My friend Gavin and I were mad about dogs. I wanted one but my parents vetoed the idea. Gavin’s family had a lovely old German Shepherd who we spent a lot of time fussing and playing with.
One thing Gavin wasn’t allowed to do with the dog, though, was to take it for a walk. I don’t think his parents felt he was responsible enough. Sheba was certainly a big, powerful animal, so maybe it was a question of the ability to control her. At any rate, it wasn’t allowed.
That didn’t stop us talking about dogs a lot when we played together, though. Then one day, I had a bright idea. “Why don’t we just take someone else’s dog for a walk?” I asked. “They wouldn’t let us,” Gavin replied. “Miss Preece would.”
Miss Pritchard was a spinster teacher who lived up the road from Gavin. She had a border collie named Sam, who was always out in the garden and whom we frequently petted through the gate. “Come on, let’s go ask her.”
When we got there, Sam was there but there was no sign of Miss Pritchard. We went into the garden and knocked on the door. No reply. What we did find, hanging up on a hook from the garage wall, was Sam’s lead. “Let’s help her out by walking Sam while she’s gone,” I said. Gavin was dubious but I overruled him. I took down the lead and Sam, of course delighted at the prospect of some exercise, bounded up to be put on it. “We needn’t be long,” I said. We set off.
What we didn’t know was that Miss Pritchard was actually next door, talking to her neighbour. When she got back, she was horrified to find her beloved dog gone. Fortunately for her – unfortunately for us – another neighbour across the road had seen us, but had assumed we had permission to walk Sam.
Miss Pritchard then climbed in her car and set off around the nearby streets, looking for us. She quickly tracked down us, and Sam, about three blocks away. She made it clear in no uncertain terms that we were in big trouble, and ordered us to climb in the back of the car. Sam sat in the front – the only one in the vehicle without a worry in the world.
Once we got back, Miss Pritchard put Sam in the garden again, then took us inside. We fully expected her next move to involve calling our parents, and we were both in no doubt what would be the upshot – two very sore bottoms!
However, to our shock and horror, Miss Pritchard said: “You two boys need dealing with, but I prefer to do it myself. That way, I can be sure you get what’s coming to you. Wait there!”
When she came back, she was carrying a large wooden spoon. She sat down on a chair and pointed the spoon at Gavin. “You first, young man! Come here!” I had never seen another boy get a spanking, so part of me was fascinated, even though most of me was frozen in fear.
Gavin approached her, his face pale and his hands trembling at his sides. “Please…” came faintly from Gavin’s lips, but Miss Pritchard’s expression was stern and unyielding. She took him firmly by the arm and guided him over her knee. The room seemed to shrink, the air thick with anticipation and dread. Then, with a swift motion, she raised the spoon and brought it down with a sharp crack. The sound echoed in the small room, startling in its finality. Gavin gasped, then whimpered, and as the spoon landed again and again, his whimpers turned to sobs. Each smack was punctuated by the wooden spoon’s crisp report and Gavin’s cries, his legs kicking helplessly. Miss Pritchard’s face was set, determined, but not cruel—she seemed to believe in the necessity of the lesson. I watched, heart pounding, feeling a strange mix of sympathy, fear, and curiosity. Gavin’s face was streaked with tears, his hands clutching at the chair leg, and by the end, he was openly crying, his voice raw and pleading. The room was filled with the sounds of discipline: the rhythmic smack of wood on cloth, the sharp intakes of breath, the muffled sobs, and the stern, measured breathing of Miss Pritchard herself.
He was let up, rubbing tears from his eyes, his face flushed and his breathing ragged. Miss Pritchard stood, her demeanor still resolute, and turned her attention to me. She reached out, her grip surprisingly gentle as she pulled me forward, but her eyes left no doubt that she meant business.
Then I found myself in that familiar childhood position, staring at the carpet, my heart hammering in my chest. The first smack landed, and a jolt of pain shot through me, sharp and stinging. The wooden spoon was relentless, each whack sending a hot sting through my thin shorts. I tried to hold back, determined not to cry, but the pain built quickly, each smack echoing in my ears and making my resolve crumble. The sensation was overwhelming—heat, ache, embarrassment, and the knowledge that Gavin was watching, just as I had watched him. After about the first half dozen licks, my eyes filled with tears, and I couldn’t help but cry out. Miss Pritchard’s voice was calm but firm, reminding me why I was there, and her hand on my back was steady, keeping me in place. The whole world seemed to narrow to the sound of the spoon, my own cries, and the burning in my backside. When it was finally over, I was left sniffling, cheeks wet, feeling both chastened and oddly relieved.
Miss Pritchard got a box of tissues and dried our eyes for us like two naughty toddlers. Then she looked more kindly at us. “Right – you have had your punishment and we won’t say anything more about it, not even to your parents, all right? I know you love Sam, and you are welcome to take him for a walk sometimes, but only if you ask me first and I know where you’re going with him. Is that all clear?”
We both nodded.
