It was intoxicating. “Ah, Mrs. Neal, you sure look very pretty today. Would you like a little extra coal for your shed? I could carry some inside if you like. Save you doing it.”
“Thank you, dear. What a lovely lad you are.”
“See?” laughed Brandon as we drove Neddy to the next house. “You’re not as unlikable as you think you are.”
I realized he was right. I was starting to like the new me.
My dogs liked the new me as well.
They weren’t as pushy as they used to be now that I was happy. My happiness added maybe hundreds of points to my daily point score. They moved about the barn much more calmly. If I was relaxed, they were relaxed.
“Good dogs,” I found myself constantly saying. To make my praise mean even more, I would slowly close my eyes and breathe deeply. This, I had discovered, was dog language for Well done.
This change in their behavior helped me understand why the dogs had thrown so many challenges at me in the past: An unhappy human can’t be trusted to be in charge of the pack. Any time the dogs sensed I was emotionally vulnerable, they knew it was time to take over and grab the leadership. It wasn’t anything personal; it was just their survival instincts kicking into action.
The day someone stole a precious new blanket Brandon had given me was one such moment. Or when I glimpsed Mammy driving by on her way to work. Such things could shatter my peace and within minutes, I’d become an emotional mess.
The dogs would flick me a glance that said, Sorry kid, but you can’t be trusted to be making the right decisions for the rest of us, not in this mood. Then they’d start testing each other and me, and the game would be back on again. There’d be more pushing and shoving, barking and manic behavior. They’d start trying to invade my personal space again.
If I was really angry or moody, they usually went quiet, but their rising tension was impossible to ignore. “Oh, stop tiptoeing around like some creeping Jesus!” I’d snap irritably. “Go lie down and stop bothering me!”
Each dog reacted differently to my stress. Fergus and Red paced around and panted while watching me out of the corner of their eyes. Missy and Blackie slunk away. Pa and Mossy would lay down in corners, facing away from me, their chins on the ground, trying to shut me out in the most neutral way they could.
A loud stressed sigh from the lot of them would bring me back to how tense the dogs were. “I’m sorry, dogs. I mean it. I’m really sorry. Just a bit of a bad day today and I stupidly took it out on you poor things.”
It was easy to tell when I was genuinely calm again; I only had to check how the dogs were behaving. The dogs sensed the moment I could be trusted to be in charge again. They’d yawn or shake any lingering tension off then roll over and go to sleep to neutralize the stress that had been flying around the barn.
I’d look around at them and feel guilty. Poor bastards. Dogs are like sponges, soaking up our human energy. Our bad energy as well as our good energy. It made me realize there were three important gifts we should constantly bring home for our dogs. Happiness. Calmness. Optimism.
Food for their souls, not for just their stomachs.
CHAPTER 13
Dirty War
THE NIGHTMARE I HAD ONE NIGHT WHILE STILL AT HOME felt freakishly real. In it, the two O’Brien brothers were laughing as they hunted me down relentlessly. Their father yelled after me, “If ye care about bloody badgers so much, we’ll treat yer like one, eh?”
Panicking, I ran panting through the trees until I fell into a badger hole. The three men stood grinning down at me. Dirt spilled over the edge into my eyes. “Not so tough now are you, kid, without yer brothers and dogs to protect ye?”
I looked up at them completely terrified.
They grinned. “Here’s a little Garryowen gift for yer, boy. Payback for those rocks yer threw at us.” With a whoop, they sent their two dogs down after me.
Screaming, I tried to escape but heavy badger tongs closed around my neck and held me trapped. I stared up in horror. One of the O’Brien brothers lazily raised his shotgun, aimed straight at my face, and shot me point blank. I sat up screaming with my heart hammering like a wild thing.
“Shut up, Martin,” moaned Andrew.
