I ran outside and sank down on the nearest step so I could unwrap the paper and lift one big steaming, golden chip to my mouth. Pure perfection!
A dog approached, his eyes glued on the chip. My fingers froze mid-air as my heart sank to the pit of my stomach. “Oh no,” I whispered in disbelief.
The dog plunked itself down right in front of me. It was a grubby, skinny mongrel, God only knew what parentage. Every one of his ribs was sticking out and his eyes stared at my chip with intense longing.
“No way!” I shouted. “Are you kidding? How does every one of you starving strays keep finding me?”
The dog ducked away at my voice but then helplessly returned and glued his melting eyes back on my food.
I had to get rid of him and quick before he started following me everywhere. I did not need another stray joining our gang. I was barely managing the six I had. I got to my feet and started backing away. The dog stared at me piteously. I waited until I was a bit of a distance away then quickly tossed two sausages at him. While the dog raced after them, I hugged my newspaper parcel of fish and chips to my chest and fled for my life back to the horse fair. I sat down on a stone to finish the rest in peace, my eyes swiveling everywhere while I tried cramming the lot down my gullet in record time. I had a sudden terrifying vision of me walking around Garryowen for the rest of my life with hundreds of starving dogs following me wherever I went. How the hell was I going to say no to any more strays?
I came to the last piece of battered fish. It was so beautifully cooked, but suddenly I couldn’t eat any more. I couldn’t get that poor starving dog out of my mind. Heartless bastard, I told myself in disgust. That dog’s exactly like you. Unwanted. Homeless. Looking for a bit of food and affection. Who are you to run away, saying you can’t cope? Better go find the poor thing and make sure he’s okay. Guess there’s room for one more in the pack. I retraced my steps, but the dog was gone. One day, Martin, I told myself, you’re going to want to leave Garryowen, and what’s going to happen to your gang of dogs then? Who the hell’s going to look after them?
Things were heating up at the horse fair. Horses were selling fast. Chance Casey and the other horse brokers were run off their feet, fixing deal after deal. The really grand impressive stallions were now center stage, being ridden up and down a grassy space for all to see.
A horse took off, galloping like a lunatic to the end of the field. Men laughed and jeered and raised bottles of beer as it passed. The owner ran after it panicking. “Give you ten quid for the speedy two-legged donkey!” one wit yelled after him. The crowd laughed and raised their bottles again.
Chance was smoking his pipe, enjoying a well-earned break. Two young men wandered past him and lazily tossed their beer bottles and a crisp packet on the ground. Chance stepped quietly in front of them and lifted his eyes to meet theirs. “Ah, come on, fellas. Bit of respect for the place. This is an ancient burial mound. Our culture. We can’t be tossing junk all over it.”
I’d never heard Chance say so much.
Both men glared at him. One spat, narrowly missing Chance’s boot. “Shut yer mouth, old man.” He stuck his face in close, so they were eye to eye, noses touching. “Or this fist will take great pleasure in shutting it for ya.”
They laughed and then elbowed rudely past.
Chance pulled his cap lower and stared down at the grass. I didn’t want him knowing I’d witnessed his humiliation, so I slipped back in the crowd to see what he’d do next. I was curious to see how an outsider like me would handle these bullies. I have to admit he surprised me when he waited until the men were gone then quietly picked up the litter and gently put it in the trash. After that, he calmly re-lit his pipe and walked off.
Good for you, Chance. I thought.
He hadn’t made a scene. He hadn’t muttered anything bitter under his breath at the two oafs. He’d simply fixed the problem in his calm, quiet way, yet there’d been nothing cowardly about his actions.
It was like watching old Ireland meet new Ireland, and I sure knew which world I respected most.
Horse business done for the day, the crowd began moving over to the Fair Green Tavern. With nothing else to do, I wandered across with them.
It was a good opportunity to make some more money. I went straight up to the nearest man standing outside the door. “Hello, sir. Check on your horse in its trailer?”
The half-drunk farmer raised his pint of Guinness at me. “Good man. That’s my grand fella in the blue horse truck over there.”
