“No. Does he live on the Garryowen estate?”
“No, but he did live a long time ago,” he said, “in the legends of ancient Ireland.” He paused to let me settle in. “Setanta was no ordinary boy,” he continued. “He was destined to be the most famous warrior in all Ireland. Even as a young boy he earned himself a great warrior name—Cuchulainn—pronounced Coo-cull-in.” He smiled. “This is the strange way he earned his famous name.” I felt myself slipping effortlessly under Tige’s enchantment.
“Once,” he said, “long ago, there was an Irish boy called Setanta. As soon as he was old enough, he went to live with King Conchobor. This was the King of Ulster and a very wealthy man. One day the king decided to visit his special blacksmith named Culann and share a big feast with him. He invited the boy Setanta to come with him.
‘I’ll come along later,’ said Setanta. ‘I want to practice with my hurling stick a bit longer.’
The king arrived at the blacksmith’s, but forgot Setanta was following behind him.
‘Is anyone coming after you?’ asked the blacksmith.
‘No,’ said the king.
‘Then I’ll shut my gates and release my great hound to guard us,’ said the blacksmith. ‘But beware! My savage hound is so ferocious that three chains are needed to hold him. In fact, he’s so strong, it takes three strong men hanging on to each chain to hold him back.’
‘Hmmm, that is impressive,’ said the king.
‘Living in such a wild place, I need him to guard my home and cattle from my enemies,’ the blacksmith explained. He gestured at his men. ‘Shut the gates, but beware. If anyone’s unlucky to be left outside, they’ll surely be ripped to shreds by my dog.’ So the gates were shut and the great savage hound was released.
Not long after, the boy Setanta arrived at the blacksmith’s home. He was having fun casually tapping his ball up in the air with his hurley stick as he walked along, seeing how long he could keep it airborne. The huge hound saw him and ran straight for the boy to rip him apart. But Setanta was brave and a quick thinker. He didn’t panic. Instead, he tossed aside his hurley stick and ball so he could tackle the hound with his bare hands. He grabbed its throat with one hand, its back with the other and raised it up high and smashed it hard against the nearest log pillar. He threw it so hard, the dog’s limbs fell from their sockets. The dog was dead before it hit the ground.
Hearing all the commotion, the gates were quickly unbarred and everyone rushed outside to see what had happened.
Culann, the blacksmith, stared at his dead dog lying in the dirt in horror. ‘What have you done, boy?’ he said. ‘My household will be like a desert with the loss of such a wonderful hound! He was so loyal he guarded my life, my honor, my home and my cattle. He was a valued servant and now you’ve taken him from me.’
Setanta thought for a moment. ‘Don’t worry. I know how to fix this. I’ll rear a pup from the same pack for you. While it grows, I’ll be your hound and do its job. I’ll guard your home and cattle for you. When it’s big enough I’ll leave, and your new dog can continue to guard you well.’
It was a wise idea.
The king’s druid turned to Setanta and said importantly for all to hear, ‘Know this as a great moment. From now on, this boy Setanta shall be known as Cuchulainn. It means the Hound of Culann and one day, boy, you’ll be the most famous warrior in all Ireland.’”
I sat back, fascinated. Finally, a kid who impressed me.
“The druid was right,” said Tige Kelly. “For Cuchulainn is still Ireland’s most legendary hero today.”
I looked at Tige and felt a surge of excitement. “Geez. I’m just like Cuchulainn, aren’t I? I’m brave and good at hurling. I bet I could have protected myself against that blacksmith’s guard dog too.”
He smiled. “Yes, if you lived thousands of years ago, I believe you would have become a great warrior in ancient Ireland just like Cuchulainn.”
It was like a door had been thrown open for me. There was finally a place I might have belonged where I wouldn’t have felt like a useless, unwanted freak. Pity I couldn’t travel back in time.