I woke up and found myself on the floor, tangled in my blanket, panting in fear, clammy with sweat. It was morning and I’d wet the bed again. This was my most shameful secret. I was completely terrified the kids at school would learn of it. John, Andrew, and I had had to share a bed until I started pissing myself. From that point on, we agreed I’d sleep on the floor. This was much better for everyone because then I didn’t feel so guilty. I just had to air out my own blankets every morning and wash them when I could.
I rubbed my face, desperately trying to erase the last bits of my fear too. Most of the time I did my best to forget the enemies I’d made around Garryowen, but while I slept they came looking for me and usually found me. The O’Brien nightmare was my least favorite.
I crawled out of my blankets to get rid of the stink of urine and get ready for school. So began the horrible day my life started unraveling.
I stumbled downstairs to the kitchen. Mammy was at work, and Dad supervising breakfast.
“Did you wet the bed last night?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, staring down at my cereal bowl. The tension in the room was rising fast. My brothers and sisters fell quiet. Major and Rex slunk out.
“Like a girl?”
“No. Not like a girl. Couldn’t help it.” I looked at him warily and hunched into myself, humiliated.
“Don’t worry. I know how to stop you.” Back then it was believed that wetting the bed was simply due to a lack of willpower. There were many suggested cures bandied about by our neighbors, but I was about to discover my dad had come up with his own idea.
He flicked something across the table at me. It bounced off my chest then dropped to my feet. I glanced down. It was a cardboard sign hanging from a necklace of string. “Put it on.”
I looked at it blankly.
“Since you can’t read it,” he said. “I’ll read it for you. ‘I WET MY BED.’”
“I can’t wear that,” I whispered.
“Oh, yes you can.” He waited.
I had no choice. I reached down and hung the sign around my neck. A bit of a sob escaped from my mouth. My brothers and sisters couldn’t look at me and kept eating their breakfasts quietly.
“Come with me,” my dad ordered.
My eyes widened. “What do I have to do?”
Dad smiled. “Since you keep deliberately wetting the bed for attention, let’s go.” He gestured to the door. “Hurry up. If it’s attention you want, then we’d better make sure you get some.”
This was going to be worse than any nightmare. What on earth did he have in mind? I followed him upstairs and watched as he picked up my wet mattress and threw it straight down the staircase. Then I followed him as he dragged it down the hall, out the front door, up the path, and through our gate.
I was numb with fear.
“Here they come,” said my dad in satisfaction. “The first lot of kids on their way to school.”
I tried to shut my ears off and stared hard at the pavement. My face and ears were burning hot. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. I wanted to die but this nightmare was real and I couldn’t get away. I glanced sideways and saw my mattress on the concrete path. It reeked of urine. Please let me die.
The kids’ voices were loud and clear. “Oh my God, that’s one of the Faullie triplets. The weird one! What’s the sign say ’round his neck? Wait ’til everyone at school hears about this!”
I heard my dad say cheerfully, “This is Martin, my son. Yes, as you can see, he wets the bed. Bad as a baby.” He folded his arms. “Maybe now he’ll bother using the toilet at night like everyone else in the family.”
There was laughter and jeers and the sound of lazy spitting. I couldn’t even raise my chin in defiance. Why didn’t I just run away?
I guess I realized there was no escape. Everyone in the entire school would know soon enough. Even if I did run, God only knew what my father would do next. Drag the mattress down to the school gates? Bring it into my classroom? Probably.
I’d never hated him more. After all the kids had walked by, I tore the cardboard sign from my neck that I couldn’t even read and dragged myself up to my room to get changed for school. I was in a dangerous mood.
Of course, the kids at school made life hell for me that day. By lunchtime I was wild when a crowd of boys gathered around me in the schoolyard.
“Anyone got a nappy? Hurry, we need a nappy for Faullie over here.”
“Phew! I can smell pissy wee-wee on the big pissy baby.”
All the kids were laughing and staring at me with sharp, mocking eyes. I tried to switch it off, but the kids kept tormenting until I was getting into fights, left and right. Andrew and John tried to help, but I shoved them off angrily.
Right after lunch I was feeling so volatile that I thought I would explode. I sat at my desk with my arms folded and chin high.