I checked on the horse, ran back to give my report, and was flipped a coin. Soon I had enough money to buy myself a Coke and a packet of crisps. As soon as I started tearing open the packet with my teeth, a group of dogs appeared.
“Of course, you bloody lot would find me,” I muttered. I shoved the crisps in my mouth while scanning the condition of the dogs. They all looked fit and well-fed. Must belong to this horse crowd inside the pub. “Sorry, fellas. If you’re not a stray, then I’m not sharing.”
Any dog that came over to annoy me for a pat or chip, I dealt with by turning my head away, closing my eyes, and crossing my arms.
The expressions on the dogs’ faces were hilarious as if they were thinking, Wowee, that human’s actually talking dog at us! Can you believe it?
When I stubbornly held the pose, they went to sniff each other instead. Some sat and discreetly watched me, intrigued.
I grinned. Ha! That shut you up, didn’t it?
It didn’t take long before I noticed a Jack Russell Terrier acting in a very unusual way. He was walking up to dogs much larger than himself. As he got closer, his little chin started straining upwards until his nose was pointing straight at the sky. His little stumpy tail went as high as it could too.
That’s a bit weird, I thought, especially when the bigger dog started backing away, lowering its own nose.
Curious, I nicknamed the little dog “Shorty,” and watched his progress as he went from dog to dog doing the same thing, even to an enormous Irish Wolfhound.
By now, I had gotten a feel for dog language. Any pose held unusually still by a dog meant something important was being said. Sure enough, the higher Shorty’s chin went up, the lower the Irish Wolfhound’s chin went down.
What Shorty was saying to each dog was clear: I’m the boss around here, matey, not you. Show you agree by doing something subservient for me.
To test my idea, I threw a crisp on the ground. Five dogs darted at it, but Shorty got in front and stopped. The rest stopped too. Stiff-legged, he walked past everyone until he was center stage. He raised his little chin straight up at the sky and held the pose for a long moment.
Instantly, all the other dogs lowered their chins, looked away, and backed off. Satisfied, Shorty walked over and daintily picked up the crisp, munching it happily. I grinned. Yep. Little Shorty sure was the undisputed boss of all these dogs, just as he had proclaimed.
Fascinated, I looked around to see if any other dogs were saying the same thing to each other, or was it only Shorty?
“Okay, my friends, what are your chins and tails saying to each other?” I asked quietly. It didn’t take me long to realize how much dog politics was going on around me. It was like every dog in Garryowen was obsessed with same simple question: Who’s the leader of us two, and who’s the follower? Within seconds, each encounter ended with a decision. One dog would raise his chin and tail, clearly stating, I’m boss. The other would lower his chin and tail. “Okay, you can be boss.” If neither dog gave in, there might be a bit of a scrap. Or perhaps a challenging test.
The quiet intensity and concentration of these encounters reminded me of Chance Casey and the farmers bargaining over a horse. Just like Chance, most of the hardest bargaining was done by silent, subtle signals, only instead of hands and fingers, the dogs used their whole bodies to negotiate.
I also noticed how often these strange dogs sniffed each other, and I remembered what Charlie Clarke had told me so many times, “A hoss can smell
whether you’re kind or sly, scared or brave, a leader or a follower. It’s all in yer smell.”
I hadn’t really believed him before, but what if he was right? I already knew dogs smelled vital information about each other, from their health, their sex, to what they’d eaten—all that normal stuff. But what if these dogs were also trying to smell how confident the other dog felt? Could dogs smell emotions?
My eyes found Shorty again. He was sniffing a bulldog mongrel. It was a tense Mexican stand-off with neither dog showing signs of submission. Then the bulldog mongrel did something strange; he gave mixed signals. Low chin, high tail.
I suspected he was only faking submission. Shorty shared my suspicions. Narrowing his eyes like Clint Eastwood, he sniffed right under the tail of the faker. Clearly, something didn’t smell right.
Fast as a snake, Shorty savaged the bulldog so he squealed and bolted, tail tucked right between his legs. The faker had been caught in a bare lie and punished.
