Roddy Doyle - Paddy Clarke, Ha Ha Ha

– Why don’t they wait? said Sinbad.

– Thick, I said, though I didn’t know what he meant.

– Who? Liam said to Sinbad.

– The vet, said Sinbad.

– For what?

– They only fall over when they’re puppies, said Sinbad. -Why do they cut their tails just for that? They’re only puppies for a little while.

– Puppies, I said. -Listen to him. They’re pups, right.

He made sense though. None of us knew why. Liam shrugged.

– They just do.

– It must be good for them. Vets are like doctors.

The McEvoys had a Jack Russell. His name was Benson.

– That’s a thick name for a dog.

Ian McEvoy said it was his but it was really his ma’s. Benson was older than Ian McEvoy.

– They don’t dock the ones with long legs, I said.

Benson hardly had any legs. His belly touched the grass. It was easy to catch him. The only problem was having to wait till Missis McEvoy had gone to the shops.

– She likes him, Ian McEvoy told us. -She prefers him to me.

He was stronger than he looked. I could feel his muscles trying to get away. We only wanted to have a look at his tail. I held his back half. He tried to get his mouth back to my hand.

Kevin kicked him.

– Watch it.

Ian McEvoy was worried; if his ma caught us. So worried, he pushed Kevin away.

Kevin let him get away with it.

All we wanted to do was look at his tail, that was all. It was sticking up in the air. It was the healthiest-looking part of Benson. Dogs were supposed to wag their tails when they were happy but Benson definitely wasn’t happy and his tail was wagging like mad.

My da wouldn’t let us have a dog. He had his reasons, he said. My ma agreed with him.

Kevin held Benson where I’d been holding him and I grabbed his tail to stop it. The tail was a bone, a hairy bone, no fleshiness at all. I closed my fist and the tail wasn’t there. We laughed. Benson yelped, like he was joining in. I fisted just my top two fingers so we could see the top of his tail. I made sure that my free fingers didn’t touch his bum. It was hard for them not to, the way I was holding him, but I made sure that they didn’t rub across his hole.

Ma always sent us to wash our hands before our dinner. Only before our dinner, never before our breakfast or our tea. I sometimes didn’t bother; I just went up the stairs, turned the tap on and off, and came back down.

I pushed the hair out of the way. It was white and bristly. Benson tried to charge away in front of me. He hadn’t a hope. Me touching his tail hair made him panic; we could feel it in him. Now we could see the butt of his tail. It didn’t look like it had been cut – his hair kept springing back – it looked normal, like it was supposed to be that way. There was nothing else to do.

We were disappointed.

– No marks there.

– Press your finger down on it.

We didn’t want to let him go yet. We’d expected more, scars or redness or something; bone.

Ian McEvoy was really worried now. He thought we were going to do something to Benson because his tail hadn’t been worth looking at.

– My ma’s coming; I think she’s coming.

– She’s not.

– Chicken.

We were definitely going to do something now.

– One -

– Two -

– Three!

We got our hands away and, just when Benson thought he was free, we kicked him, me and Kevin; hollow thumps, one boot each, nearly together on each side. Benson staggered when he was getting away. I thought he was going to fall over on his side; a terror screamed through me, up through me. Blood would come out of his mouth, he’d pant, and stop. But he stayed on his legs and straightened and ran to the side of the house, to the front.

– Why can’t we? I asked my da.

– Will you feed it? he said.

– Yeah, I said.

– Will you pay for his food?

– Yeah.

– With what?

– Money.

– What money?

– My money, I said. -My pocket money, I said before he could get anything in.

– Mine as well, said Sinbad.

I’d take Sinbad’s money but it was still going to be my dog. I got sixpence on Sundays and Sinbad got threepence. We were getting more after our next birthdays.

– Okay, said my da.

I could tell: he didn’t mean Okay you can have a dog; he meant Okay I’ll get you some other way.

– They cost nothing, I told him. -You just have to go down to the cats and dogs’ home and pick one and they give him to you.

– The dirt, he said.

– We’ll make him wipe his paws, I said.

– Not that dirt.

– We’ll wash him; I will.

– His number twos, said my da.

He stared. He had us.

– We’ll bring him for walks and he’ll be able -

– Stop, said my da.

He didn’t say it like he was angry; he just said it.

– Listen, he said. -We can’t have a dog -

We.

– and I’ll tell you why not and that’ll be the end of it and you’re not to go pestering your mammy. Catherine’s asthma.

He waited a bit.

– The dog hair, he said. -She couldn’t cope with it.

I hardly knew Catherine; I didn’t really know her. She was my sister but she was only a baby, a bit bigger. I never spoke to her. She was useless; she slept a lot. Her cheeks were huge. She walked around showing us what was in her potty; she thought it was great.

– Look!

She followed me.

– Pat’ick! Look!

She had asthma. I didn’t know what asthma was, only that she had it and it was noisy and it worried my ma. Catherine had been in the hospital twice because of it, never in an ambulance though. I didn’t know why dog hairs had anything to do with her asthma. He was just using it as an excuse for not getting a dog, my da; he just didn’t want one. He was just saying about Catherine’s asthma because he knew that we couldn’t say anything about it. We’d never complain to our ma about Catherine’s asthma.

Sinbad spoke. I jumped.

– We can get a dog with no hair.

My da started laughing. He thought it was a great joke. He messed up our hair – Sinbad started smiling – and that killed it. We’d never get a dog.

Marrowfat peas sat in the gravy and soaked it up into themselves. I ate them one at a time. I loved them. I loved the hard feel of their skin, and the inside soft and messy and watery.

They came in a net in the packet, with a big white tablet as well. They had to be soaked in water, starting on Saturday night. I did it, slid them into the bowl of water. My ma stopped me from putting my tongue on the tablet.

– No, love.

– What’s it for? I asked.

– To keep them fresh, she said. -And to soften them.

Sunday peas.

My da spoke.

– Where was Moses when the lights went out?

I answered.

– Under the bed looking for matches.

– Good man, he said.

I didn’t understand it but it made me laugh.

Sinbad and me knocked on their bedroom door. I did the knocking.

– What?

– Is it morning yet?

– Morning not to get up.

That meant we had to go back to our bedroom.

It was hard to tell in the summer when you woke up and it was bright.

Our territory was getting smaller. The fields were patches among the different houses and bits left over where the roads didn’t meet properly. They’d become dumps for all the waste stuff, bits of wood and brick and solidified bags of cement and milk bottles. They were good for exploring but bad for running in.

I heard the crack, felt it through my foot and I knew there was going to be pain before it came. I had time and control to decide where to fall. I fell onto a clean piece of grass and rolled. My cry of pain was good. The pain was real though, and rising. I’d hit a scaffolding joint hidden in the grass. The pain grew quickly. The whimper surprised me. My foot was wet. My shoe was full of blood. It was like water, creamier. It was warm and cold. My sock was wringing.