Skidboot 'The Smartest Dog In The World' (25 page)

Soon after came OWN, the Oprah Winfrey Network, followed by a magazine and newsletter subscribers.

Oprah's career was simply...exponential. It multiplied on a quantum basis, a human interest zephyr flying out of bounds. Despite her sophistication, grace and spiraling success, at times the wide-eyed girl in pigtails appeared, and in her earnest expression David read something familiar: a desire to entertain, to share the joy, to give happiness.

Skidboot sensed her warmth and fluttered his eyes at her just before plunging into the Beeping Trick. By now he could find a phone if it was in the next county, so darting into fake stage foliage, burrowing around, and pulling out a cordless phone was child's play. If there was any wrong move on the show, it happened when David told Oprah that Skidboot was the most important thing in the world to him. Show business talk, quickly forgotten. The subject changed so fast he had no chance to thank Barbara, to make the usual kudos and caveats to his beloved family members.

But Barbara heard, and her eyes narrowed. Of course, she knew what he meant, but she stood up with a swift motion and turned off the show. Lately, she'd spent a lot of time turning things off.

CHAPTER FIFTY

A Price for Everything

Another phone call, this time from a casting director who wondered if Skidboot could travel to Dallas for an audition.

"A movie?" David asked, still bemused by the idea of stardom. But this one was different because Skidboot might be in it, not the subject of it. And it's Dallas location meant an easy trip, only 27 miles away.

"Sure," David agreed, never one to turn down an adventure. When they arrived at the casting offices, once again he felt the hot breeze of film success, a heady mixture of anticipation, bright lights and glowing reviews. Heady stuff for a cowboy and his dog, and David, when asked if Skidboot would work with someone else, made a quick commitment: "Sure, just tell him what to do."

The director, a thin man in floppy pants, his face darkened like a pirate by a stylish 5'o clock shadow, beckoned the dog.

"Skidboot, get in your place." Amazingly, without any idea of where that was, Skidboot found it and settled there, never casting a look at David for support or instruction. David felt a flash of disappointment,
could his dog switch over so easily?

"Skidboot, copy me." The director walked and Skidboot walked behind him, as if aware that every move he made took him closer to being…a star!

"Skidboot, now let's roll." Again, without any preview of words, intent or behavior, when the director fell to his belly, Skidboot sank down too. "Hmmm," the director cocked an eyebrow, considering. Then he asked David if they could stay a minute while everyone took a second look. Stage hands trooped by, making crooning infantile sounds.
Why do people use baby talk to animals?
David wondered.
They aren't babies.
Light screens and cameras rotated, moved in close, then receded in a buzz and whine of electricity.

Who else was auditioning? There might be Mastiffs, Shar-pei's, French Bulldogs with shovel shaped faces.

"Could you get him to move back 3-feet?" David motioned to Skidboot,
move back 3-feet,
and he jumped back so quickly that clipboards dropped, and a buzz erupted, with Skidboot's name repeated, followed by "look at that!" David wondered about the next segment, when Skidboot had to steal a valise from a salesman, nose it open and fling the papers around.

Perfect. They'd written this role for Skidboot.

Within seconds, Skidboot had translated "valise," remembered the word "steal" and reverted back to his puppyhood, growling, gnawing and raging around in circles as he shook the valise empty, its tornado of papers caught up in the roar of a wind machine. David worried that the huge exhaust might spook Skidboot but saw that it only revved him up.

"He has
so
got this role!" they cried, and the weeks that ensued finally culminated in the Hartwigs—Barbara and David, dressed in tux and satin—at the premier. They'd thought about a dog tux for Skidboot but left him home. This would be date night for the Quinlan couple, a time to bask in the glow.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Declined

The new leather sofa gleamed in the light, buttery and soft. It was a showroom sofa, a CEO's kind of sofa, the sort that pulled you into an opulent embrace and wouldn't let you go. Which, at the moment, was exactly David's intent as he lounged there, straddled in comfort, inhaling the clean, brown leather essence, like a new baseball glove. In front of him was the flashy, new, big screen TV amid the flowers that Barbara had clustered on the table, chrysanthemums in a burst of fall colors. Sometimes, contentment seemed almost palpable. Everything was in place.