Mr. Keeley smirked at me. Someone must have told him all about it but instead of raising the subject, he decided to prod at another tender spot of mine. He gave us a writing exercise. “I’ll give you ten minutes. Time begins . . . now.”
Of course, my paper remained blank and my arms stayed crossed. I hadn’t even bothered picking up my pen.
He smiled at me. “Time is . . . up.” Keeley walked towards me. “Ah, I see you’ve done sterling work there, Faul. Magnificent. Absolutely nothing. Not one word have you written. Surely you could have managed your name? Let me help you.” He looked around the class happily as everyone but Andrew, John, and I obediently tittered. “Ready? Faul is spelled S . . . T . . . U . . . P . . . I . . . D.”
The class roared with laughter except my brothers and me. John and Andrew sat silently enraged but helpless. I exploded and swung my chair up, hitting Keeley across the head.
He went completely ballistic and shoved me out of the room like a mad man before he killed me.
From that day on, we loathed each other beyond words.
There was more punishment to come when Headmaster Crowe visited our class one day. He said something to Mr. Keeley, and they both laughed and came over to my desk. Their smiles were ugly things.
“Mr. Faul,” Crowe crowed. “I’m afraid you’ve failed to complete the required studies for this grade,” he said, staring down at me. “I’m afraid if you wish to graduate from St. Patrick’s, then you’ll have to re-take classes until you can read and write to an appropriate standard.”
This was new. When had they ever given a damn about my education before? I’d always thought they’d be glad to see the back of me. My brothers looked on helplessly.
“Please pack up your things and come this way. You’ll have to repeat all the grades until you achieve minimum reading and writing skills,” he said with a smirk. “In fact, we have a nice desk waiting for you in the baby class.”
Baby class? That was what we called kindergarten. I’d never heard of anyone having to repeat the whole of primary school before. “You can’t make me,” I croaked.
“Then tell us where you hid the Pope’s money,” said Crowe, leaning closer, hands on my desk. His eyes gleamed straight into mine.
Shit, I’d spent it already. There was nothing left. I knew it wouldn’t matter whether or not I told him where the Pope’s money was. These two men were determined to break me. Once that happened, I knew I was a goner.
“Do you know what I really hate? Bullies,” I said loudly and clearly. “And I swear this—no teacher is going to break me. Ever.”
Crowe’s eyes narrowed. He forced himself to take a long, slow breath. “Very well, then. Come along, Faul. You’ve obviously made your choice.”
Together Crowe and Keeley walked me down the corridor. I tried to act as though I didn’t care but this new humiliation cut deep, as they knew it would. I stubbornly held my chin a bit higher in defiance.
Half way down the corridor, reality hit me. My brothers were going to graduate at the end of the year without me. While they moved on to high school, I’d still be at St. Patrick’s in baby class.
This was my private version of Hell: me stuck in this hated place forever while the teachers gleefully made me repeat all the grades again and again. By God, I’d die of old age before anyone in this place ever managed to teach me to read or write.
I swallowed hard. Whatever happens, I told myself, don’t cry.
The two bastard teachers on either side of me talked happily over my head, but I shut them out. All I saw out of the corner of my eye were their mouths opening and shutting. Keeley was clearly enjoying himself immensely as he opened the door to a classroom and gestured me inside.
Twenty terrified kids were staring at me. They were all tiny with big round eyes nailed to me like I was a huge gorilla who was invading their room.
“Here’s your new chair, Mr. Faul,” Keeley said, pulling out a tiny wooden chair. It looked like it belonged in a doll house. “Please sit.”
I don’t know why, but I obeyed him. I guess it was shock.
“Enjoy yourself,” he said and turned towards the door. “Don’t despair. You may find you understand everything a little better the second time around. Or maybe it’ll sink in the third time around. Not to worry—I’ll be here for years and years to come.”
I ground my teeth together so hard they hurt. He turned his back on me and started talking to Crowe.
