come to expect colorful embellishment. But today, a brick making festival would be even less attended than a cornbread feed.
Malakoff also bore the notorious distinction of being named after a Russian fort from the Crimean War, but more lately, was home to a colorful wall mural painted by a local artist who featured the town citizens staring down from the wall. To some, the painted people looked more lively than the real ones. But bricks and cornbread aside, Malakoff remained a dusty, one-horse town, population less than 3,000. A puny venue.
David grimaced, his knee buckling. He still had the crutch for support and hoped that this dog deal didn't call for any kind of athletics. His imagination still failed to understand how he and Skidboot could be considered entertainment.
A portly man huffed up, his shirt hitched oddly over his pants. Sweat beaded his brow, April in Texas being griddle hot. "Mr. Hartwig," he wondered, eyeing David suspiciously until he saw the dog. "You all right, sir?" He gestured toward the leg, understanding that out here, a man could fall off a log or be born handicapped and it was purely his own business. He stared at David until David finally blurted out, "I fell off a stool playing checkers."
Russell snickered, then looked serious. "That's right, except before that, the horse fell on you at the rodeo, right?" He turned to Robert Reese, the coordinator of the Malakoff festival. "He's real tough.”
Reese nodded seriously. He turned to look at Skidboot.
"This here's the dog?" He bent down and gazed at Skidboot, who gazed back. "What kinda tricks can he do?"
Russell looked down at Skidboot proudly. He loved showing off his dog. He winked at Skidboot.
"Ask him yourself."
The man looked embarrassed and then upset. The boy must be making fun of him.
"No, really. Just tell him to do something."
Skidboot looked up at the circle of faces, which included his favorites, Russell and David. They had those intent looks, and he wondered what it would be today: The telephone? Counting games?
Mr. Reese softened, bent down toward Skidboot and held out his hand. "Howdy, Mr. Boot, and welcome to the Cornbread Show."
That's easy! Skidboot placed his paw delicately in the large hand, and they stood momentarily, two males deep into the kind of handshake agreement that had sealed deals throughout Texas history. And since history was only that very minute just rolled away, and history proceeds without ever stopping, it was clear that this minute marked a new kind of history, the first time in Malakoff that a dog had shaken hands for his own $500 contract.
"Well now, the dog and I agreed on the show today." He stood back, balancing on his Tony Lamas that bit the dust with wedged leather points. An overdressed man for the occasion, everyone thought.
"This dog seems to have a high level of cognitive reasoning.!"
David was quick. "No sir, he's been to the vet and had all his shots. He don't have anything like that."
They laughed, easy and companionable, everyone getting more comfortable with the idea of performance. David had swallowed his discontent and gritty sense of embarrassment, deciding just to go with events and see what happened. It was a sunny day, clear as glass, a day without horseflies, some might say. Why not take advantage of it?
"We'll have a booth set up for you, probably over there under the trees." Reese gestured at a line of drooping oaks that spattered shade on the fuming ground. The dark line looked inviting. Maybe people would stroll over there just to avoid the sun.
"Now, this place fills up fast. They come for cornbread and lemonade but they stay for the fun. And when I see a crowd out there enjoyin' your dog, then I'll know that Skidboot here is a real show dog."
Reese reached down again toward Skidboot, who stared at him. What now?
Russell whispered, "shake hands, Skidboot!"
Skidboot reached his paw delicately up toward Mr. Reese, who failed to understand the gesture at first.