Read Online Skidboot 'The Smartest Dog In The World' by Cathy Luchetti - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cathy Luchetti
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dog. He'd seen their routine for the last three days, with David giving orders and the dog, ears perked, hanging on every word. Linguists would argue that sure, a dog could understand up to 100 specific words, command words such as "go," "stop" or a word to identify an item, such as "stick" or "ball." So could a child, only the child would go further and learn concepts, like "love" or "friendly." Eventually, the child would come to make sense of a sentence using a number of identifiable words, whereas a dog would still be stuck on the individual meanings.
"You ought to get that dog on the circuit," they all said.
What circuit? David wondered.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Commando Dog
Barbara didn't compete with David, rodeo-wise. She trusted his ability to win, and he'd been on winning streaks before. In the dour, weather-beaten, tight-fisted gaggle of rodeo riders and their unhappy wives, he took pride in her restraint and whole-hearted support. She wasn't the usual rodeo wife, a disappointed woman with unmet domestic needs, who nagged her spouse, pinched up her eyes in the bright sun and tried not to see him riding, a wife who resented the circuit and who groused about the paltry pay. Instead, Barbara decided to learn some of the rodeo routines herself. Often, she would help David practice. She ducked under his occasional tongue lashing, delivered in volatile, colorful terms by a perfectionist who could swear up a steak and call down fury on any mistake. But the cloud lifted when the work was done, and he resumed his role as a rodeo rider not afraid to talk about feelings, and not afraid to show friendship, support and sensitivity.
One particularly harsh day he felt like a volcano, bubbling inside with ambition, frustration, perfectionism. He'd bellowed like Vesuvius erupting. Everything was wrong, why didn't she fix it, how could she…blah blah. Barbara just stood there, dumbfounded by the volley, waiting for it to subside. David roared out of the driveway, bound for a 3-day circuit, hat pulled low on his brow as the tires spun out. The last glimpse he had of his wife was of her standing unhappy by the barn gate, the wind lifting her long hair.
I shouldn't blow up like that, he thought. Gotta do better.
On his return, he couldn't believe what greeted him. It rose like a vision before him, odd looking, jerry-built and leaning up against the roping area as if blown there by a Northern. Yet it looked sturdy, too, and of a design he admired the minute he saw it. It huddled up against the roping area, a thing he had wanted, needed, never had the time to build for himself, and—he squinted, just to make sure he wasn't hallucinating in the hot sun—someone had built one.
A return alley.
What the…?
It was Barbara who had built it—by hand! An entire wooden return alley, stuck to the side of the corral—he was astonished. She'd made him a peace offering, a showing of love, even after his ugly yelling behavior…he felt ashamed.
While he was gone, she'd lifted, sorted, arranged, hammered and nailed the boards together, although where she found the materials, he didn't know. She probably had to measure everything out carefully, too, then get them sawn at the hardware store, then haul them back. He tried to imagine her hammering, holding the slats together, dropping nails, getting Russell to hold parts while she nailed them together. It just didn't make sense; she had no skill as a carpenter.
But there it stood, his own return alley. Other men might get a pearl snap-front western shirt or a hand-sewn leather wallet, but his wife gave him a return alley! This roundabout device set into their 150-ft. corral would soften his practice considerably; cut time off the calf's return, which would give him more good cutting and turning practice. Astonished, he stared at the contraption, feeling….loved.
"Barbara, you have got backbone !" he complimented, happy to see that she smiled in return. And remembering her toughness then made it
"You ought to get that dog on the circuit," they all said.
What circuit? David wondered.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Commando Dog
Barbara didn't compete with David, rodeo-wise. She trusted his ability to win, and he'd been on winning streaks before. In the dour, weather-beaten, tight-fisted gaggle of rodeo riders and their unhappy wives, he took pride in her restraint and whole-hearted support. She wasn't the usual rodeo wife, a disappointed woman with unmet domestic needs, who nagged her spouse, pinched up her eyes in the bright sun and tried not to see him riding, a wife who resented the circuit and who groused about the paltry pay. Instead, Barbara decided to learn some of the rodeo routines herself. Often, she would help David practice. She ducked under his occasional tongue lashing, delivered in volatile, colorful terms by a perfectionist who could swear up a steak and call down fury on any mistake. But the cloud lifted when the work was done, and he resumed his role as a rodeo rider not afraid to talk about feelings, and not afraid to show friendship, support and sensitivity.
One particularly harsh day he felt like a volcano, bubbling inside with ambition, frustration, perfectionism. He'd bellowed like Vesuvius erupting. Everything was wrong, why didn't she fix it, how could she…blah blah. Barbara just stood there, dumbfounded by the volley, waiting for it to subside. David roared out of the driveway, bound for a 3-day circuit, hat pulled low on his brow as the tires spun out. The last glimpse he had of his wife was of her standing unhappy by the barn gate, the wind lifting her long hair.
I shouldn't blow up like that, he thought. Gotta do better.
On his return, he couldn't believe what greeted him. It rose like a vision before him, odd looking, jerry-built and leaning up against the roping area as if blown there by a Northern. Yet it looked sturdy, too, and of a design he admired the minute he saw it. It huddled up against the roping area, a thing he had wanted, needed, never had the time to build for himself, and—he squinted, just to make sure he wasn't hallucinating in the hot sun—someone had built one.
A return alley.
What the…?
It was Barbara who had built it—by hand! An entire wooden return alley, stuck to the side of the corral—he was astonished. She'd made him a peace offering, a showing of love, even after his ugly yelling behavior…he felt ashamed.
While he was gone, she'd lifted, sorted, arranged, hammered and nailed the boards together, although where she found the materials, he didn't know. She probably had to measure everything out carefully, too, then get them sawn at the hardware store, then haul them back. He tried to imagine her hammering, holding the slats together, dropping nails, getting Russell to hold parts while she nailed them together. It just didn't make sense; she had no skill as a carpenter.
But there it stood, his own return alley. Other men might get a pearl snap-front western shirt or a hand-sewn leather wallet, but his wife gave him a return alley! This roundabout device set into their 150-ft. corral would soften his practice considerably; cut time off the calf's return, which would give him more good cutting and turning practice. Astonished, he stared at the contraption, feeling….loved.
"Barbara, you have got backbone !" he complimented, happy to see that she smiled in return. And remembering her toughness then made it
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