Tige was passionate about saving Ireland’s ancient culture. He was adamant I should never forget the importance of passing on the old Irish legends to future generations. “Each story from our Irish past,” he said, “is a gift you must pass on to others.” His mesmerizing eyes drew me in. “On your last day on earth will you be proud of how much you helped pass on your culture to others? Or will you realize too late you played a part in losing Ireland’s old precious stories forever?”
After a visit with Tige, I’d be so enthralled by all the old Irish legends, I’d start imagining myself as a great Celtic warrior heading out on a raid to steal cattle. Here I was riding my horse past standing stones through herds of valuable cattle. Galloping past grave mounds of great kings. Finding my way through vast oak forests that spread from coast to coast. Seeing legendary Irish kings and warriors in their battle chariots. Hearing their rousing speeches before leading their fierce armies into famous battles.
I was running through a great, mythical land where magic, honor, courage, and action ruled supreme.
Suddenly, I tripped and crashed to earth, my imagination coming to a screeching halt. All I could see was Garryowen Estate spreading in all directions.
Boring, boring Garryowen.
Instead of a wild, proud Ireland, all I could see was suburbia. Tidy roads lined with little boxes of identical houses. Far too many brick walls, pavement, and gutters dividing everything into little concrete territories. Everywhere there were ordinary people doing ordinary things.
My ears caught bits of conversations as I walked past houses as fast as I could.
“Jim! Come in now and fix the washing machine! I still can’t get the nuisance of a thing to work.”
“Hi, Maureen. Do us a favor? Mind the little ones while I dash up to the shops and get some fags.”
I sped up, trying to escape. Down that street was the bloody hateful St. Patrick’s School, the place that tried its best to crush every spark of spirit out of me. Worse, right across the road from our house was that dour statue of St. Patrick. “You can buzz off too,” I yelled, and meant it. I hated the guy. His name was stamped over Garryowen so much it sometimes felt like we were stuck living deep inside the St. Patrick Empire.
I went to St. Patrick’s School, played for the St. Patrick’s hurling team, lived across the road from St. Patrick’s Well, which was an ancient pagan sacred well that now belonged to him. Nearby was an ancient stone sticking out of the grass that had been named “St. Patrick’s Donkey” after the poor animal supposedly died there and was transformed into a rock. You couldn’t escape the guy.
It was funny being surrounded by his empire when he had been an escaped slave himself. He’d dragged Christianity to my country, and used it to bring the whole proud Celtic warrior culture crashing down. As far as I could see, he’d made our proud nation of Irish people feel guilt, shame, and helplessness like never before.
I stared at all that dreary suburbia threatening to suffocate me. My frustration was boiling until it felt like the top of my head was about to burst open like Cuchulainn’s when he went into a legendary war-spasm. Why the hell was I stuck living in Garryowen now? I should have been born two thousand years ago! It was crazy. Back in ancient times, no one would have despised my hyperactivity. Not at all. In fact, they would have admired it. Nor would anyone have cared about my not being able to read or write. Actually, I reckoned, the ancient Celts would have loved me.
And why not? As a triplet, I would have been considered magical. The number three was seen to possess great magic by the superstitious Celts, and back then triplets were rare. In the Gaelic Games Association we’d been told we were the first triplet boys in recorded history to play hurling.
I knew the Celts might have been cruel sometimes, but I still preferred their fierce, passionate culture to the watered down, boring Christian Ireland I saw around
me. The Celts had celebrated Irish people who stood proud, having honor, courage, a witty tongue, and intelligence. Everything I admired.
My feet started running again, taking me out into the fields and countryside. At least out here I could pretend I was living in ancient times.
“Martin, someone cursed you to be born in the wrong year,” I panted under my breath. It was a punishment so awful I wouldn’t have wished it on my worst enemy.
CHAPTER 10
Supreme Boss of All the Dogs
I HAD FELT DEEPLY TROUBLED AFTER MY DAY AT THE Garryowen Horse Fair.
I couldn’t stop thinking of Shorty, the Jack Russell terrier. He’d been the supreme boss of all the dogs at the pub. Did that mean there was a supreme boss of our gang too?
