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

ask me something, ask me anything, let's just do it!
    David and Russell spent the next half hour trying to figure out who had cued Skidboot on dead dog behavior, and the best they could figure was that it had been part of their conversation, using "dead" over and over. But how would Skidboot know what "dead" looked like? Had Russell shown him? Throwing himself to the ground, playing possum? Russell shook his head, "no," maybe David had? David firmly denied it, being on crutches and not inclined to horseplay. Barbara, equally puzzled, recalled Skidboot watching that episode of Hawaii 5-O, the one with the shootout. They scratched heads, speculated, agreed that if it were the shootout scene, then Skidboot would be listening for gunfire, not the words "play dead."
    Like dealing with a person, David thought, and it began to sink in, ever so slowly, that he was looking at a will to succeed about as powerful as his own. This dog was trying so hard to tune into David that he'd spun the dial past dog, clear into some other realm. And just as David poured affection and wisdom and teaching moments into his stepson, Russell, he now had another responsibility wagging itself silly in the corner, one he might be able to satisfy with a milk bone or a toy, but not really. That dog was relentless. Life, David noted, is full of surprises. One of which arrived the next day.
    Barbara, looking through the mail, saw it first. She put down her cup of coffee and failed to pick it back up again. She noted that the clock, stuck on 2:35 pm, needed a battery. Seeing the slight rust blooming up the side of the refrigerator, the unswept area along the shelf that she'd missed, so many things to keep track of, she didn't want Russell within earshot; it made no sense to upset the boy. She brought the foreclosure notice over to David.
You have fallen behind in your mortgage payments. If you do not bring your loan current within 30 days of the date of this letter we will start legal action which may result in the foreclosure of the property.
    Her sigh rustled with resignation. It chilled him; he felt her trying to catch her breath. On instinct, he crumpled the letter, then thought better of it and unwadded it. David and Barbara looked long and hard at each other, factoring their life's events, trying to gauge, out of these new circumstances, how serious.
    "What now, David?"
    "I don't know, but I'll think of something."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
    The Breakthrough
    So far, Skidboot's training had been haphazard, something David pursued part-time and mostly to avoid any repeat of the dead chickens. He wanted to teach Skidboot manners, that was all. But one afternoon he read something that changed this approach, in fact, changed his mind completely about Heeler dogs, his dog, and the relationship of man to beast–forever. The article turned up in Farm Life and described the difference between two types of dogs, headers and heelers.
    Headers were fetching dogs, the ones used to keep livestock milling around in a group. A header shot to the front of the herd to nip and bark at the animals, forcing them to congregate, to turn right, turn left, buck, dart or stop. Headers were whip smart, highly trainable, and could practically run a herd alone. Wolf-like, the header would circle, nip, pounce, prod the cattle, boss of a dusty herd that he kept between himself and the cowboy.
    Heelers, on the other hand, were just as headstrong, in fact, they had no "quit" at all. Once embarked, it was hell to distract them or change their minds. But they operated differently. Instead of coming at the animals from the front and working them toward the cowboy, they worked from the back of the herd, driving them from behind toward the rider.
    Now that's interesting. David idly tossed a milk bone to Skidboot, who streaked across the floor, skidded to a stop and buried his snout in the treat. David watched him, then tossed another bone. Just as Skidboot started after it, David moved in behind