He ran a quick review:

Russell. Law school, excellent grades. Check.

Skidboot. Nearly 3-years of entertaining and he just got smarter. Check.

David. More at ease daily and looking forward to making a movie. Check.

Barbara. Well. Hmmm. He couldn't quite check her off, which made him feel sad.

Dinner always pulled them together. Skidboot, now with his own chair and place setting, looked like some kid in a Halloween costume. "Hey, elbows off the table!" David yelled, and Skidboot jumped. Then he slid them—his elbows!—down below the table line. David thought about other dogs, then wondered whether a dog even
had
elbows. Other dogs from Quinlan led
unstructured
lives. One ate a $20 bill. Another stole bacon off the table. A third polished off the fall decorations at the Oktoberfest, dried leaves and all. And here was Skidboot, weaned long ago from misbehaving, a dog who exercised control at all times, banished illogic, craziness, or any behavior that didn't make sense.
Did he ever miss his doggie days of simple, stupid fun?

Oh well. David balanced the phone to his ear while he passed the roast beef, tidily cutting off a juicy strip for Skidboot.

"More gigs," he announced, letting Barbara know how the day had gone.

Barbara nodded,
uh-huh
and then looked away. Skidboot whined, looking from one to the other. What's wrong here? He could frown better than any human, pulling his mottled blue eyebrows down into a grumpy ruckle along his nose, which then made him sneeze. Then his shoulders shook.

He looked back and forth at his people. He could remember the past. He knew that he doted on Barbara, his first person. Remember the fun?

He whined, thinking back to the State Fair. He and David got bored quickly with the same routine, so one day David borrowed a smock and a broom from one of the sweep-up guys, then Barbara rode her horse out into the arena, leading a second horse. Skidboot had trembled with excitement—he had no idea what was about to happen!

One of David's best ideas was to mix things up, surprise Skidboot with a new trick, improvise. The idea was to keep him alert.

Alert?
Skidboot ate alert for breakfast! He was perpetually alert. But David believed that if he changed commands, invented new tricks—like this one—that Skidboot would have to listen, intuit and sharpen up his reasoning skills.

So Barbara flounced her pretty hair and sat straight in the saddle and announced, well, bragged, really, about what her horse could do. On and on she went, the horse reigned tight and semi-prancing, but meanwhile...

David, wearing the custodial white, followed by Skidboot, began sweeping up around the arena. While Barbara went on, David commanded Skidboot, "over there, pick up please," and Skidboot would trot over, pick up a paper cup and throw it in the trash.

After several distracting minutes, Barbara cried out, "Sir! You and your dog are interrupting my program!"

"Oh, so sorry, ma'am." David apologized.

Minutes later in the middle of her spiel, Skidboot retrieved a Sprite can, trotted it over to the trash, stood up on his hind legs and threw it in.

"Sir!" she said again...

"Oh, sorry about that...."

By now, the crowd was laughing, full out. They knew this had turned into a routine, and they loved the snappy way the dog went back and forth with the trash, while Barbara, buzzed as a bee, finally said, "Sir! if you can't clear the arena, at least you can help me ride this extra horse! I need someone to ride the fresh off of him."

Skidboot loved this memory. David had agreed, and told Skidboot to go over and get that horse, and Skidboot
did
go get the horse, delicately taking the reins from Barbara's hands, leading the horse over to David, who jumped astride. The horse duo slowly turned to the right, and Skidboot imitated them. Then the horses turned left, went ten feet, and backed up. Skidboot did the same thing. By now, a musician had struck up, "Don't Fence Me In" while the three of them moved around the arena, trailing laughter and applause.

I loved that!
Skidboot scratched delicately behind one ear, remembering how they all worked together, man, woman, and dog—a real team.

A sigh went out, but whose? All three at the table now had regrets. In fact...

"Brrrrrrr!" The doorbell rang.

