Read When Mr. Dog Bites Online
Authors: Brian Conaghan
Whhhhhhoooooosssssshhhhhh!
The past participle of the verb “
to eat”
is “
eaten
.”
Some verbs are awesome, which is a word used by excited, daft Americans. I discovered that you could use verbs that made you sound like you were speaking Chinese when you said them dead fast, like “
sing
,” “
sang
,” “
sung
.” Awesome.
1
9
77 Blair Road
ML5 1QE
October 29
Dear Dad,
What’s up, dogg? That’s what some rappers say when they bump into each other in the street or at an awards ceremony. It means “How are you doing, friend?” Sometimes they say “Word up?” or just “Word.” But my favorite is “What’s up, dogg?” although I do quite like “Word up, dogg?” as well. But if you say any of these in a Scottish accent, people will think you have just come out of the loony bin, or you are soon to be carted off to the nearest loony bin. LOL.This means Laugh Out Loud. Get it? It’s an acronym. Mrs. Seed taught us that the other week in English class. You can say lots of cool stuff in acronym speak. For example, LMAO means Laughing My Arse Off, and ADIDAS means All Dames In Denmark Are Sexy. You can make your own up if you want. It’s dead easy.
School is crazy these days. Caa-razy with a crazy capital
C
. We were stuffed at soccer by Shawhead, and you know how rubbish they are, right? Then I got into a fight. Well, not a fight exactly—more like a scuffle with this big guy from our school. But only because he was going to batter Amir, and Amir is my best bud, and I remember you always advised that I should lamp anyone who was threatening me. Give them the old knuckle sandwich, you said. This guy wasn’t threatening me directly, but he was going to take a penalty into Amir’s head. So he was kind of threatening me, because if any fella says something evil to Amir, even though he is the worst goalie on earth, they may as well be saying something evil to me too, and that’s why I jumped on this big guy’s back and held on to him like a man possessed by a rabid dingo dog. Then all hell broke loose, and the next thing I knew I had my face against the wall waiting for Mr. McGrain to come and give me a good old-fashioned talking-to. They said I tried to bite him on the back of the head, which is a load of old crap. But I’ve promised to be good from now on in.
I did a really bonkers thing, though . . . I bet you’re wondering what it is. I asked this lassie to go to the Halloween disco with me. Like, on a date. It was terrible, because I was shaking like the guy who sells
The Big Issue
outside the supermarket when I asked her. I only did it because it was on my list of things to do before I . . . But I haven’t told you about my list yet. I thought with you being over there stuck in a war zone it would be bad enough without me ranting about my own problems. Anyway the girl said NO, which sort of puts a damper on school at the moment. It’s a chief pain because she’s really nice-looking too. Maybe I’m just not her type.
Not much else has been happening except that Mom has taken to putting food in her eyes, which is the weirdest thing she’s done since making us a mixture of beans, tuna, and sweet-corn mush for our dinner. Remember that?
DIS-
Gusting!
So
DIS-
Gusting
that you threw yours against the wall.
That was a LOL moment if ever there was one.
Also, some mad person has been phoning the house and refusing to talk. Whenever I pick it up they say nada on the other end. I think it’s a man because of the breathing, but I can’t be too sure. We had a talk in school about the dangers of online gangs of perverts grooming boys and girls for illegal activities, so I’m thinking he could be part of that gang. Everything’s A-okay, though; you don’t need to worry—I haven’t been on the net talking to gangs of perverts or meeting strangers in parks or outside subway stations. I have my head screwed on.
Oh, I almost forgot. I saw something totally out of left field.
(
That’s a baseball analogy.) Mom was out doing the shopping and was too lazy to walk home (I said that the exercise was as good as anything she’d get in boot camp, though) so she flagged a taxi. And the next thing you know, abracadabra, the taxi driver’s in our kitchen guzzling down a hot cup of tea. But don’t fret. I told him off for parking in your space. His car wasn’t as good as yours either. His was not silver with spoilers and gleaming chrome alloys that could go zero to sixty in no time. Zoom!
I loved that car. It’s a pity we’re not allowed to keep things like that when you’re away at the war. I’ve never understood that. It’s one of those bonkers questions that keep me awake at night . . . along with many others. I hope they let you have it back when you return. Any idea when that will be? I think we should take the beast for a spin up to Loch Lomond when you get home. Fingers crossed it’s before March. It has to be! We can go after all the parties and fanfare people will throw for you. I suspect you’ll want to get some well-earned shut-eye before such a long drive also.
Anyway I’d better go and let you get some Little Bo Peep. You must be cream-crackered after dismantling bombs and shooting terrorists all day long. I know I would be. I’d love to hear all about your maneuvers and secret missions, but I know the score. Mad people could intercept your letters and come after Mom and me. That would be a total nightmare situation for us all. I have an idea—you can tell all the stories to me on our drive to Loch Lomond.
Before I go I just want to let you know that I have been listening to some of your old rap CDs, though Mom doesn’t like me listening to them so much. My faves are N.W.A. and the Beastie Boys. They kick ass, dogg!!!
Speak soon, señor.
(
That can be Spanish and Portuguese [I think]
and
it’s alliteration.)
Dylan Mint xxx
As always I put Dad’s name on the envelope, along with his rank (Sgt., which is an abbreviation of Sergeant, which is one of the top jobs in the ground force), and then gave it to Mom so she could send it off to the special military forces post office, who would then give it to the special military forces postman, who would then give it to Dad, who would then read it, smile, and have a massive lump in his throat when he folded it away and put it back in its envelope. I liked to follow the journey of the letters. Post was mind-boggling.
