Then with no warning, my blood sugar level dropped suddenly to zero. Now I could barely walk. I was teetering on the verge of a monster sugar crash.
“Bed,” I muttered. Each step was a huge effort as I staggered through the gate and somehow managed to haul myself up the drain pipe to our bedroom.
“Fuck off, Martin,” muttered Andrew sleepily and pushed me off the bed for being so hot and sweaty. I rolled to the floor with a thud and lay staring at the ceiling, panting. I’d survived another midnight snack . . . sort of.
Next morning, I was woken by screaming.
“Mick! Mick! Oh, my God! Vat has happened to ze bread! It’s all hollow inside! Somevone has vandalized the bread.”
Dad trudged up the stairs, belt wrapped around his knuckles. I knew what was coming next. Whack! Whack! Whack! At bedtime he banished me to the coal shed with Major and Rex. As I huddled with my blanket, I couldn’t help crying a bit. Wasn’t fair. Major and Rex sniffed me gently. They could smell how upset I was and stuck their long noses in past my arms to lick my face to soothe me. Eventually they lay down next to me sighing deeply. The shed smelt of stale Guinness, German Shepherds, and coal dust.
Listening to the dogs breathing heavily, I began to relax. This was the usual story. As soon as there were only dogs around me and no humans, I calmed right down. Major and Rex curled into huge warm balls and fell sleep. I snuggled between them, close to their thick, shaggy coats.
If you think having ADHD was bad enough at home, imagine what it was like for me at school. The classroom was a torture chamber for someone like me. My school, St. Patrick’s, demanded kids to sit absolutely still at their desks. Yeah, good luck getting my ADHD to listen to that clever idea.
There was also a running battle to stop me from using my left hand to write. It was supposed to be the hand of the Devil, and, apparently even more sinful, it made your writing look messy. My greatest enemy, however, was the dreaded chalkboard. I loathed it with every atom of my body. Why the hell did no one else have a problem with it?
I’d peek around my desk to watch the other kids working quietly. They had no trouble sitting still. They understood all the words and numbers as soon as they appeared on the chalkboard and copied them down effortlessly. Shit, some kids were even smiling! That really weirded me out.
Things were so different for me. When I looked at the chalkboard, all the letters and numbers galloped off in different directions until I was sure there was evil magic contained in that chalkboard. Why would the thing unlock its secrets for everyone except me?
To make things worse, John and Andrew never had any problems learning at school. No one in our family did except me. Mammy had been at university reading economics when she met my father. She was genuinely bewildered why I couldn’t read or write.
“Why, Marcine? Can’t you try to concentrate more? What am I going to do with you?”
Dad said I was a bold little bastard looking for attention. “Your teachers obviously aren’t hitting you hard enough.”
The teachers had another name for it. “Faul, you’re not bold. You’re stupid.” They had a remedy for it too. Like my father, they believed being lashed across the head with a leather belt helped make you more intelligent. It was simply a matter of whacking the stupidity out. I learned that schools housed some of the nastiest bullies in the world—and I’m not talking about the kids. I mean the teachers. The worst offenders at my school were Mr. Keeley and Mr. Rollins.
“Would Mr. Faul please open his book so he can join the rest of us?” That was Mr. Keeley, the most sadistic of all, on one typical day. “If it’s not too much trouble, Faul?”
The class twisted in their chairs to stare at me. I glared at Mr. Keeley, hating him more and more. He held up a book. “This . . . is . . . a . . . book. It’s for reading.” He opened the book. “You . . . will . . . find . . . it . . . easier . . . if . . . you . . . open . . . it.”
The class tittered nervously. I folded my arms and stared him straight in the eye. He didn’t like that.
“Let me rephrase that,” he sneered. “Would Mr. Stupid please do as I do. Open the book.” He opened the book again. “And at least pretend to read it.”
Self-respect demanded I fight back. He was such a nasty piece of work—a real vicious bully. I kept staring at him.
He gave a theatrical sigh. “Oh, dear. Looks like Mr. Stupid needs a lesson in civilized behavior.” His face dropped suddenly close to mine. “Hold out your hand. Can you do that, Faul, or do I need to draw a diagram?”
