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

another to parade it around the fairgrounds to the tune of pure ridicule. David understood the Big Win, had spend his adult years riding after it, and in his mind, the Big Win came with skill and athleticism, not by being a clown.
    "What that dog's doing is extraordinary," Barbara insisted. "He has a special talent, why not share it?"
    He has a special talent! David was surprised at the flare of quick jealousy. Now I'm competing with a dog! "All Skidboot does is fetch, what's so special about that?" He felt a flicker of shame. Because he knew the dog was extraordinary, but he also knew that whatever they had together depended on both of them. He would rather shoe wild horses while they were galloping than trot himself into an arena with a dog.
    He hobbled over to his electric Yamaha, seeking solace in music. Fingers strumming, he sounded out the notes of a favorite Beatles tune, Yellow Submarine . Music spoke to him, no it sang to him, almost as much as roping, riding or even swimming.
    The microwave hummed away right next to the piano, and he never turned it on without sitting down at the piano to play a quick tune. Music drew him, usually folk tunes, "sixties standards and an occasional cowboy ditty. He seated himself, tall at the piano bench. Eyes closed, he hummed out a simple version of "Submarine" as the room fell dark around him. Lost in the tune, he failed to understand the activity at his elbow, as Skidboot wriggled up beside him. If dogs can love music, if dogs have the necessary sensor neurons delicate enough for fine hearing, then it explained Skidboot, who resisted the ability to howl and instead, delicately waved his paw, as if conducting. Head cocked, he accompanied the music for several seconds, seeking the rhythm. Then, at the crescendo, "we all live in a yellow submarine," he reached over and tapped the keys, gently. Once. Twice. David stopped. What?
    David played a minor key, challenging Skidboot. Skidboot tapped a minor key, although not the same one. Then David tapped C-major, a white key. Skidboot pondered, then hit D, also a white key. David tapped out "Ba, ba, black sheep" on the white keys, hitting C-C-G-G-A-A-G, throwing Skidboot a smug look. Take that! Skidboot mused, head cocked, and for a horrifying second David thought he was going to transpose the ditty to minor keys, but the paw hovered over the black keys, then came down lightly. Then the paw stopped.
    Aw, he's just counting, Of course dogs can count, all the so-called "talking dogs" were really copycat mutts who imitate human sound by dividing the words into beats. Someone says "how are you?" and the dog hears three syllable and howls back, how-rrr—you! Seldom actual words, the syllables only represent speech, at least enough to pass. But a piano playing dog ? Astonishingly, Skidboot patted out three more notes, incorrect for the song but just the right beat. David shivered, as if he'd glimpsed something from another world.

CHAPTER TWENTY
    Dog Launch
    A week later, David stood at the corner of Terry Street and East Royal Blvd. in the town square of Malakoff, Texas, about 80 miles southeast of Dallas. Storefronts trailed crepe paper, and the jaunty booths hoisted crazy flags and sailed bouquets of balloons. David limped behind the dog, feeling disgruntled. He'd always felt sorry for carnival types, thinking they were unfortunate folks to earn such a living. And now, he was one of them.
    Next, it's the Black Eye Pea Festival, David grouched. Then the Syrup Fair. His main interest today was to avoid bumping into anyone he knew and especially Randy Coyle, who oddly enough, he'd spotted strolling near the pickle booth with a couple of cowboy singers. David ducked behind a cornbread stand, one of many scattered around the square. No one knew why cornbread counted in Malakoff, a town actually renowned for brick making. Malakoff was the production site of light-hued bricks dyed in various shades, an elegant trick in 1904, long before people had