The Boy Who Talked to Dogs: A Memoir

PROLOGUE

SOMETHING WAS COVERING MY FACE MAKING IT DIFFICULT for me to breathe.

I jerked up, clawing at my head like a wild thing. But instead of an angry farmer trying to smother me in my sleep as I had just dreamt, it was just a big clump of stupid hay that must’ve fallen across my face while I slept.

My name’s Martin. At that moment, I was a thirteen-year-old Irish street kid who had been secretly sleeping in hay barns to escape the rain and cold for several months.

But at least I wasn’t alone. Six dogs had adopted me when I first ran away from home, and they were now following me everywhere. We’d become a gang of strays and the best of friends.

Dogs? Where’re you all hiding? My eyes glanced at the mounds of hay around me. They must still be asleep, I thought. They always tunneled down deep when it was this cold to make a nest for themselves. Icicles hung from the tin ceiling above.

The pearly grey light told me it was dawn, so I snuggled back down and pulled a thick layer of hay over myself to keep warm. My breath hung like mist in the air above my face. God, I was hungry.

I rubbed my mouth on my sleeve and caught a whiff of myself. Phew! After five months of living rough, I was definitely turning feral. No wonder farmers kept chasing me off with shot guns and blackthorn sticks. Who’d want something as wild as me hanging around their farm?

I wasn’t much to look at. Skinny as a whippet. Grubby. Ears that stuck out like door knobs. Long nose on a long face. Bold, green eyes that didn’t miss much. An insolent mouth that usually got me belted.

What instantly set me apart from other kids around Garryowen—besides the pack of dogs glued to my heels—was my shaggy tangle of mousy, brown hair. It looked a bit like a wild hedge, which wasn’t surprising, given the fact that it hadn’t been touched by soap, a brush, or scissors for months.

As for clothes, I was wearing a black duffel coat I’d borrowed from a backyard clothesline, the same dirty jeans I’d run away in, and a scruffy yellow woolen sweater I’d scrounged from a plastic bag at the local dump. Even more precious was a pair of boots liberated from a Garryowen doorstep. I’d only kicked them off last night because they pinched like a bitch.

I started reaching for them but froze when I heard a creak nearby.

Fuck!

It was Sean Moss, the psycho farmer who owned the barn. He was stepping off the ladder on to the loft. His big, hobnailed boots were sinking down into hay, and his huge, knuckled hands were swinging his weapon—a heavy blackthorn stick—around in lazy circles through the air, the razor-sharp spikes making it whistle horribly. His eyes were nailed to mine.

You again, he growled. Warned you, boy, what would happen if you came sniveling back round here.

There was no point trying to explain that the heavy rain had trapped us there that night. That I’d been so cold and wet, I’d risked sneaking in after midnight. There wasn’t a person alive who could negotiate with Sean Moss when it came to protecting his precious territory.

Suddenly he charged at me, swinging his stick high. Thwack! Fortunately, he missed. Where’re those bloody mongrel dogs of yours? he roared. Know they’re in here somewhere!

The hay around me erupted as my dogs suddenly burst out. They rushed to stand in front of me in a line and their barking became frenzied.

Sean glared at us. Good! Got you all trapped. He raised his stick and took a step closer. The dogs’ barks were as loud as gunshots inside the barn.

Crouching in the hay, I stared at my dogs in shock. I’d known them for months, but had never seen them like this. Teeth bared, hackles straight up, they stood side by side facing Sean like the most loyal of body guards. If Sean wanted to hurt me, he’d have to get through them first.

They were magnificent. First in the lineup was Blackie, a massive beast of a Newfoundland, crouched ready to attack, with huge, snapping teeth. Beside him was Mossy, a liver-spotted Springer Spaniel. Next came Red, a tall red and white patched Foxhound, Pa, a plump, black Labrador, and Missy, a silky Skye Terrier. Finally, there was Fergus, a long-nosed wiry terrier. They were my closest friends in the world, and they were protecting me with their lives.

