course, was the most important item: what would Barbara say?

"Skidboot," he instructed, you go take a look. Skidboot calmly walked around the mobile home, sniffing, arching his back, ears thrust forward to scoop up any new information, nose sniffing like a wild thing, but knowing that he should
not
pee to mark turf. The idea that his family—his family!—would have this shiny new device, not unlike the other shiny new device, the truck—felt good. All Skidboot wanted was what David wanted, a chance to grapple together, come up with new tricks, outwit each other and now, have a shiny huge new home on wheels. What more could a dog ask?

Well, one thing. That his real owner, Barbara, would be as happy as he was. And right now, as Skidboot nestled at her feet, basking in the hot beam of the overhead table light, companionably munching hanger steak and Ora-Ida fries just sizzled out of the frying pan, he felt contentment swirl around him, cloudlike, soothing, working its domestic spell. He knew they only had a little time until the airport. Then he and David would fly somewhere, again. But for now, the peace welled up.

A bolt of energy shot through him as Barbara jumped up, pushed her plate away and gripped the edge of the table. Skidboot flopped backwards. He winced as her voice staggered up an octave.

"You what?"

Skidboot couldn't help them out, not now. He cowered under the table, nose pressed tight between his paws as the words flew back and forth, "bad decision," "we don't have that kind of money," "get the check back!" and so on. David stood unfazed. He had grabbed the chance to give his family a better home, one without a sagging roof, rusting pipes and mystery stains. One they could be proud of, something new. They were part of a new world now, where fundraising set the pace. You raised funds for movies. You raised funds for new mobile homes. Same thing, just a different kind of world than the one they knew. After all, he and Skidboot had been on Jay Leno and Letterman. How big was that?

Didn't Barbara understand that their circle had widened? That he had to gallop to keep up with circumstances, take advantage of the momentum? Within hours they would be on Oprah. The thought was stunning.

"Barbara, you know we have to get to the airport. You going to take us?"

And with the knifelike precision of a surgeon chopping away flesh, the strokes were made. No, she would not take them. And no, don't even ask about picking them up. Words, sharp and bitter, hung in the air. David grabbed the phone, called a taxi, and with extra vehemence, said;

"I need a cab to Dallas/Ft. Worth. I'm out here in Quinlan on Shady Trail. Look for the rusted old trailer with the torn roof. You can't miss it. I'll be waiting outside."

That valuable newlywed canon, "never let the sun set on your anger," was broken. The sun set, then rose, and the raw bitter feelings hung between them. If there was guilt, it had to do with the fact that right now, at the zenith of the family's career, in the week when David would appear on Oprah, Barbara would choose not to watch. Or, if she did, it would be a brief flick, just to see how her dog was doing.

Because she never went on the trips, she didn't see that Skidboot now had his own first class seat—
first class!
That David had slipped Hollywood shades down on Skidboot's nose, matching the exact pair that he also wore, in fact, the pair that he had dreamed about. And that the two of them cut quite a sight as they sipped cocktails and ate chocolates. Skidboot particularly liked truffles, and with luck and time, David might even get him to bark out something that sounded like
trrr-rrr-ufff-fffle!
Or not.

Now this was living! Skidboot had graduated to the plane's first class, almost personhood status. He couldn't wait to see what was next in store.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

A Star is Born

What would it be like to always live like this, being served little shrimp cakes with curled fronds of green onion sticking out like stalks? David mused, staring out the window.

"Sir, I saw you two last night..." The stewardess smiled at them, handing David an extra set of cocktail nuts. He told her about their next gig, the Oprah Show.

"Oprah!" Thrilled, she told two of the other stewardesses, and he could see them buzzing up front. It was happening so fast that his head couldn't keep up.

Plus, he'd never seen Chicago before. It was hard for him to tell what he liked more, the idea of holing up in a fancy hotel, enjoying amenities, watching TV, soaking in the tub, looking out over the sparkling lights of a huge urban metropolis and realizing, that out there, all those lights belonged to people who would soon be watching him. It was dazzling.

Celebrity spun its own web, attracting people on the street, lending the patina of glamour to the duo from Texas. When people saw the pointy boots, the slouch Stetson, the dog with the kerchief, they stared, or followed, or more often, recognized them. "Skidboot!

Look, it's Skidboot!" followed them as they strolled down Michigan Avenue in the coldest, windiest city in America. Astonishingly, people asked them for autographs and photos. Luckily, David had a full stock of black and white glossies, and each one he gave out came with a short bark from Skidboot.

"He's saying, 'thank you very much,'" David translated, and people would clap and squeal. By the time they finally appeared on Oprah, David felt surrounded by a magical presence, a comforting web of practiced response. Oprah, herself, also made them comfortable. If David were to think about it at length, the phenomenon of Oprah, like that of Skidboot, seemed without precedent. What brought a person, or a dog, out of obscurity into the eyes of the world? Oprah began her broadcasting career at WVOL radio in Nashville while still in high school. At 19, she was the youngest, as well as the first African-American woman news anchor at Nashville's WTVF-TV. Then her career took off; she co-anchored, then turned co-host to a local talk show. A Chicago morning talk show was next, then national syndication, then her own Harpo Studios. Her career continued to explode, shooting her to the number one talk show slot for twenty four consecutive seasons, inspiring and delighting more than 40 million viewers weekly in the United States, as well as being licensed to 150 countries internationally.