Skidboot 'The Smartest Dog In The World' by Cathy Luchetti Page A

had never seen this dog confused before.
    Kids complained, adults muttered. Gradually, the crowd drifted away, and David pulled his hat was so far down low on his head, trying not to watch. His hat was so far down he didn't see the man approach him, stand still, blocking the sun, until finally his shadow announced him. And when David looked up, the man coughed gently, then said, "Howdy there, aren't you David Hartwig?" And when David nodded, he recollected that time that David had won the calf-roping championship, described in such glowing terms that David cheered up.
    "So, you laid up a while?" David nodded. Yes, obviously.
    Gus nodded sympathetically. He was scouting talent acts for the State Fair rodeo talent contest, offering a thousand dollars to the winner. David looked surprised, pointed to his leg, said he wouldn't be riding any time soon.
    Gus looked surprised, then pointed to Skidboot. "I'm thinking about the dog, actually. We're always on the lookout for animal talent." Then, as an afterthought, he said kindly, "Of course, that's until you get back in the saddle."
    He handed David his card, tipped his hat and walked away.
    "A thousand dollars!" Russell was practically dancing, one boot to the other.
    David mused about the easiness of this so called thousand dollars. He considered how long he'd have to shoe horses to earn a thousand dollars, doing hard work he never regretted, work that strained his muscles and taxed his patience and had to be completed before earning a penny. He had to eye the horse first, see if it walked level. Any misalignment meant he had to trim to even it up. He'd take off the dead sole, trim the wall back, shape the shoe right up to the white line of the foot. That's where the nails go, right into the white line. Then he'd clip off the nails that protruded out. David never regretted farrier work, which was an honest, hard enterprise. The good news was that a horse's feet grow a half-inch every thirty days, which meant that most saddle horses needed their shoes reset every three to six weeks. A man's work. Unlike this carnival business of telling a dog to fetch and winning money from it.
    David sighed. Worse things could happen, he guessed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
    Play Dead, now !
    Barbara was up early, bringing coffee to David, curious about the day's events. She'd come home too late to hear the story.
    "How'd it go?"
    Both looked at her, David with a long face, Russell excited. "Mom, someone offered Skidboot a thousand dollars just for doing tricks!"
    "Is that so?" She eyed David, thinking that this was good news. Why the long face?
    Then he told her about the humiliation, the crowd that had gathered, the $500 not given because the dog didn't know how to play dead . She slowly stirred her coffee, adding just a dab of milk, watching the dark liquid swirl around. She needed to point something out to him, something peculiar.
    "Like that?" She gestured to the floor just as Skidboot teetered over, stiff legged, and fell to the ground.
    "What the…?" David's first thought was poison that some neighbor had had enough of his chicken killing, peacock chasing and calf rustling to take revenge. His next thought was, the dog did it!
    Skidboot lay rigid on the ground, paws clawed outward in a final rigor, eyes staring straight ahead. Barbara giggled, Russell laughed, and David, flustered, yelled at Skidboot to get up.
    The dog contracted all its stiff, dead parts and sprang to his feet, quivering and alert.
    "Play dead!" David instructed, wondering if he was crazy or the dog was.
    Skidboot fell like a stack of firewood, feet straight out, eyes glazed. He made no effort to break his fall, just landed with a "thud" on the trailer floor, obviously doornail dead.
    "Skidboot, get up!" Again, like a released arrow, he shot to his feet and pointed his nose to the sky, one ear cocked, with that same unfathomable, bright gaze that looked slightly deranged, but was, David had come to see, a kind of pleading, as in