Sean Moss gripped his blackthorn stick tighter, loosened his shoulders, and waited. He knew we had to get past him to reach the ladder. You freak of a kid! he yelled above the barking. Think you’re so clever? Well, none of you are escaping my stick this time!

Without warning, he swung fast and lunged.

Blackie tried to grab him by the leg but he was too slow. Sean clocked his massive skull with the heavy blackthorn stick, and the big dog tumbled backwards over the edge of the loft. I heard him hit the concrete barn floor below.

My heart skipped a beat. The mad psycho’s just killed my dog. The stick whistled past my ear as I scrambled out of the way, just in time. He was going to kill me, too. I had to get all of us out of there, and fast.

Sean swung his stick at my head. I dived out of the way again. Each miss was making him angrier.

The dogs worked as a team, trying to get him to move him away from the ladder, but he was determined to keep us trapped.

I’m sick of you and your bloody dogs treating this place like it’s your own personal hotel! he yelled, swinging at the dogs as they encircled his legs. This time I’m killing the lot of you!

There was only one way to escape. Straight over the side of the loft.

"Follow me! Now!" I yelled at the dogs and threw myself straight towards the edge, sliding beneath Sean’s swinging stick and down a very steep hay stack. The dogs came tumbling after me, an avalanche of legs and fur.

Blackie was waiting at the bottom on wobbly legs, looking up at us hazily. Not dead, thank God. We crashed on top of him, scrambled to our feet, and bolted for the open barn door. Keep going! I yelled. Behind us, Sean was crashing his way down the ladder. At least he didn’t have his shotgun. The dogs raced at my side across the farmyard. The ground was frozen solid beneath my bare feet, so icy it burned. Fuck, I’d left my boots behind! Once I’d jumped the low stonewall of the farmyard, I glanced over my shoulder to see the dogs sprinting to the gate to squeeze underneath. Together, we ran across the frozen field, the dogs fanning out on either side of me at a gallop. My feet were now completely numb. The dogs raced ahead, barking in relief.

I’ll shoot the lot of you next time I catch you trespassing! You hear me? Sean shouted after us.

Yeah, yeah. You can’t hurt us now, you stupid psycho. Sean Moss was only scary when he had us trapped inside a barn with a big spiked blackthorn stick in his hands. Outside in the open he just looked pathetic.

I raised a hand and waved it lazily in the air as I kept running. Morning, Sean.

Y’know what, freak? Your old man was right about you! You’re nothing but fucking trouble! You’re so broken, even your own father doesn’t want you around!

If Dad and I had a private war going on, it certainly wasn’t any of this bastard’s business. Pride skidded me to a stop and spun me around to face him. Insolence was a real old friend of mine, and I knew just how to shut him up. His weak spot was the same as any bully. All I had to do was make fun of him. Cupping a hand to my ear, I yelled, What’s that, Sean Moss? What are you jabbering about now, you old scrooge?

You heard me, he bellowed back sullenly. Your father won’t shut up about how useless you are. Wishes to hell you’d never been born, that he’d never clapped eyes on you.

I’d heard Dad say things like that so often, the words pretty much rolled off my back. Yeah? I yelled back. Know what’s even funnier? What everyone in Garryowen says about you. That you’re the most miserable cheapskate in all of Ireland. There isn’t an Irishman alive who wants to wear that insult. Sean’s eyes bulged with rage. Sean, is it true what they say? I laughed. That you count every piece of hay before you close your eyes at night? Wow, that’s pretty stingy, huh?

His face went bright red. You shut your mouth, boy!

The little devil of mischief poked at me again. I plucked a stalk of hay that was caught in my jeans and held it above my head, waving it in the air. Oh no! Look at this Sean! I called out, pretending to sound worried. It’s a precious piece of hay I’ve stolen from your stupid barn. Just think, now you won’t get a chance to count it tonight.

His eyes were almost popping out of his head.

I was actually getting to him—and over a silly piece of hay. I wiggled the straw in front of my mouth and said, Watch and weep, Sean. You’ll never get it back now! Then I shoved it in my mouth. I ate that stupid, wiry piece of hay like it was the finest gourmet meal.

