Read Online Skidboot 'The Smartest Dog In The World' by Cathy Luchetti - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Cathy Luchetti
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always picked some idiosyncratic way of communicating with his dog, either 'tsk tsk' noises, or 'oooooo' or now, like this one, little smacks. Funny, but with Skidboot, you didn't really have to say anything. Just think it.
They had duck confit and scampi, and Skidboot licked the plate clean. Dessert next, and they both hoped it was ice cream.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Canine Einstein
David woke with a start. Skidboot, a star? Oh, right, in his own horror movie, David laughed. Still, he had a burning curiosity. Any dog that could fetch a hammer and find the phone was pretty special.
What was that…? Hot breath blew on his face, he knew it wasn't anything human. Skidboot stared at him with such intensity that David rolled out of bed, "all right, all right, let me get some coffee."
Russell, en route to school, yelled, "I want to see some new tricks today!" Skidboot wagged his tail so violently David thought the milk would spill. Maybe he'd start with a stick or two.
By noon, the sticks were flying, the dog running back and forth like all the countless eager mutts in Texas. Any dog could fetch, but David was sure this dog understood, well, English. Or at least the doggie version of it.
With the next branch sailing through midair, David commanded, "Whoa!"
Skidboot froze, one paw raised. The stick bounced invitingly. The dog quivered.
"Whoa! Do-NOT-MOVE!" More quivers, eyes glued. "Go get it!"
Skidboot flashed across the yard and in seconds had the stick. A Rhode Island Red strutted across the tarmac behind David's truck, immediately within view of the dog. One of the greatest chicken breeds of all time, its rich brown eggs brightened up many a Sunday omelet. Lately, the hen looked frayed, acted skittish, and her eggs tasted poorly, which probably had to do with the dog. Skidboot quivered around, stirring up dust, crouched to attack.
"No!" David commanded with authority.
Skidboot dropped to a crouch, gripped with terrible indecision, head swiveling from David's location to where the chicken paraded, then back again. He longed to launch a stealth attack, but slowly, his nose dropped to his paws even though his eyes stayed screwed onto the hen, dark with thoughts of death.
I been saying no to that dog for a year, David thought. Why now? What's different?
Every story has a turning point, and every life is a story. Skidboot, long the only human dog he knew, had turned, heading somewhere new and exciting and far beyond the practical. Shreds, rips, toys and tumult came to nothing. In fact, they came to a halt. Once mute with misunderstanding, Skidboot now, finally, understood. He was ready to work, just the way he was meant to.
The household temperature warmed to him, releasing its icy anger at his whoppers of chicken chasing and frantic barking, softening into the surprise of cooperation and the magic of number "Three." In the classics, Virgil, Caesar and Aeneas promote the occult use of three. Churches in the past had glorified the number three with triangular shapes, three organs, three towers, three doors, all dedicated to the Three of the Trinity. Mystical and mysterious, it seemed appropriate. The mystery of this dog was only beginning to show itself.
"When I count to three you touch that tree." Skidboot grew still as a French mime, his paw outstretched, waiting for David to say the number . He heard thirty, ten, four, thirteen, eleven—the numbers rattling through his brain like bids at an auction, but it was only after everyone had tired, and David's two buddies, Cal and Sip, got up to leave, that David gave in and whispered, "three."
In a flash, Skidboot's paw marked the tree.
"Gawd, look at that!"
"Now back up." Spoken lightly. Then, careful as a woman in heels, Skidboot felt the ground behind him, paw searching after paw, his eyes steady on David as he inched along.
"Now stop."
He stopped.
"Now go."
He went.
"Now stop."
He stopped.
Laughter surged. The men clapped, and Russell grinned, proud of the family
They had duck confit and scampi, and Skidboot licked the plate clean. Dessert next, and they both hoped it was ice cream.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Canine Einstein
David woke with a start. Skidboot, a star? Oh, right, in his own horror movie, David laughed. Still, he had a burning curiosity. Any dog that could fetch a hammer and find the phone was pretty special.
What was that…? Hot breath blew on his face, he knew it wasn't anything human. Skidboot stared at him with such intensity that David rolled out of bed, "all right, all right, let me get some coffee."
Russell, en route to school, yelled, "I want to see some new tricks today!" Skidboot wagged his tail so violently David thought the milk would spill. Maybe he'd start with a stick or two.
By noon, the sticks were flying, the dog running back and forth like all the countless eager mutts in Texas. Any dog could fetch, but David was sure this dog understood, well, English. Or at least the doggie version of it.
With the next branch sailing through midair, David commanded, "Whoa!"
Skidboot froze, one paw raised. The stick bounced invitingly. The dog quivered.
"Whoa! Do-NOT-MOVE!" More quivers, eyes glued. "Go get it!"
Skidboot flashed across the yard and in seconds had the stick. A Rhode Island Red strutted across the tarmac behind David's truck, immediately within view of the dog. One of the greatest chicken breeds of all time, its rich brown eggs brightened up many a Sunday omelet. Lately, the hen looked frayed, acted skittish, and her eggs tasted poorly, which probably had to do with the dog. Skidboot quivered around, stirring up dust, crouched to attack.
"No!" David commanded with authority.
Skidboot dropped to a crouch, gripped with terrible indecision, head swiveling from David's location to where the chicken paraded, then back again. He longed to launch a stealth attack, but slowly, his nose dropped to his paws even though his eyes stayed screwed onto the hen, dark with thoughts of death.
I been saying no to that dog for a year, David thought. Why now? What's different?
Every story has a turning point, and every life is a story. Skidboot, long the only human dog he knew, had turned, heading somewhere new and exciting and far beyond the practical. Shreds, rips, toys and tumult came to nothing. In fact, they came to a halt. Once mute with misunderstanding, Skidboot now, finally, understood. He was ready to work, just the way he was meant to.
The household temperature warmed to him, releasing its icy anger at his whoppers of chicken chasing and frantic barking, softening into the surprise of cooperation and the magic of number "Three." In the classics, Virgil, Caesar and Aeneas promote the occult use of three. Churches in the past had glorified the number three with triangular shapes, three organs, three towers, three doors, all dedicated to the Three of the Trinity. Mystical and mysterious, it seemed appropriate. The mystery of this dog was only beginning to show itself.
"When I count to three you touch that tree." Skidboot grew still as a French mime, his paw outstretched, waiting for David to say the number . He heard thirty, ten, four, thirteen, eleven—the numbers rattling through his brain like bids at an auction, but it was only after everyone had tired, and David's two buddies, Cal and Sip, got up to leave, that David gave in and whispered, "three."
In a flash, Skidboot's paw marked the tree.
"Gawd, look at that!"
"Now back up." Spoken lightly. Then, careful as a woman in heels, Skidboot felt the ground behind him, paw searching after paw, his eyes steady on David as he inched along.
"Now stop."
He stopped.
"Now go."
He went.
"Now stop."
He stopped.
Laughter surged. The men clapped, and Russell grinned, proud of the family
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