Planning an inquiry: time to talk to the dog

This happened in July. It was near the end of term and I had only one more class to prepare for the week before I could go out, play tennis and sink a well earned beer.

But I got stuck - the empty planning sheet just sat there, stared up, taunted me.

‘Come on, can’t be that hard, one little stimulus for the year 2s.’

Then sometimes it is hard - even with a talking planning sheet. Everything you think of seems wrong: too dull, too dangerous, too babyish, too grown up. You imagine all of the pitfalls, none of the fun.

So I did what we all do. I ran through previous classes in my head, checked the list of past stimuli, look up my comments and evaluations. Some had been struggling with listening. So perhaps some reflection on this, or a stimulus to raise the concept? Maybe they needed new opportunities to do some listening, more to one another? But then they’d played most of my listening games already and I couldn’t think of a picture book or a picture or a story that I thought would spark up thinking about listening. Perhaps if I could borrow a hearing aid?

Time to talk to the dog.

Outside the back door, perching on the bench, I got to work with a brush on Biba’s tangled rear. I tried to forget work and imagine myself as a gentlemen’s hairdresser.

‘Did you see the news? Says that humans lived in Brtain a million years ago.’

She’s not interested. I move up to her neck where I know she loves the feeling of the bristles.

‘Flint tools and pine cones.’

She looks back and pushes against the brush.

‘Cool then, must have had clothes and fire - unless they were as hairy as an old collie?’

She shakes. Behind her right ear I find a knot of matted hair that needs scissors and a steady hand.

‘Be hard to get this off with a hand axe!’

I snip the clump away and begin to trim the other ear to match. Just as I start the next sentence, the flow of human-canine barbers chat is interrupted by my mobile sounding a text. Not now, I think. I was just getting good at not thinking about work. It trills again. I undo Biba’s collar and swing the address capsule, decied to ignore the sound of the text. She rolls onto her back, paws waving unsurely in the air. The phone rings.

Not now, I think, scratching her belly roughly as I move away.

‘Not now Biba. Not Now Bernard!’ St Bernard.  A dog whistle? A squeaky toy? Dog in the playground? Oh I love dog in the playground.

I leap inside, and still holding the collar, pick up the phone…

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