The class tittered, this time more nervously. We all knew what was coming. I stared straight back at him, folded my arms tighter, and breathed in nice and steady to ready myself.
The class fell silent.
Keeley glared at me, then turned and walked back to his desk. With each step his shoes squeaked but this time no one giggled. He slid open his desk drawer and pulled out his favorite toy so everyone could see it. It was a twelve-inch leather strap with a slim lead center threaded through the middle. It was a blackjack. God knew where he’d got it from. He slipped the leather handle over his wrist.
He took a few practice swings through the air. Nobody else moved. Okay, here it comes. I straightened my shoulders and breathed out hard. No way was that weak bastard seeing fear in my eyes. I’d rather eat my own arm.
“Hand,” he said, his eyes sparkling with pleasure. My arms stayed folded. “Oh, dear,” he drawled. “Mr. Stupid is being rather quiet. Let’s see if we can get some noise out of him.” Thud! He started hitting me. Thud! Thud! Thwack! Each blow to my arms, back, and shoulders was full of blunt pain.
It was hard not to cry out. I bit my bottom lip so no cries escaped and concentrated on glaring straight back into his eyes so I could show him exactly how much I loathed him.
He blinked and his control began to slip. “Why the hell won’t you make a damned noise?” he yelled. He began hitting me harder and faster until he realized even that wouldn’t break me. When he finally stopped, he was panting hard. As he pushed back a lock of his greasy hair he yelled, “Get out! Straight to the headmaster’s office! Before I really lose my temper!”
I’d won. Shoving back my chair, I held my head high and glanced around as I strolled out between the desks. No kids were laughing now. They were all bent over their books, desperately pretending to read. They knew as soon as I left the room, Keeley was going to take his frustration out on somebody else. Who was his next victim going to be?
Such victories were rare. Most of the time, the teachers just ignored me. I must have been too exhausting to fight all the time. I felt completely isolated, trapped in a bubble while the rest of the class worked together as a team.
It baffled me why John and Andrew were able to get along when I couldn’t. They’d get so annoyed with me. “For God’s sake, just sit down and do your work,” John would snap at me. “You’re getting us into trouble, too.”
The harder I tried to concentrate, the faster all those letters and numbers raced around the blackboard in a bewildering jumble. I couldn’t read or write—and probably never would. The teachers continued to sigh and roll their eyes in irritation. Sarcasm poured out of their mouths like taps no one could turn off.
“Surely you can write your name by now?” drawled Mr. Keeley one day. “Even my most stupid students have managed that baby step. Perhaps we should change your name to Mr. Ex-treme-ly Stupid, because without a doubt, Faul, you’re the most stupid boy I’ve ever met.”
This generated more tittering from the class.
After that, he just called me “Stupid Boy.”
Stupid Boy.
Keeley was right. If I couldn’t even write my own name I must be stupid.
CHAPTER 6
Padraig O’Rourke’s Barn
I DON’T KNOW WHAT WAS WORSE—GETTING DAILY BEATINGS from Mr. Keeley or having to steal my dinner from a trash bin, as I was now forced to do almost a year after I’d run away from home. Sometimes I wondered if “Stupid Boy” h
ad gotten any smarter, but there I was going through the garbage at the Castletroy Estate when a car suddenly turned down the street towards me.
I looked around in panic. There was nowhere to hide except one place: under a parked van. The road was freezing against my soaking wet back. The car passed by, splashing icy water in my eyes.
After the car had gone, I crawled out again and looked down at myself. With all the mud and ice dripping off me, I was a real mess. I glanced back at the garbage can but was too depressed to keep looking through it. I’d rather go hungry tonight and just go back to my dogs.
Or was it time to admit defeat and go home? This was the first time in the last three months I’d even considered the idea. Without warning, homesickness hit me hard, and I had the sudden crazy urge to go home and peer through the window at my family. Are you crazy, Martin? Even the thought of a secret visit set my heart racing and my hands trembling. What if my father grabbed me? He’d lock me in my bedroom, bolt my window, and wield that belt like never before.