There was no way I wanted the seven of us bickering endlessly over who was in charge. I’d run away from home to escape that kind of hell.
“Of course we’re okay. We’re the Dirty Dog Gang,” I said aloud like a mantra. We were all equals, the very best of friends, weren’t we?
The dogs were waiting for me in the loft in Padraig’s barn when I returned from stealing my breakfast, and erupted out of the hay to greet me.
“Whoa!” I said, stepping backwards.
They threw themselves all over me, jumping up to lick me. No wonder I never felt lonely. How could I when they always smothered me with such affection?
“What have you lazy dogs been up to, huh?” I reached down to pat them and pull stalks of hay from their fur. “Have a nice nap?”
They kept leaping up on me, even rougher than before.
“Relax, you idiots, or you’ll hurt me.”
Mossy jumped so high, he managed to drag his tongue right across my mouth. “Ugh! Do you mind?” Disgusted, I rubbed his saliva off my lips. Red scratched my leg with his claws. Pa barged against me so hard, I almost lost my footing. Missy was yapping her head off, chasing her tail in circles. Fergus was bouncing around like a wiry Ping-Pong ball.
Yeah, everyone was acting normally.
Exhausted, I flopped back in the hay, letting the dogs swarm all over me. That’s when I saw something that made me freeze. You’re kidding! I pushed Mossy and Fergus off.
It was Missy. She was trying to jump up and lick Red on the face in the same manic way she’d leapt up on me, only he hated it. He tilted his chin up as high as it could go and growled, showing his gums.
I knew that raised chin signal. It was the same signal Shorty had used so much. It was the one that said, I’m the boss of us two.
Missy ignored it and kept leaping up to lick his face rudely. He growled in warning, more threatening than before. When she still didn’t stop, he attacked her until she squealed and rolled over to expose her belly.
My stomach dipped. It was just as I feared. The dogs weren’t greeting me with affection! All that jumping and licking and clawing was their way of competing with each other to see who could dominate me the most. The bastards! I could see their game now.
Whoever dominates stupid Martin the most gets to be boss of the gang.
My mind was whirling as everything fell into place. I’d assumed the dogs were swarming over me because they liked me so much. Instead, they’d seen me as the weakest member of our gang. Every day they’d been proving how submissive I was by invading my body—my personal space—any way they could.
I was so angry that I looked around for something to throw at them, but nothing was in reach except stupid clumps of hay, which I snatched up in handfuls and threw as hard as I could.
They just stood there, grinning at me, hay tumbling harmlessly off their faces and backs. “I can’t believe you’ve all been treating me like such an idiot! The real dumbo of our gang!” I yelled.
Pa scratched a flea, obviously bored.
“None of you act like that towards each other—only me! That’s how pathetic you think I am! How dare you treat me with so little respect after everything I’ve done for you!” I had never felt so betrayed. I rubbed away tears angrily. “I trusted you dogs!” I shouted, thumping the hay. “More than anyone else—even my own brothers. All along you’ve been secretly throwing my friendship back in my face!”
I went to get up, but the dogs rushed at me again, nearly knocking me off my feet. All of them were shoving and pushing each other aside, trying to stand on my stomach as they frantically blocked my way. Trapped, I slapped them away from licking my face.
Their claws really hurt. Their tongues were disgusting! They were clearly dominating me. It was just like when Andrew and John held me down to tickle me to prove they were stronger and that I was just the runt triplet.
“Get lost!” I hollered as I shoved the dogs off me. By now I was trembling with rage. “So much for being part of a gang among fucking friends! Hope you feel ashamed of yourselves!”
They didn’t look the slightest bit sorry. Most of them started scratching lazily or sniffing each other. They didn’t even bother moving. Pa scratched under his chin, glancing at me in a bored way. Yeah, yeah, kid, have another silly temper tantrum. Who cares?
I had to get away from them. As I started for the ladder I realized Mossy was following me. I whipped around and pointed a furious finger straight at him. “As for you! I always thought you were my best friend! Instead you were dominating me the most! What a snake in the grass you turned out to be!”