Cool Things to Do Before I Cack It:
Number three
:
Get Dad back from the war before . . . you-know-what . . . happens
was soooooooo mind-boggling that my head was all waltzer wacky when I’d finished my letter.
2
0
At school everyone was yapping on about the Halloween disco so much that their chat was giving me major sore napper:
“What are you going as next week?”
“Don’t know. What are you going as?”
“I haven’t decided yet. What are you going as?”
“Not got a clue. What about you?”
“Well, I don’t know, but I was thinking of going as .
.
.”
BALLS, BALLS, BLAH, BLAH.
Not on your nelly did I ever want to go to the school’s Halloween disco in the first place, but as soon as Mom said, “There’s no way on this big round earth, Dylan, that you’re going to any Halloween disco after your behavior over the past few weeks. You must think I’m up a gum tree or something, young man,” I wanted to go so much that it hurt my stomach. I was desperate to go. I would have done the dishes and scrubbed the toilet bowl until March if only I could go. I didn’t know what she meant by being “up a gum tree,” but I giggled at the image of Mom sitting up a tree doing all the stuff she likes to do, drinking wine and watching
Come Dine with Me
,
her soaps,
and
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?
Then Amir kept texting, pestering my life to go. Almost every night my phone would play “
No Sleep Till Brooklyn”
at least five or seven times, always with some Billy Bonkers idea of what we should dress up as.
simon cowell + louis walsh?
no way, josé
batman + robin?
blow town
jedward?
r u up a gum tree?
a wot?
nuting
After the tussle with Skittle, Amir’s good books had me all over the front covers. I was, like, his bestest best bud. Better than his family, even. The daftest bit about the Skittle scrap, which made me happy as Homer Simpson at a hot dog festival, was that everyone seemed to forget all about my Massive Knock-back from Michelle Malloy. The talk now was all about how I had put Skittle in his place and how Dylan Mint didn’t take any shite from anyone. And even though I felt like Ralph Macchio from
The Karate Kid I
,
II
,
and
III
,
I didn’t want anyone to think I was a guy who didn’t take any shite. I didn’t want to be Dylan Mint, the Psycho of the School.
The groovy idea flashed in my head when I was seeing how long my ear could remain tucked inside itself. One minute forty-three seconds. Not long enough to get the
Guinness World Records
on the blower, but a tremendous starting point. My aim was three minutes.
wot about reservoir dogs?????
wot u on about?
itz a film
havnt seen it
watch it then
I will
thats wot we r goin as
sure?
sure
gr8
reservoir dogs it is so
reservoir dicks!!!
lol. U r mad amir
we all r . . . lol
2
1
“DYLAN,” Mom screamed at me from the bottom of the stairs, in her mega mad voice. The same voice that made my heart go faster and faster. “DYLAN!”
Boom!
Boom!
Boom!
Went my heart.
I put my head into ultra-flashback mode, wondering if I had done anything grand-scale to annoy Mom. I had done my chores, she hadn’t shouted because of “the state of my sheets” in ages, nor had she gone ballistic after doing her
Cagney and Lacey
when looking at my Internet history.
“DYLAN, IF I’VE GOT TO COME UP THOSE STAIRS .
.
.”
“What is it?”
“DON’T YOU ‘WHAT IS IT?’ ME, YOUNG MAN. GET DOWN HERE NOW.”
“Okey-dokey,” I said, hoping Mom would hear that my voice had no guilt.
As soon as I came out of my bedroom I saw Mom standing at the bottom of the stairs. She was holding something in her hand, waving it over her head like infidel rebels do when they are surrounded and have no way out of the shit they are in. I recognized it straightaway. If there was a word better than BOOM, then that was what my heart was doing.
“Dylan, get down these stairs right now.”
“What have I done?”
“What have you done? Get down here and I’ll tell you what you’ve done.”
I took wee baby steps down each stair, dragging my hand over the wallpaper pattern. Mom put her eyes all over me. I think my throat swelled up. I knew she wouldn’t skelp me because of my condition, but her eyes were spitting firebombs and tornadoes.
“What’s this?” she said.
“What’s what?”
“This.”
“What?”
“THIS,” she said, and fired the thing she was waving above her head right at me. And my reactions aren’t, like, spitfire quick, so before I could dive out of the way of the flying object it rattled me bang on the chest.
“Aaaarrrrhhhh.”
“Oh, shut up, Dylan. It’s not sore.”
“It
is
bloody sore,” I said, but it wasn’t really bloody sore; the shock made me go “Aaaarrrrhhhh” more than anything.
“It’s only a piece of paper,” Mom said.
I recognized the wiggly, squiggly handwriting. Mine. I recognized the paper also. 80 g/m
2
. Magnolia. My paper. My letter. My letter to Dad.
“Explain that,” Mom said, with a finger ET-pointing directly to the letter lying on the floor. I thought the finger thing was a bit stupid, because I didn’t need my eyes tested and could see the letter no problemo.
“Explain what?”
“That.” And she did the pointing thing again.
I was mega confused by this stage, but my anger rose because Mom wasn’t meant to read the letters I sent to Dad. Mom had carried out a seriously serious crime act. If I wanted, I could have had her frog-marched to the nearest police station, and then prison, for abusing my privacy. I thought about doing it, but in a clear-mind moment I decided
not
to have her banged to rights, because that would mean I’d probably have to go to live with a foster family, who had, like, nine dogs, five cats, and four headbanger foster kids all living under the one roof, and I’d hate that. So Mom could count herself lucky on this occasion. Mrs. Seed said that I would be banged to rights
if I continued on the path I was going on.