"I loved him way before he paid the rent," says Bill Watters.
Watters is standing in the yard outside his apartment near Turf Paradise, while the payer of rent examines a green plastic garbage sack, perhaps with an eye to a snack.
What Air Major does to be famous is slightly more than what Zsa Zsa Gabor does, but not as much as Dwight Gooden. He is more like Bo Jackson, actually, because what Air Major does is catch Frisbees and run with them.
At this moment, in the United States of America, tossing Frisbees to a dog is not only an organized sport, but a sport at which it is possible to make money. Air Major has sponsors. Although he is too small to wear articles of clothing emblazoned with the names of checkwriting companies, Bill Watters is not. And so when Bill Watters makes public appearances, he looks somewhat like tennis players at the U.S. Open, or racecars at the Daytona 500. He wears a tee shirt with the name of a dog food manufacturer. And a pair of shorts with the name of a clothing chain.
Air Major is the sixth-ranked Frisbee dog in the United States right now, a placement that hardly seems important enough to have propelled him into the national spotlight. Somewhere, probably lying on the living-room rug licking himself, is the number one Frisbee dog, who has yet to receive late-night air time. Air Major is on Letterman because Air Major is the property of a young man who knows how to hustle.
Watters is not the kind of dog owner who bores friends with stories about his singular animal. Most of his stories, in fact, tend to be about himself. Nor is Watters the sort of owner who burdens his dog with pats and caresses. He can ignore Air Major quite remarkably well.
No, the bond between Air Major and Watters is not exactly a sentimental one. Air Major might very well feel the kind of undying devotion depicted in Sir Edwin Landseer's dog paintings, those syrupy nineteenth-century English canvases of animals mooning disconsolately upon the coffins of their departed masters. But Watters appears to see the link between man and beast as another kind entirely, one also summed up in the nineteenth century, by the economist Thomas Carlyle with the term "cash nexus."
Air Major is not exactly a cash cow, mostly because he is too small, but Watters certainly sees him as a business partner. Nay, more. Watters sees his dog as the star he will create, and on whose coattails he will ride to his deserved glory.
"Air Major has the potential to be a national cultural icon," Watters says. The potential icon, meanwhile, rushes over to watch a woman get out of her car, possibly to see if her exit might afford an opportunity for barking.
Watters has two walls of his apartment covered with pictures of Air Major winning Frisbee events, as well as Frisbees from those events. In the living-room closet are 500 or so Frisbees, for practice.
Apart from the 500 Frisbees, Watters' place looks like the apartment of any 31-year-old man who spent a few years in the Navy, went to college after that, moved to Phoenix to work for his brother-in-law's tee-shirt company and who now lives alone with his dog. It is not so much decorated as stocked. There's a big color TV with a well-used channel flipper and shelves of stereo equipment. There's a couch made to be flopped on and a coffee table that invites feet. In permanent encampment in the middle of the living room are rolls of Astroturf, for Air Major's public appearances at places not equipped with grass.
Watters acquired his dog as a puppy four years ago. At first he was simply "Major." "Air" was added after the college paper for which Watters was a photographer dispatched him to cover the U.S. Open Flying Disc Championships at La Mirada, California, and Watters discovered the talent that led David Letterman to label the creature "Flying Dog." It may be possible that Frisbee championships take place elsewhere in the United States, but such events seem uniquely suited to Southern California, which has given birth to active subcultures centered on all sorts of utterly useless activities, like cruising up and down the street in cars, or standing up on waves on pieces of wood.
It didn't take Air Major long to learn the rudiments of Frisbee-catching. He quickly mastered short tosses and moved on without much trouble to long passes. Then Watters trained him to grab quick flips while gliding airborne over nine schoolchildren prone on the ground, like Evel Knievel jumping over cars on his motorcycle in the parking lot of Caesars Palace.
Watters honed Air Major's talents in the finer points of fielding, and the dog came up with a couple of twists of his own. Not for Air Major the Willie-Mays-style over-the-shoulder catch. When Watters throws one of his fifty-yarders, Air Major likes to run ahead of the Frisbee, and let it come to him.
But the big trick Watters taught him, the one that got him on David Letterman, involved the dog's jumping on a stooping Watters' back, charging northward toward his shoulders and flinging himself into the air, for a maximum altitude of fifteen feet. And catching a Frisbee while he was doing it.
Air Major could catch a Frisbee, no doubt about it, although just at the moment he is barking at the painters who are working outside Watters' apartment.
"They told me, `This dog has the potential to do something,'" Watters says, sounding much like Secretariat's owner recalling his trainer's fateful comment during the horse's two-year-old season.
Air Major entered two national competitions, and finished fourth and sixth. Then fate intervened, in the shape of ESPN, which specializes in covering obscure events in its relentless need to fill air time. The cable network featured Frisbee dogs one day and Letterman's people saw Air Major there. He was the cutest of all the contestants.
Watters moves inside, to show off his autographed picture of David Letterman ("To Bill and Air Major, Great Job, David Letterman"). Air Major is standing nearby in one of those dog trances, during which the animals appear to be communicating with the beyond.
Needless to say, Watters has a complete video library of Air Major's public appearances. Some footage includes other dogs and other owners doing much the same kinds of things Air Major does, and Watters views these with a running commentary of "That dog is lame," or "That guy is a jerk." When Air Major comes on the screen, however, Watters points out how enthusiastic the soporific crowd has just become, upon the entrance of the little brown dog with the wiggly tail.
"The most important thing," Watters says, "is my dog's desire. That's what sets the professionals apart from the nonprofessionals."
On-screen, especially when Watters switches to slow-mo, the dog looks like he is made out of rubber. Once he has got a Frisbee in his mouth, Air Major's hindquarters tend to swivel around in the air, as his jaws remain locked on their prey. And when he is airborne, sailing toward his goal, his trunk seems to lengthen out by six inches or so, as if there were a half-dozen extra vertebrae accordioned in his spinal column for just such moments as these.
Watters rolls the tape of his second appearance on Letterman during the eighth anniversary show in January. He got to meet some famous people there, like Tom Selleck and Tom Hanks. He judges them on how nice they were to his dog. Selleck passed with flying colors ("Great dog!"), while Hanks wouldn't even look at him. This miffed Watters, who, given Air Major's corporate sponsors and the fliers advertising the availability of the Air Major Show, expected something a little closer to camaraderie, or even simple professional courtesy.
"I feel obligated," Watters says. "I don't turn people away. I sign autographs."
But worst of all was Letterman, who looked at Watters like he'd never seen him before.
"I myself figured Dave could have said, `Hi, Bill, welcome back to the show,'" Watters says. "He didn't even say my name."
Although his days now are spent making cold calls on firms who might like to order tee shirts, Watters does not plan to pursue that line of work for the rest of his life. "I want to do music videos. I want to direct my own screenplays. I want to be the first person to write an MTV movie," he says.
"I see this as my destiny and my fate," he says. "Air Major will open the door." He watches the Letterman tape, still bitter at the snub. Air Major, instrument of fate, at this moment is engaged in a fruitless attempt to crane his head into a position that will allow him to peer through the crack between the front door and the door jamb. The effort, apparently, is to get a glimpse at the painters for a more direct bark.
Air Major is not exactly a cash cow, mostly because he is too small, but Watters certainly sees him as a business partner. Nay, more.