Another idea hit me. Maybe that was why dogs tucked their tails up between their legs sometimes. To cover their bottoms so their true feelings couldn’t be smelled by a competitor.
Pleased with himself, Shorty walked confidently around the clearing in front of the other dogs in a triumphant victory lap with his chin high, and his tail held up like a miniature banner. He was sending a clear message to each of the watching dogs: Anyone else want to challenge me? No dog dared. Satisfied, he sat in front of me. Impressed, I threw him another crisp. “No doubt about it, Shorty. You’re game.” He may have been small but he was ready to take on the world. It all came down to attitude.
From inside the pub, voices suddenly rose in anger. A glass banged down hard on a table. The crowd strained on tip-toe to see what was going on.
“You’re blind, man! You were sold a mule. Just take a look at its ears, you fool. It’s a mule you’ve bought yourself, for sure.”
The owner of the disputed horse thumped the table again. “You shut up, Billy. What would you know?”
“Admit it, Pat. Yer were robbed. Yer always robbed if yer buy a hoss without my advice.”
“Yeah? Come outside now and we’ll sort out who’s blind!” Two big men staggered out of the pub. The dogs and I scattered. The crowd followed happily, bringing out their drinks and lighting cigarettes. Some threw in some free advice.
“Mind yer watch his left fist, Pat. Got a devil of a kick in those knuckles of his, so I’ve heard.”
Pat, meanwhile, was being held back by a friend. “Hold me back, Seamus! Hold me back, by God, before I burst his head!”
I shoved more crisps in my mouth and edged closer. Really, these men were no different than the dogs I had been watching. Every one needed to sort out who was dominant.
Without the calming influence of Chance Casey and the other horse brokers, it never took long for disputes to flare up—especially when the drink started to flow. The crowd cheered as a big hay-maker punch was thrown.
“You show him, Pat! Don’t be shy!” someone shouted out, raising his glass.
I felt my stomach churning. The mood of the crowd was turning ugly. “Gotta get out of here,” I muttered, feeling claustrophobic as the negative energy closed in on me.
I thought of little Shorty and how he’d used his subtle signals to keep peace among the dogs as he took control of the group. A thought hit me. These signals that both Shorty and Chance used were a form of polite language. Were dogs more civilized than I thought?
CHAPTER 9
Tige’s Enchantment
I KNEW WELL THE IMPORTANCE OF CIVILIZED WORDS. THE day my brothers first called me stupid, everything changed between the three of us.
Dad had run out of money but desperately wanted a drink. He called the three of us to him and jerked a thumb towards the backyard. “Take the empty bottles from the shed down to the Pike Inn and get Ryan to swap them for Guinness. Should be enough to get me three full bottles.”
It was a chance to impress Dad for once. We bolted for the shed like whippets.
“Don’t piss about,” yelled Dad after us. “Hurry straight there and back. I’ve had a hard day and I’m looking forward to a nice drink.”
We staggered down to Pike Inn with armfuls of empties where Mr. Ryan reluctantly exchanged them for three full Guinness bottles. Geez, he could be a bitter old bugger. “There you go,” he snapped. “Three full bottles.” He eyed me unfavorably. “Mind you don’t drink them yourselves.”
My brothers looked at each other.
“We’ll carry the bottles, Martin,” said John. “You’re sure to drop them.”
Ha! I wasn’t having any of that. “No way!” I snapped. “You two aren’t stealing all the glory.” Before they could stop me, I swept the bottles into my arms and marched off.
They tried wrestling the bottles from me, but I hung on for dear life until they gave up. Shrugging them off, I starting sprinting.
Andrew and John followed anxiously. “For God’s sake, Martin, at least slow down.”
“Geez, relax. Stop acting like a pair of nervous old grannies.” The three of us were practically jogging now. Andrew and John hurried beside me, their eyes glued to the bottles in my arms.
“Dad will be so pleased,” I said under my breath. “Nothing’s going to go wrong. Here I am, Martin, the wonder son, helping out his dad.” The happier I felt, the faster my feet sped up.