Worse, I was terrified of Mammy catching sight of me. I never stopped feeling guilt for the pain I had caused her. How the neighbors must have whispered among themselves after I ran away!
But as I trudged back along the railway towards Padraig’s barn, I couldn’t get the crazy idea out of my head. Just one peek through the front window. My feet carried me across frosty fields until I reached the Garryowen estate and through my family’s front gate.
It was so weird being home again.
The curtains weren’t drawn, so warm light spilled out of the living room window like an invitation. I forced my feet to step closer and raised my head cautiously to peer over the window sill. I caught my breath. It was surreal, like watching the perfect family on a TV show. My heart slammed hard against my ribs as I thought, Look how happy everyone is!
There was my mother sitting in an armchair. All I wanted to do was run inside, climb into her lap and hug her tight. I’d never seen her smiling like that! She was chatting happily to my sister and looked if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
Then it dawned on me. I was the weight that had been lifted from her life.
There were my sisters and brothers lounging around on the carpet watching TV together. Everyone was laughing. Even Andrew and John looked so carefree.
This suddenly made me realize what a curse I had been on them. Once I left, Andrew and John were free to lead happy, normal lives. My whole family was only a mess when I was around.
I looked down at the concrete, desperately trying to keep the tears away. If I’d been normal, if I hadn’t been stupid, I could be there with them. Being as happy as they were.
I helplessly peered back in. I could hardly believe it when I saw my father. Was that really him? He was smiling at the TV, making my eldest sister laugh with a joke. He looked ten years younger and was clearly sober. Now he’d give Cary Grant a good run for his money. No wonder Mammy was smiling.
I shivered. One thing was certain—I couldn’t go back and mess up my family, not when I saw how happy they were without me.
By the time I made it back to Padraig’s barn and climbed to the top of the loft, I felt completely overwhelmed. I lit a candle and saw the dogs were already asleep. They wagged their tails softly but didn’t bother to get up.
I sank down in the hay. “Hi everyone,” I said miserably. I knew I couldn’t afford to get sad. These days I needed every scrap of energy just to survive. I’d better cheer myself up and fast. You’re okay, Martin. The dogs are your family now.
“What I need is a hug,” I said softly under my breath. Although I normally hated hugs, I really needed to know someone loved me on this dreary night. Shyly, I crawled across the hay to Mossy and looked down upon him fondly. “I’m so lucky to have you as a friend, boy.” He was stretched out asleep, so I lay down facing him, trying not to disturb him too much.
I snuggled down next to him and breathed in his warm coat, the way I used to do with Major and Rex. He lifted his head slightly, saw it was me and flopped back down, closing his eyes. It made me feel good how he trusted me. I put my arm gently over his shoulders, and after a slight hesitation, hugged him.
He dived away, nearly snapping my nose off.
“You stupid dog!” I yelled, sitting up. “Why the hell did you do that?”
Mossy looked over his shoulder at me as he padded off, dropped back into the hay, and curled up again.
“You’ve got to be kidding!” I said. All I wanted was a bloody hug. After all he was my dog. It was his job to be hugged and damn well enjoy it. Determined, I crawled towards him on my hands and knees. He sat up and then deliberately turned his head away and held the pose.
Please leave me alone, he was saying loud and clear in dog language. It was like a slap in the face. Now even my own dog was rejecting me.
“Stop bloody telling me to go away!” I yelled, my temper rising fast. I couldn’t remember ever feeling this hurt by a dog. Tonight of all nights when the whole world felt like such a cold and lonely place, my best friend was letting me down. “Why are you acting so weird and horrible towards me?” I asked.
Mossy yawned noisily. Just chill out and relax, he was saying firmly in dog language.
“I won’t bloody calm down!” I snapped. “All I want is a hug from you!”
The other dogs started sitting up sleepily. They took one look at my face and started turning their heads away too until they all looked like statues, their body language all saying the same thing: Please leave us alone.
“Is this some sort of stupid joke?” I thumped the hay with clenched fists. “All I do with you dogs is give, give, give. It’s time you gave me back something. A simple hug. Is that too much to ask?”
