Every teacher at some time or another falls into the ‘Jolly Good Sport Trap’.
This is when the lure of not being seen as just some sort of ‘Slave-driving disciplinarian’, or the ‘fuddy-duddy pedantic often boring schoolmaster’, raises its sly head.
Despite the risk of losing dignity and looking like a complete idiot, the chance to show a side – a fun side – to one’s persona is the temptation. It could even lead one towards the ultimate goal: becoming a ‘Popular Teacher’! (Don’t deny it – we’ve all been there.)
Mine happened at a dog show. Although parading our family dog on a lead at our school’s Festival Show Dog competition had never been on my bucket-list, (not even on my waste-paper basket list), I got lured in.
‘No’, I said, at first. But the class was not letting me off the hook. They knew my dog – everyone knew Jackpot. He sloped around the school on a permanent foraging expedition, head down, led by his nose, leaving a snail’s trail of drool.
‘We’ve entered him and we’re sponsoring him, Sir. Go on, be a good sport. He’ll win a prize, Best Dog on Show. Jackpot has exactly the right soulful look.’ Soulful? Somnolent and flatulent, more like. Jackpot (part fat Labrador, part Sloth, with a smattering of Skunk somewhere in the genes) had a distaste for anything resembling exercise.
At home, his preferred occupation was to sneak in behind the lounge sofa and wait for a visitor (like the rich aunt we’re trying to impress) to be seated comfortably. Then he would fart. Hardly the behaviour of the best dog on show.
But of course, when they said, ‘Sir, you’re always a good sport – go on, do it!’ I was tempted. After all, what could go wrong?
There I was, in the Festival Show Ring, lined up with the dog, head down and drooling (the dog, not me.) The chief judge, the governing body chairman’s wife, more sleekly groomed than her pet Borzoi, eyed Jackpot as one would a stain on a wedding dress.
‘All parade around the ring!’ pronounced Madame Borzoi, and, with a fixed embarrassed smile in place, (me, not the dog), we set off. The crowd lining the ring included my class, giggling and pointing, my colleagues, sniggering and pointing, and parents, laughing and pointing. Because the other dogs were all pedigreed thoroughbreds. A set-up, and I felt as hang-dog as my mutt looked.
Perhaps it might have ended and been more easily forgotten if there hadn’t been two miniature rat-type poodles (pink ribbon in coiffured fur included).
I blame their owner. She should have known how they would react in male company. One suggestively waggled a tail and winked at Jackpot who stopped in mid-drool and raised his head. The call of nature stirred in him.
The rest is history. The two rat-poodles, delinquent objective achieved, took off. Their mistress, startled, let slip their leads. With one ‘Yowl!’ Jackpot took up the chase. Tongue out, ears back, he tallyho-ed after them, pulling me, helter-skelter, along like a runaway sledge.
We did two circuits of the ring, scattering old ladies with spaniels, tumbling youngsters with terriers, and bowling over a fat man with a dachshund. Until the poodles dived under the judges’ table. The mutt followed. Not so much me. I went over the top, ploughing across on my face, to crash-land like a dumped sack of corn in the chief judge’s lap, causing her chair to tip over backwards in slow motion.
I slowly came to my senses, painfully raised my head to encounter the full force of that look in her eyes. I felt like the stain on a wedding dress. Jackpot did not help. He gave her face a friendly lick, leaving a coil of drool across her well-groomed hair.
No doubt you’ll be pleased to know that no dogs (or well-groomed judges) were harmed. And once I was rid of being the butt of jokes (‘Who’s a lapdog, then?’ ‘You really hit the “jackpot”!’) I could start trying to love dogs again. And children. But not the two rat-poodles. They won the Best Show Dogs’ award.