The Set-Apart Child (The Child Who Speaks with Animals Book 2) (English Edition)

Thibault’s father bought a second‑hand Peugeot 403. You may know it if you have ever seen Lieutenant Columbo on television. Not very elegant, but solid—a car that has since become a collector’s item. The family took the famous Nationale 7, crossing the forest of Fontainebleau on their way to Nevers, Moulins, Roanne, and finally Lyon.

They stopped at a service station to refuel and eat the ham and sausage sandwiches prepared by his mother. There, a female dog lay with her puppies— “wolf dogs,” as they were called, though in reality they were German shepherds. Thibault was immediately captivated by one of them.

“Will you buy it for me, Mom?”
“We are not even settled in France yet… what would we do with a dog?”
“Maman!” the child insisted.

After some discussion, the owner agreed to sell the puppy for 100 new francs. Thibault remembered that at nine years old, in Normandy, he had known the old franc. Two years earlier, the “De Gaulle franc” had replaced it, and people still struggled to adapt. “All right then, 10,000 francs… well, 100 new francs,” concluded the owner.

Cute as he was, the puppy was not purebred. “Let’s hope that if we go to a hotel or a restaurant, he will be accepted,” said his mother.
“Thank you, Mom! I will call him Prince.”

The owner, shrewd, took advantage of a moment when the mother stepped away to hand the puppy directly into the boy’s arms. The family resumed their journey toward Auvergne. It was clear that, whatever happened, Thibault’s life was already traced. The animals he loved so deeply would mark his path, step by step, leading him toward his destiny.

The French Summer
Arriving in July, after a few days in Paris, the family entered the month of August. Thibault realized that France was not always cold—the heat was already intense. Perhaps not quite like a summer in Port‑Louis, Mauritius, but very hot nonetheless. That year the weather was sunny, dry, and scorching.

In the back seat of the car, Thibault was getting to know his new companion. Prince was truly adorable, already playful.

“Thibault, watch his claws, don’t let him damage the fabric of the back seat!” said his father at the wheel.

His mother did not have a French driver’s license—she had passed hers in Mauritius—while his father already held one in France before their departure for the British island. Everything was planned to stop in Vichy and camp at the “Beau Rivage” site in Bellerive‑sur‑Allier, right on the riverbank, perfectly equipped.

Under the summer heat, Thibault remembered his nights under the tent with Vagabond, at the Cascade of Electricity, in Réduit. Now it was Prince who shared his games and his dreams. They arrived around 5:30 p.m. and were placed in the shade of the trees. The spot, far from the entrance, required long walks for water, showers, or laundry. Thibault discovered for the first time these public campgrounds, arranged to welcome so many vacationers. He had slept in the wild, to the sound of crickets, under millions of stars, preparing his campfire with the caution of the Madagascar scouts, like Roland, his older brother.

Here, everything seemed too easy: restaurant, bar, showers, washhouse, washing machines, ping‑pong.

“This isn’t real camping!” whispered Thibault, astonished after pitching the tent. “This isn’t wild camping like in Mauritius, alone in the woods!” The noise of music, children clumsily playing badminton irritated him. “It’s not like Pomponet when Papa played with his Mauritian friends,” he told his mother. She answered softly: “This is France, Thibault. Life is not the same.”

So, he decided: “I will find a quiet spot to train Prince, just as I did with Vagabond. He is small and must learn now.”

Thibault had heard of the ultrasonic whistle, inaudible to humans but perceived by dogs and cats. A long tube, a tiny hole. Blowing hard produced a faint “fiiit,” almost imperceptible. At the first session, he realized he did not need to call Prince. The puppy came back immediately. Even from a distance, he rushed at the sound of the whistle. “Good, he returns to this signal… but how can I give him other commands?” he thought.

He began to reflect: “In the end, it’s like soldiers with Morse code… tut, tut‑tut‑tut, tuut. One only needs to invent a language of sounds. That way, I alone will be able to communicate with him.” And he thought of the telegraph of cowboys in the films. There were no telephones in the days of the Old West, but telegraphers could send any message, transcribed in pencil, then delivered to the recipient. No one else understood those codes.