I needed to get away from these traitors. I ran straight out into the rain not caring if Padraig saw me. So much for having dogs as friends. Now I hated them, too.
Of course, I came back that afternoon. I had nowhere else to go and I was drenched and shivering. I had never felt lonelier in my life, but, even so, I wanted to see the dogs again. Maybe I’d been wrong about them.
The moment I climbed up the ladder, the dogs ran straight at me like a furry tidal wave. “Bugger off!” I thundered at them.
They fell back in surprise.
“I know all your little tricks now,” I snapped.
Mossy, however, wasn’t giving up easily. He leapt up and managed to lick me across the mouth. The next time he tried it, I kneed him in the chest and he fell back in the hay. All the dogs were watching me warily now.
“So, my friends,” I said sarcastically. “Here’s how it’s going to be from now on. If there has to be a boss of this gang, then that boss is going to be me.”
Mossy made another run at me but I kneed him again and raised my chin very high in the air as I had seen Shorty do. My body language conveyed, I’m the boss now, and I mean it. I crossed my arms for emphasis. And I mean it! I might have been the runt of my brothers, the least important member of my family, and the dunce of my school, but there was no way I was letting six stray street dogs put one over on me.
One by one the dogs lowered their noses and took their seats around me. A few lay down looking very submissive and apologetic.
I started breathing easier. “Don’t blame me. I wanted us all to be friends. You dogs are the ones who’ve turned our gang upside down like this.” I wasn’t happy, of course, but the alternative was to move out and live on my own. Ha! I knew that wasn’t going to happen. Without the dogs, I’d die of boredom and loneliness within a week. “I’m no loser,” I said, “so everyone better stop treating me like one.”
I spent an hour making sure they understood I was the new leader of our gang. How? I kept calling them to me and kneeing anyone who jumped up. I stood on my tip-toes until they stopped swarming over me in manic excitement and finally treated me with polite respect instead.
I flopped back in the hay, exhausted, and growled so they wouldn’t come and jump on me. They kept staring at me uncertainly, upon which I turned my head away and yawned. Go away and relax. It’s all sorted out now. I’m in charge.
The dogs shook themselves in relief and wandered off, sat down and started licking themselves. I felt the tension leave the room instantly. That little lesson in manners had been exhausting but worth it. “I’m never letting you lot swarm all over me ever again,” I sa
id firmly. “So be warned.”
It was hard not to take their behavior personally, but I couldn’t help thinking that maybe I was being too harsh with them. Then I remembered how they always tried to dominate everyone with their manic energy and affection—not just me. How many hours had I watched them endlessly try to one up each other as well as other dogs or any cats or horses they came across?
They couldn’t help themselves. I understood that now. All that manic behavior wasn’t personal. It was just them being dogs.
I called a truce before bedtime. “Dogs, I forgive you, but be warned. You won’t be dominating me in that old way ever again.” To be honest, I was secretly nervous. If I was their leader, was everything going to change? Would this mean the end of our gang? Over the next few months, I studied the dogs carefully and was shocked to learn they tried to dominate each other almost all the time.
I scratched my head. “Jesus! How the hell didn’t I notice what was going on before? You dogs just don’t ever stop competing against each other, do you?” I found most of their dominating was done by means of a secret, playful game. At first I had no idea how to play it, or what the rules were, but after a while, I came to know it very well and played it myself.
This secret game changed how I talked to dogs forever.
These months were a very exciting time of discovery for me. The weather was terribly wet and usually this would have driven me demented with boredom. This time, it was different. The hay barn became our private classroom, and the dogs my teachers.
I learned that the dogs woke up every morning and started testing each other right away to see who the boss of the gang should be that day. They were also trying to work out everyone’s pecking order.
The dogs did this by tossing little challenges at each other. For example, Red might step on Missy’s toes, so Red was the winner. Or Pa might grab an old bone from Fergus and walk around the loft, showing it off like a victory trophy. Fergus might race to the top of the hay stack and beat all the other dogs, so he won the race challenge.
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