The kindergarten teacher was sitting behind his desk. He stood up and walked to the front of the room, clapping his hands bossily. “Right. Now that little show is over, who can tell me what sound these two letters make when you put them together?” He pointed at the chalkboard. “S-H.” He cupped a hand to his ear. “Shhhhh. Good. Can everyone repeat that? Shhhhh. Excellent. Now who can tell me some words that start with Shhhhh?”
I stared down at my knuckles. I was clenching them so tight, they glowed pure white. I felt a sudden wave of fury sweep over me.
“Yes, that’s right. Shell,” said the teacher slowly. “Sheep. Shake. Ship. Shine. Shoe. Shadow . . .”
Suddenly, like I was just waking up, I muttered, “Why the fuck am I sitting here?”
The words dropped into the hushed room like rocks.
The teacher stopped and frowned, unable to believe his ears. “I beg your pardon, Faul?” Keeley and Crowe turned and stared at me, their eyes narrowing fast.
This was it. I had to decide what happened next. Was I going to keep putting up with this abuse? It obviously was never going to stop. Or was I going to escape?
“Fuck this! I’m out of here!” I yelled at the top of my voice. The baby chair fell away with a clatter.
Everyone’s mouth dropped open in shock. Keeley’s eyes were nearly popping out of his head.
I sprang towards the large open classroom window. The classroom was on the ground floor so there wasn’t much of a drop, but I wouldn’t have cared how far I had to jump. I was escaping from fucking school at last! I started running as soon as I hit the ground. Behind me, it was pandemonium.
Crowe, Keeley, and the kindergarten teacher were screaming blue murder. Loudest of all were kids from all the classrooms rushing noisily to watch me run away. They roared in approval.
My mind was spinning. Where could I go? It was probably safest to go home. Major and Rex wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me. I knew Keeley would be frothing at the mouth to give me the thrashing of my life. He’d most likely chase after me in his car. Right now I didn’t care. I was free at last!
When I made it to the house, I discovered that it was locked. I didn’t have a key so I unlatched the gate and let myself into our backyard. Major and Rex rushed to greet me, sensing my distress. I gratefully rubbed their ears. “Hello, boys. Good dogs. Nice fellas.” Then it sunk in. What had I just done?
I sat down on the concrete path, buried my head in my knees, and roc
ked back and forth. The dogs pushed their noses in and started licking my face. I was too upset to shove them away.
What was I going to do now? I had no idea. Oh, God, what’s Mammy going to say? I didn’t even want to think of my dad’s reaction. God only knew what he’d do.
Could those bastard teachers really force me to repeat school until I learned to read and write? One thing was clear. I never wanted to go back to school again. They’d have to put me in a straitjacket and carry me back.
A car pulled up with a screech. I peered over the back fence. It was Keeley and Mr. Rollins, his best friend on the staff. More adrenaline started coursing through me. This time I wasn’t going to take their beatings quietly. Not anymore. I would make my stand. I’d always boasted about how much I wanted to be an ancient Celtic warrior. Well, now it was time to man up and fight back.
“Come on dogs,” I said, as I walked to the coal shed and flung open the door. I ran my trembling fingers down the handle of my hurley stick. No, not that. Suddenly I knew what to use as weapons. That would wake up those two sadistic bastards alright.
I grabbed the choke chains for Major and Rex and slipped them over their noble necks. The three of us began walking towards the side gate. It was time to meet my enemies. “Okay Major? Rex?” They whined softly. My heart pounded in my chest like a drum and courage welled up within me. With these two magnificent warrior dogs at my side I would surely be invincible.
I could see Keeley’s little Fiat parked at the curb. He and Rollins were standing there with weapons in their hands. Keeley, his cosh. Rollins, his leather belt wrapped around his knuckles. These two teachers were so enraged, they didn’t care who might see them threatening to beat up a kid in public.
“Faul, get out here right now!” Keeley shouted across the fence at me. “Because I swear I’m going to flog you so hard for this insolence you’re not going to be able to sit down for a long time!”
The Boy Who Talked to Dogs Page 16