Skidboot 'The Smartest Dog In The World' Read Online Free Page A

faster than any man alive. People sent their sons from all over the world to Mansfield's roping school on his ranch outside Big Springs, Texas, where Saudi, Scotch, Canadian and Australian teens teetered on the corral fence, stiff in new jeans and new boots to learn to sail a lariat loop through the air, easy as smoke. Maybe if he'd gone to that school instead of Dallas High, some of the speed and dexterity of the master would have rubbed off.
    Regret had drained out of him long ago, leaving a thin film of worn out ambition. He still possessed some memorable events, though, like the time he'd scored 45 straight calves in a row for practice, some kind of record, since the usual practice was, tops, fifteen calves using two to three horses. Hearing his friend yell, "go plumb wild, kid!!" and he did.
    "Bang! The basket upended, spurs clanked on the floor, and the puppy shuddered backwards, trying to free its paw from entanglement in a leather skid boot that smelled richly of horse fetlock. The pup yipped itself wild, huffing and gnawing, cart-wheeling around on the floor. It was odd behavior for something so small, and they watched it with curiosity. Leather frayed as the dog snarled and rocked, slapping the skid boot right, then left, as if killing prey.
    David pulled the boot loose and sailed it across the floor. The puppy shot after it and worried it around. David retrieved the boot and flung it behind the television. Again, the dog shot after the boot, growling low in its chest, a primal sound.
    "Skidboot!" Barbara brightened, "we'll call him Skidboot." David and Russell stared at the moving entanglement at their feet, a leather horse contraption atop four paws and a tail that thumped like a mutant centipede on the shag carpet, beating up dust into the air, pure comedy. They'd seen enough. Somehow it made sense to name this dog after a horse's support device, worn like gladiatorial armor to keep it from being hurt.
    Like an omen, the lights flicked on, followed by the comforting hum of the refrigerator, and the radio's Noel, Noel . Light as air, a sense of serenity fell upon them. Barbara enfolded Russell, David enfolded Barbara, and they clustered, tight as burrs, to watch the antics of the newest member of the Hartwig family. Peace flowed like a river, and the rough edges they'd patched together seemed strong and workable. The puppy snuggled them, inhaling the scent of his new family. Later, they yawned, stretched, and headed for bed, leaving Skidboot in a cardboard box surrounded by treats—baby milk bones, a chocolate Santa, kibble. Special treats for Christmas.
    So peaceful. And so unexpected when hours later, the tree tilted and crashed to the floor. Lights splintered, glass ornaments cracked. David thumped up in the dark, dizzy from sleep, tripping into a scene of such destruction that he thought he was dreaming: the tree rose up like a pine Titanic. A devilish face dangled ribbon from its gargoyle mouth, half hidden under the remains of the sofa cushions. Bleary, nearly staggering, David recoiled from a sensation so disgusting, so visceral, that he'd almost rather have stepped on a snake, at least then he could just blow its head off. Instead, he squished hopelessly into a pile of puppy poop to view the remains of the room. Dung welled up between his toes. He hopped barelegged toward the bathroom and threw himself into the tub, hearing Russell call out and Barbara answer. By then they were all awake, wide-eyed at the sticky tracks, the up-heaved papers, the shredded presents. Over there, the jacket they'd scrimped to buy Russell, the one with the cool zippers, lying in limp blue pieces. On the carpet, the remains of that pretty silk scarf Barbara liked so much. The tree tilted like a dying thing, its lights blinking "help."
    "Skidboot!" They roared in unison, "Noooooo!! Bad dog! ”
    "Noooo, bad dog!" turned into the dog's real name. No, bad dog! harassed the baby calves, running them silly. No, bad dog! redesigned