“Oh, God,” said Andrew. “Wait, Martin!”
“I’m fine,” I said over my shoulder. “Honestly, I feel great!”
I saw an unusual-looking mongrel up ahead. “Hi ya, little fella.” I turned to get a better look and jogged backwards with the bottles cradled in my arms. The dog was a little beauty. Look at those markings. And those muscled little legs he had and . . .
“No!” screamed John and Andrew in unison.
My heel caught and sent me and the three bottles of Guinness flying. They smashed against the pavement. I hit the concrete and cracked my head loudly. All the air went out of me. Ugh! I opened my eyes to find the sky spinning around.
Andrew and John’s faces glared down at me.
I couldn’t believe what I’d done. I banged my head extra hard against the concrete to punish myself. “Why?” I yelled and banged my head harder. “Why do I always screw things up?”
John was moaning in horror. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. We’re going to die.”
“I didn’t drop them,” muttered Andrew, panicking. “Why’s he going to kill me?” He looked at the mess and kicked me hard in the thigh. “What am I saying? Of course, he’s going to kill me! All because I let you carry his precious fucking bottles of Guinness! Why are you so stupid, Martin?”
“Everyone’s right,” yelled John. “You are incredibly stupid!”
“Stop calling me stupid!” I roared, leaping to my feet. The three of us faced each other, ready to fight.
Of all the things they’d ever said to me, my brothers had never called me stupid before. It was the one sacred thing they never said. Now the ugly word hung in the air between us. Side by side, they glared at me, their arms folded, their faces stony.
I stared back, shocked. It was like they were throwing me out of our gang of three. I suddenly felt queasy. Deep down they must think I really was a moron like everyone said. Their belief in my intelligence had always helped me shut out all the cruel taunts ever since I could remember.
Maybe I was a moron. I ran off and stayed away from home until it started raining. Dad was waiting for me with his belt.
“I was really looking forward to that Guinness,” he growled.
“Sorry,” I said numbly. The belting hurt but I lived. What hurt more was that one word John and Andrew had finally thrown in my face. Stupid. I think that was the day I started to drift apart from them, the day I decided I could survive without them.
That night I slept in the coal shed again. Dad had really wanted those three Guinnesses. As I curled up with Major and Rex, the thought crossed my mind that not only did dogs calm
me down, they never made me feel stupid.
One man in Garryowen who never made me feel stupid was Tige Kelly. To me he was like Merlin from the legends of King Arthur.
He was the old headmaster of St. Patrick’s School, a friend of Mammy’s, and our godfather. He’d been dead a few years but I still couldn’t forget him. While he was alive, the teachers didn’t shout at me so much. He’d been my protector and mentor.
He’d been a striking man. Tall and straight-backed. Hair swept back in sleek, silver waves. Eyes that were kind and piercing. When I was older and heard David Attenborough speaking on TV, I thought, “Wow. He has Tige Kelly’s voice.”
He lived in a big, Edwardian house with his brother and sister, surrounded by beautiful furniture. The chairs were covered in fine silk. On the table there was always a beautiful tray with the tallest, fanciest cake. There were delicate china cups Mammy knew how to use while we three boys had plastic cups full of lemonade.
Even better than those lovely cakes, Tige Kelly’s house was where my brain finally had a chance to feast on fine conversation. My ADHD went to sleep whenever we went there.
I listened as he and Mammy discussed Europe and politics, history, and art.
“How do you know so much, Mammy?” I asked in awe one day. I’d never heard her talk like this at home.
“Books,” she laughed.
Great, no chance of me learning any of it then.
“Even if you can’t read yet, school can be a place where you start a life-long love affair with learning,” Tige said, turning to me with a smile.
“Geez. Good luck with that,” I said darkly.
He smiled and cut me a large slice of cake. “No matter what happens at school, Martin, try to learn something new every day for the rest of your life,” he said. “Only a fool thinks he knows everything.”
I didn’t know anything. “I’ll try,” I promised.
“Have you heard of a boy called Setanta?” Tige asked me on one visit.
The Boy Who Talked to Dogs Page 11