“At my school, we were only a few hundred yards from the local police station. They’d regularly come to the school to hold talks about how we should be good children. The best bit was the displays from the canine division.
Once a year, one of the coppers would don a thick, white arm protector and run across the playing field, pretending to be a burglar. At which point they’d release a snarling Alsatian to sprint after him and violently tackle him to the ground, to the delight of 300 squealing children.
The headmaster and a sergeant got talking. It turned out the police had a dog that had failed training, and the headmaster was looking for a school guard dog. Cue the arrival of Donna: a wild-eyed, gnashing beast that had rejected canine police academy and was – as far as the police were concerned – utterly unusable.
Amazingly, no one realised just how bad an idea this was. Or how quickly it would all go wrong. And, during the hound’s very first week, it escaped from the Irish grounds man’s grasp and hurtled straight for… a tiny boy with his arm in plaster. I’ll never forget his wide-eyed gulp as he froze on the spot – a split second before eight-stone of mental German Shepard smashed in to his small frame.
It didn’t stop there chomping down on the cast, Donna then tore off up the playing field with the child in her mouth, his squeals disappearing over the horizon as a playground full of watching children began to scream.
We never saw the dog again. Soon after, the headmaster invested in a fancy burglar alarm.”