His eyes were bulging so much, I thought his head would explode. What an idiot. Why didn’t he just walk away and ignore me? I kept chewing happily, my eyes never leaving his. Finally, I rubbed my stomach as though deeply contented. Mmmm. Thanks for all your wonderful hospitality, you bitter, old scrooge.

You come back here, he blustered, and my shotgun’ll blow that insolent mouth right off your face!

Bye, Sean! I laughed, my self-respect restored, and jumped the gate into the next field. Okay, dogs, where are you? You can come out now. My whistle pierced through the dawn.

They burst through a gap in the hedge, paws flying, bits of ice spraying up behind them. They bumped around my legs, panting and grinning, relieved I was safe.

I reached down, brushed flecks of ice off their fur, and rubbed their ears affectionately. They looked up, tails wagging, tongues lolling, cheerful as ever. There was such trust in their eyes it was scary. No one could have a better gang of friends. Guess we’ve just survived another night together, huh? I grinned back and then started running. Come on. I’m starving!

CHAPTER 1

Two Dogs and Ten Humans

IRISH FAMILIES COULD GET VERY BIG IN THE 1970S, AND OURS was no exception. There were a lot of us in the Faul family—two dogs and ten humans, in fact. Back then, I went by the name of Martin Faul.

There was Sigrid, our mammy, Mick, our dad, Major and Rex, our two German Shepherds, and eight of us kids. We lived in a small semi-detached house on the Garryowen estate. Not in the pretty old village part, mind you, but in the new housing development nailed to the countryside next door. If you’re ever looking for it, Garryowen lies just outside Limerick in the southwest of Ireland. To me it was the center of the universe.

We were such a big family, it was sometimes difficult squeezing all of us into our small house, especially on bad-weather days. Whenever it rained our poor house shrank a few sizes like a woolen sweater put accidentally through the washing machine. It also got much noisier.

Of us eight kids, four were girls and four were boys. And just to confuse things, three of us boys were identical triplets—John, Andrew, and me.

This might sound like a lot of kids, but the McManuses down the road had sixteen, and so did the Maloneys and the McNamaras. Some families even had more.

Major and Rex, our German Shepherds, were just as much part of the family as us kids. They were huge and shaggy, with massive bushy tails. Their enormous ears flicked around missing nothing, while their paws were nearly as big as bread plates. They looked more like wild wolves than pet dogs and it became their job to babysit us. Major and Rex went everywhere with us triplets during the day except to school. Even when we took them for a walk, we couldn’t take them off their leashes once we left our yard. It was one of Dad’s strictest rules.

They’re not bloody toys, he said. So keep them on their leashes. The first one of you to let them run free will get his backside flogged raw. He grabbed me by the hair to check which triplet I was, looking for the telltale white patch on the back of my head. He pointed a grim finger between my eyes. "Especially you."

Even though the dogs had been with us for years, the day they first arrived remained unforgettable. Dad had cycled his old, black bike home from work. He was a driving instructor in the army and worked at the nearby Sarsfield Barracks. Every now and then, he’d come home with a sack slung from his shoulder, full of left-over bread from the army mess kitchen. Usually he’d put the sack on the table for Mammy to unpack, but this time he lowered it gently to the floor, and then jerked his head at it. Go on. Take a look.

John, Andrew, and I shoved our siblings out of the way to be first to the sack. But then the sack wriggled and we fell backwards. What’s that? John yelped.

Dad leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. Go on. Open the sack and get them out.

Mammy handed him a mug of tea and eyed the sack suspiciously. Mick, she said in her thick German accent. Vat is in that sack? It better be those loaves of bread you promised me.

We crept nearer, gingerly opened the sack, and peered in. Out staggered two fluffy German Shepherd puppies. They padded nervously across our kitchen floor, sniffing and gazing at us with big eyes. Their enormous ears kept flopping over and their huge paws kept tripping them up.