I scrambled towards the dogs. They yawned, turned their heads away from me, then darted out of reach.
“I don’t give a shit whether you want to hug me or not,” I snapped, “You’re all hugging me, or you can leave this barn tonight!” By now the dogs were growling and snapping as they dodged out of my outstretched hands. Realizing how crazy I was behaving, I sat down, panting hard. Then a strange thing started happening. The dogs began playing among themselves. Within seconds, their play got rougher, and scuffles broke out with lots of harsh snarling and snapping. Red and Pa’s wrestling game was quickly getting serious. They leapt high at each other, putting their paws around each other’s necks and biting sharply.
It suddenly hit me why these dogs didn’t want to hug me: To dogs, a hug is like a fight-hold.
No wonder Mossy freaked out when I tried to hug him while he was half-asleep. He thought I was trying to play-wrestle him while he was vulnerable. As for the rest of the dogs, they hadn’t run away because they disliked me. They simply didn’t want to wrestle with me when I was in such a strange, intense mood.
“Okay, you can calm down now,” I said. The dogs stopped play-fighting and looked at me warily. “Just a stressful day. I’m alright now. Sorry I freaked you out.”
When they didn’t seem reassured, I yawned slowly and sleepily, gently closing my eyes. The dogs’ taut energy instantly relaxed. They shook themselves.
I tried to get my head around what I’d just discovered. “Don’t be stupid, Martin,” I said out loud. “Everyone knows dogs love being hugged. Dogs have been hugged in every dog movie you’ve ever seen. They love it! What about all those dogs on TV? What about Lassie?” Yet I couldn’t get the idea that dogs think hugging is a sign of aggression rather than affection out of my head. As I had done before, I felt the need to test my theory, so first I got the dogs in a much calmer mood. Fifteen minutes of yawning had them relaxed even to the point that I was able to stroke them all affectionately.
Yep, they trusted me again. First I tried Pa. I slid my arms around him affectionately. “Good boy, fella. What do you think of this?” Pa energetically licked my face. “Yuck!” I released him fast, wiping my mouth in disgust. “Why’d you do that? You know I hate it when you lick my mouth.” I looked
closely at his facial expression. His panting was heavier than normal and his smile was too exaggerated. He seemed to be grimacing, not grinning. I hugged him again. He leaned away from me within the circle of my arms, his head swiveling as far from me as he could. In other words, he was telling me to leave him alone. When I kept hugging him, he dived in to lick me hard on the mouth. I guessed that licking someone on the face was Pa’s way of saying, Hey! Give me some personal space, please. I’d seen him do it to other dogs plenty of times until they left him alone. I stopped hugging him, and instantly he stopped trying to dart in and lick me in that annoying way.
Next, I tried Missy. “Come here, darling,” I said softly. She popped out of my arms like a Jack-in-the-box when I hugged her gently. Each time I tried she bounced out or wriggled free. “Obviously you don’t like hugs either.”
“Hello, fella,” I said as I moved in on Fergus. When I slid my arms around him, he stayed perfectly still—unnaturally still. Then he started panting heavily and grimacing the way Pa had. Very slowly, he turned his head away from me. “Sorry, boy,” I apologized as I let him go. Once free, he shook his whole body. There was that stupid body shake again. Why the hell did the dogs keep doing that? I decided to try a different technique with Fergus. This time I slid an arm around his shoulder so we were sitting side by side like the best of pals. “What do you think, Fergus?” I asked. “Do you like this any better or hate it?” Fergus clearly disliked it and pretended to chew at a flea at the base of his tail. This clever maneuver slipped him straight out from under my arm. I laughed. “Very smooth.” I tried it again, and he made the same maneuver.
Now it was Red’s turn. When I hugged him, he bounced straight up and bumped my chin so hard that I fell back, releasing him instantly. “Ouch! You bugger! You did that deliberately.” On a second try he bumped me so hard, my eyes watered. “Nope. Guess you don’t like being hugged either,” I said, rubbing my throbbing chin. “Geez, did you have to hurt me that much?”
The Boy Who Talked to Dogs Page 8