“I’ve named him Gavin,” I announce to my leadership team, holding up the cute fluffy bundle of fur in my arms. “He’s half Yorkshire terrier, a quarter bulldog and a quarter shih tzu. Also known as a Yorkshire bullshitter.”

“And why have you called him Gavin?” asks my deputy, making a note for the minutes from her distant seat across the staffroom table.

“Well,” I say, tickling Gavin under the chin as he licks the part of my face not covered by my face mask, “this week, Gavin Williamson said he got a lockdown puppy to help with his leadership loneliness, so I thought I would do the same.”

The team exchange worried glances. “And are you feeling lonely?” asks my Sendco, grabbing a pen and a mental health referral form from a folder on the table.

“Not any more,” I grin, putting Gavin down on the floor, joining him on my hands and knees and offering him a stripy orange bone, which I squeak loudly and jiggle back and forth in front of his adorable little face.

Gavin Williamson and the Covid pressure on school leaders

“But when I think back to a year ago,” I continue, tickling Gavin on the tummy and lying down beside him under the staffroom table, “there were days at the beginning when we had to keep up with all the news from abroad, respond to the worries from parents, reassure the children, read all those pages of guidance, reorganise the whole school, make it Covid-safe, order all that PPE and hand sanitiser, write a long risk assessment, respond to more worries from parents, reassure the children again, organise the provision for key workers, decide on which key workers were genuine, create a home-learning strategy completely from scratch, assess the health of all the staff, write another risk assessment, reopen for small bubbles of children, learn how to record professional videos, master the art of Zoom, take the children’s temperatures, respond to complaints from parents, comfort bereaved families...”

Gavin rolls over, snuggles into my chest and starts chewing on my school identity badge.

“And then,” I continue, now talking more to Gavin than to my leadership team, who are still seated at the table above me, “it all restarted in September, creating a new risk assessment, responding to the new worries of parents, reassuring children again, planning a recovery curriculum, managing a clutch of positive cases, closing bubbles, juggling staff absence, reassuring anxious staff, liaising with Public Health England, writing endless letters to parents,  staying upbeat at Christmas, and comforting more bereaved families...”

Gavin scrambles clumsily on top of me, licks my ear and then tugs at the strings of my face mask.

“And then,” I say to him, clutching his face gently between my hands and staring deep into his dark, innocent eyes, “came Lockdown Three and the stress of live lessons, live assemblies, managing the bulging key worker provision, completing yet more risk assessments, sorting out those free laptops, collating all the lateral flow tests, preparing for the Big Bang reopening, responding to the worries of parents, reassuring anxious children once more and making it all seem as normal as possible...”

I pause for breath, and realise my heart is beating faster than it should be, and I am rocking rhythmically and hugging Gavin tightly in my arms.

A loving look from little Gavin

“You and the rest of the staff were amazing,” I continue from under the table, my voice cracking slightly for some reason I can’t explain. “It was such an outstanding team effort, but if it all went Covid-shaped, the buck always stopped with me. So yes, I suppose it was quite lonely at times.”

I feel an uncomfortable warm sensation in the centre of my chest and for a moment I think I’m having a heart attack, until I realise that Gavin is having an unscheduled wee all over me. 

I jump up, banging my head on the underside of the staffroom table, reach for the first piece of paper I can find and slip it underneath him as an impromptu litter tray. 

I look around me, and the staffroom is completely empty. My leadership team has gone off to teach their respective after-school Covid catch-up booster groups. 

I am, indeed, all alone...except I now have Gavin.

On the staffroom table, pinned under a packet of dog treats, my Sendco has left a copy of a completed mental health referral form with my name at the top. 

I look down at little Gavin with his long curly eyelashes, his silken floppy ears and his little tongue lolling out to the side. He looks lovingly back up at me, squats, strains out an ice-cream swirl of poo on to my paper litter tray, and pads off happily to sniff at the staffroom bin.

I reach down to pick up the piece of paper, complete with its dirty protest and notice it is a copy of big Gavin’s teacher pay-freeze recommendation letter.

Colin Dowland is a primary headteacher in North London. He tweets as @colindowland