“I will invent a code and train Prince to it,” Thibault resolved.

For example, to make him understand that the meal was served: three urgent short blows— “pfiit pfiit pfiit.” For a call for help, he imagined a series of rapid, strong sounds, reproducing the panicked rhythm of human cries. “Help” became three syllables, therefore three sounds. First quick and sharp, then longer, with the “se” brief and stressed, like in a real cry of distress.

Thibault took a sheet of paper and a pencil. He imagined the spoken language of human life and decided to associate it with gestures, like in the cinema, so that the dog would believe in it. Prince had to grow accustomed to these codes until he linked short, long, or rapid sounds to precise circumstances.

“If I push this further, I can expand this secret language and almost speak with him as if we were human beings. Cool! It will be our secret code. No one else will be able to understand it.”

He remembered the thieves at the Cascade of Electricity in Mauritius, with Vagabond. He could have communicated secretly with him, without the wrongdoers suspecting a thing. So, he thought of inventing priority codes: urgency, attack, defense… so that he would never again be caught off guard.

Prince might not have had Vagabond’s extraordinary qualities, but he was only a puppy. Thibault slowed the training, reflecting on daily needs to invent a simple code, close to the tone of the human voice. He was used to speaking alone or with animals—Vagabond seemed to understand him, recognizing the tones of his voice. It would be enough to keep that naturalness with Prince.

Thus, even if he lost his whistle, he would sharpen his gift of communication. He wore the ultrasonic whistle permanently around his neck and withdrew each day to a quiet corner, far from the piercing cries of little girls. Dogs and cats have extremely fine hearing—a precious quality, but one that makes them sensitive to shrieks. Thibault wanted to protect his companion’s ears.

Silence and ultrasounds. A sound can carry meaning, and it can be interpreted.

“Great, isn’t it?!” The animals do not speak.

Animals do not speak, but that does not mean they do not communicate. Especially wolves—and his wolf‑dog. Thibault wanted to awaken in Prince that wild instinct, buried yet very real, the one that connects the animal to the forest and to silence.

A long, demanding effort

Thibault had to undertake a difficult task, blending daily reality with the imagination of a secret code that would allow him to pretend to communicate with his puppy. He filled pages with notes incomprehensible to anyone uninitiated: long and short strokes, broken rhythms, signs representing tones of panic, joy, or anger—emotions animals perceive more keenly than humans.

He also needed a place to isolate himself, a space to train Prince physically. Police dogs are trained on green fields, with obstacles to overcome, disguises, and protective gear against bites. There, every command is accompanied by a gesture, a sharp tone, a constraint that forces the animal to understand. But Thibault had none of that. No training ground, no equipment, no dog master. He had to manage alone, improvise, invent.

And yet, he succeeded. Prince quickly understood: three quick blows to call him at mealtime, a long whistle for recall. The puppy reacted instinctively, as if this invisible language awakened an ancient memory within him. The most difficult part was that this code made the name unnecessary; still, he had to teach him to respond to “Prince,” for the animal also had to live in the world of men.

The role of an actor

The more complex the messages became, the more Thibault had to play the role of an actor. To simulate a call for help, he would agitate himself, cry out, blow hard into his whistle. From afar, children stopped, intrigued by these scenes that looked like cinema. Adults, meanwhile, frowned. What was this boy doing with his silent tool, inaudible to them but obeyed by the dog?

After fifteen days, Thibault had already won the admiration of those around him. The puppy responded to the silent whistle as if to a secret voice. After three weeks, he carried out more complicated commands: standing on his hind legs, begging, remaining still. As long as the crowd kept quiet, Thibault accepted spectators. But he refused to reveal his secret.

Chosen solitude

He did not want anyone to pet his puppy, nor to offer him food. Prince had to obey only him, recognize his voice, his breath, his gesture. Thibault demanded silence, insisting that he had withdrawn to his corner and disturbed no one. So others should respect his solitary retreat.

Some vacationers did not understand this strange child and grew tired. Others, more respectful, returned to their activities. But one little girl, curious, never took her eyes off him. She observed every movement, every breath, every sign. Her wide‑open eyes seemed to say: “He is doing something real.”