The mood broke. David leaped up, opened it to find Art Shipley. Shame flooded over him, remembering the last time when his neighbor had dangled the dead chicken, Skidboot's kill.

"Art? Not again?"

Art laughed easily, pushing his hat back, stepping into the room. He took in the dinner scene and promised he'd scoot and let them finish, only he had this one thing....

"Got me a female heeler in heat, David. I'd like to pay you to have Skidboot sire."

Instant relief. David realized that no, this wasn't a complaint call, in fact, it was a chance to earn a good piece of change. With Skidboot's genes, Art could pump up top prices for his litter. It made good business sense. Only, it would never be.

"Art, the best I can do is run down one of his siblings."

Surprise etched his friend's face. Was David playing coy with his dog?

"I can pay $1,000 and give you the pick of the litter." Art looked confused until David explained what few people knew, that Skidboot had been fixed and would never father pups. Skidboot, true to form, was the only one of his kind.

Art looked embarrassed, glanced quickly over at Skidboot, as if to see how he felt about it. Finding only the usual perky look, he told David that, well, that might be okay for him, but that he, Art, knew a champion when he saw it, and he was going to find the rest of the family, and pronto.

No problem, they agreed. It was a good deal, one to grasp hands and shake on. After Art left, the phone rang again, this time Russell, who had decided to join the army after graduation.

"Really?" Pride spilled over. They smiled, content with the idea but also with the fact that he would have to graduate first, and a lot could happen between graduation from SMU and basic training.

Minutes later, another shrill interruption. This time, Quinlan Elementary wanted to know if he and Skidboot could come entertain the children?

Still swayed by the events of the past months, a medley of easy money and even easier work that seemed to flow his way, he blurted out, "how much?"

The shock on Barbara's face stopped him.

"How much?" She was incredulous.

By now pride had taken over. He'd made the statement, he was in the business of keeping them going, and being in business meant charging for services rendered, even if it was a school.

"That's right. How much. And be sure and let me know."

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Embezzled and Embarrassed

Packed and ready to leave for home, David looked back on the last performance with pride, yet another big city success, one in a long string of them, as he blithely handed his credit card to the front desk clerk. Sometimes he couldn't believe how comfortable he'd gotten with travel and all its amenities, like being a member of a private, airborne club. And this hotel had entranced him, with the nearly walk-in television, handy room service, and the skyline of Manhattan shimmering outside his window. Even the Visa card recently linked to the new Skidboot account, replete of funds taken in for the movie, filled him with a sense of deep satisfaction. The center held, the world felt stable, everything was golden.

"I'm sorry sir, your card was declined."

Declined? "Run it again, please."
They always make mistakes...

The clerk's knowing expression said that he'd heard it all before, and adjusting his wire-frame glasses, he tapped his fingers as they both waited for the distant gods of credit to spit forth a new and better decision.

"Sorry sir, declined again. Do you have another form of payment?"

Declined. What a terrible word. Sick people declined. To be declined was to be deselected, no longer part of operative society. He'd spent months being solvent, now he hardly knew what to do. But worse, where was the money….?

Luckily, his wallet was stuffed with "emergency" funds, the sum total of a three-night stay. How he'd kept that much cash free, he didn't know, but thanked Divine Providence. Meanwhile, he and his Blue Heeler were walking the streets of Manhattan with just enough for cab fare to the airport. Luckily, he had a plane ticket….and a few extra dollars for an emergency. Again, he tried to reach Barbara, but the phone hammered into silence, then clicked onto her voice mail and its patient automated response. Finally, he remembered that he could call the bank and plug into the account menu, so he waited, toes tapping the pavement, as the menu clicked through various options, finally landing him in the auto summation of the account balance—an astounding amount of
negative
forty dollars and thirty four cents.

Negative?

Sucker punched, the breath flew out of him. He leaned against a wall, shivering. Only Jerry Schwartz had access to the account. No one else did, other than David and Barbara.

He called and left Barbara another message, this one pleading, begging her to call back, telling her to check the business account. "Something's wrong!"