We stared in awe. Aaaah! Puppies!

Mammy forgot all about the bread. She dropped to her knees to run a gentle hand over their fluffy black backs.

We kids shoved each other, trying desperately to wriggle in closer.

Don’t squash the buggers, growled Dad. And don’t bloody pick them up either, he threatened. I’ll thrash the hands off the first little bastard who does. All their feet are to stay on the floor. He glared at us. And if there’s any fights over them, I’ll tap them both on the head. That was his way of saying he’d kill them with a hammer. We knew he was joking—sort of. He raised his mug of tea to Mammy, who was grinning from ear to ear like a little girl. There you go, Siggy, he told her. They’ll grow up nice and big to keep you safe. They’re from the army kennels. Their names are Major and Rex.

Mammy’s smile widened. "Thank you, Mick. They’re vonderful." She bustled off happily to find something to feed them. And that was how Major and Rex became part of our family.

Just like the dogs, we kids knew who ran the house—Mammy. To us, she was a princess. Her golden blonde hair was always beautifully styled; she had strong, perfect features, and was six feet tall. Her eyes were steady and blue. She walked through our cramped house like Nordic royalty.

She’d been born into a well-off German banking family from Frankfurt but her life changed forever when she became an exchange student at the London School of Economics. That was where she met my father while he was stationed with the UN army in London. The moment they met, they fell head over heels in love.

She was very strong-willed and wanted to marry Mick, this big, wild Irishman, and that was that. Their marriage was a strange international pact, a bit like Germany marrying Ireland, and both nations moving into a public housing unit in Garryowen. Fireworks followed—and plenty of tears as well.

Sometimes I caught Mammy looking out the kitchen window at nothing in particular. Was she thinking of Germany and Frankfurt? Was she imagining the wealthy life she’d walked away from? She’d glance over her shoulder at me when I came into the room, the dogs padding by my side, and look a little wistful. My family had German Shepherds too, she’d say, fondling their ears. Major and Rex remind me of home.

Dad was even taller than Mammy. Bigger too, not just in body, but in spirit. Whenever he entered a room, he filled it right up to the brim with his presence—and that was when he was sober. But when he was drunk and entered a room, you made damned sure you got out fast. Back then, it was considered a very manly thing in Ireland to drink a lot, and my father was considered exceptionally masculine.

Sober, he was one of the most charming men on the planet. However, when he was in the wrong mood he could win Olympic medals for drinking. Another one for Ireland, he’d say, raising a glass full of whisky to his lips. He’d drain it to the last drop like milk.

Sometimes when he was drunk he was very funny to watch—from a safe distance. After spending most of his money down at the local pub, he’d zigzag his way homewards. This was quite a feat if you knew how many glasses of Guinness, whiskey, port, and brandy he’d had. Once he reached our doorstep, he’d pause to catch his breath. Swaying slowly, he’d concentrate on inserting his key in the front door. We could hear him from all over the house.

Bloody hell, what’s wrong with this lunatic key? we’d hear him say loudly in frustration. The moment the key slid home, guilt usually hit him hard. How much money had he poured down his throat during the evening? How many rounds had he bought everyone? Was any of his paycheck left?

These questions were followed by the same amazing revelation at least three nights a week. He’d stand swaying at the door and raise his hands like Moses. What this family needs is a bloody, bollocksy budget! His voice would ring throughout the neighborhood like a prophet’s. I know how to save bloody money! This family’s going to start learning how to turn all the bloody lights off! He’d sway some more before shouting, Do you hear me, family?

Finally pushing the door open, he’d stagger inside and weave clumsily around the house in search of light switches. Major and Rex followed at a distance, watching him warily, upset by all his loud noise and manic energy. But Dad was oblivious to them.

He’d lean forward and flip off each switch like he was God switching off the world. If someone was in the room, he’d point at the culprit with a wavering finger. What do you think this is? he roared. Shannon fucking Airport? There’s enough lights turned on to land a bloody plane on the roof. Turn that light off before you bankrupt me!

By then me and my