Walking home, swinging my satchel, eyes fixed on the pavement, I was deep in thought about a difficult day at school. A sudden barking made me glance up. Mrs Thomas’ dog was at the gate, balanced on his hind legs, with his front legs gripping the top of the iron gate and wagging his tail furiously.
I was nervous of Mrs Thomas’ dog. His name was Rusty, and he was yappy and temperamental. He was a small, stocky terrier, with a red and brown curly coat, small dark beady eyes and pointy ears like a fox. The most peculiar thing about Rusty was his mouth, which was surrounded by wiry, grey hairs and was permanently puckered as if he disapproved of everything and everyone. A silvery string of slimy drool seemed to constantly hang from the left-hand corner of his mouth. Sometimes, Rusty looked really pleased to see you, like today. Other times, he would launch himself at the gate, yapping furiously, the hairs on his back stiff like a wire brush.
Swinging my satchel off my shoulder, I edged closer to the gate. I leaned over the gate, keeping my eyes fixed on Rusty, watching for any sign that he was feeling bad-tempered. Slowly, I reached out my right hand, stopped for a moment, checked that his tail was still wagging – it was. I reached out a little further, keeping my hand as steady as possible, which was not easy as my heart raced when I moved my hand closer for him to sniff. A low growl came from the back of his throat; I jerked my hand back. Not quick enough. Snarling, Rusty lunged.
With a high-pitched howl, I grabbed my satchel, and nursing my hand to my chest, sobbed the fifty or so metres to my house. My mother had been in the window watching for my return from school, but even if she had been at the back of the house, she would have heard my shrieks and sobs.
“Rusty’s bitten me,” I wailed.
“Let me have a look.” My mother reached out to take my hand.
“No, don’t touch it! It really hurts!” I shrieked, clutching my hand tighter to my chest.
My mother grabbed her shoes, hopped up and down as she tried to put them on at a run, then charged out of the house and marched down the road to Mrs Thomas’. I could imagine the scene as my mother berated Mrs Thomas about her nasty, vicious dog who had bitten me.
I was too busy sobbing to examine my hand and sat waiting in the kitchen until my mother returned, which she did within a few minutes.
Something strange had happened in Mrs Thomas’. My mother had changed. She stood in front of me, hands on her hips, one eyebrow slightly raised. I was somewhat bemused. Definitely no sympathy. Then, I noticed that the corner of her mouth twitched ever so slightly. She didn’t move, just stood there looking at me. I was so confused by her change in attitude that I stopped screeching.
When I looked closely at my mother, I noticed that her shoulders were shaking, and her lips were pursed tightly together as if to stifle a laugh. I was now deeply offended. Being bitten by a dog was no laughing matter. What on earth had happened to my mother in Mrs Thomas’ house!
With that, my sister arrived home from school. She saw me nursing my hand and realized that I had been crying. Even my sister couldn’t miss the blotchy face and red-rimmed eyes. I was well-known for getting into scrapes on the way back from school, and often returned home with torn tights, bleeding hands and knees. She merely assumed that I’d had yet another accident. When she asked what had happened, my mother collapsed into fits of laughter. My mother was clearly suffering from some sort of meltdown.
“Alison came home screaming because Rusty, Mrs Thomas’ dog, had bitten her.” Here, she had to stop because she could hardly talk in between the hysterical laughter.
“Why is that so funny?” my sister asked.
Events had taken a very strange turn. My sister was showing me more sympathy than my mother. I think she too thought my mother had gone insane.
“Because when I went to see Mrs Thomas, she told me that Rusty may have gone for Alison, but he couldn’t possibly have bitten her.” My mother collapsed into a chair, clutching her stomach.
“He did bite me. Look.” I screamed, removing my hand from the safety of my chest, and thrusting it towards my mother. To my shock, there wasn’t a mark on my hand just a bob of silvery drool.
With that, my mother could not speak a word. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she gasped for breath between laughter that seemed to shake her whole body.
“But he did attack me!” I yelled, indignantly. “He did!”
My sister looked at my hand. Not a mark. “Well, he couldn’t have, because he would have left a mark,” she said, dropping my hand in disgust, and stomping out of the room.
Eventually, my mother managed to get herself sufficiently under control to speak. “Rusty might have tried to bite you,” she said, “but he couldn’t have hurt you.” Choking with laughter, she spluttered, “Because he has no teeth.”
My hand might have not been hurt, but my pride most certainly was. I grabbed my satchel, stormed upstairs, slammed my door and slumped on my bed, wondering how on earth I was going to be able to face the neighbours. They must have all heard me screeching all the way up the road. Hurt pride can be more painful than an injured hand. The fact that all the children in the street went to the same school ensured that the story would spread, and I would have to endure days of teasing. I didn’t think I could ever face anyone again and refused to come out of my room even when I heard my father return from work.
I heard his heavy tread on the stairs, and knew he was coming to, ‘have a talk with me.’ Slowly, my door inched open. I kept my eyes fixed to the carpet, unable to look at my father. He poked his head through the door and asked if I was okay.
“I’m not going to school tomorrow,” I said, still refusing to look at him. “Everyone will make fun of me.”
“It won’t last long,” he said, gently. “Remember what I told you about today’s news being tomorrow’s fish and chip papers. Sometimes, people make fun because they want to embarrass you, and are being nasty. Sometimes, it’s because it is a funny story, and they can’t help but laugh. I suggest that you march into school, tell your friends the story, and laugh with them. It will soon be forgotten.”
I took my father’s advice, and surprisingly, found myself genuinely laughing along with the rest of my schoolmates.