Paw in Mouth

I had just finished my second year of teaching. A colleague agreed to do some welding for me. I drove to his place one summer morning and carried the materials into his garage.

Shorty after I arrived, a Newfoundland dog came over to me. He was friendly enough. I didn’t have to bend over to pat him.

What’s your dog’s name, Duncan?”


Rover? Seriously?”

Yes, Rover.”

Duncan, nobody actually calls their dog Rover. Isn’t that a bit of a lame name for a dog?”

He looked at me. “Well, when I first brought him home, my six-year-old daughter said that she wanted to call him Rover. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her it was a lame name. So, Rover it was.”

Ah, in that case, that’s the perfect name.”

I would like to say that that was the only time I put my foot in my mouth during my career, but that would not be truthful.

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