went to Birkenhead park on sunday to the dog show, it was upsetting to see how many Staffie the pound have and are asking people to take on, it get me thinking of this poem.
Just a Staffie Cross
Today is just another day - to me they're all the same
I have the worst of genes you see, I bear the "Staffy" shame.
The shame is in our numbers, there's thousands with no home.
Thousands just like me you'll find, in kennels all alone.
My mum was "just a Staffy", my father - well who knows?
Mum, too, became unwanted, as the last puppy goes.
And then begins the process, of money-making deals
A life of "moving on" unfolds, who cares how the Staffy feels?
If you have the cash to hand, the Staffy pup is yours
But that pup is getting bigger now, just look at those big paws.
You brought me for your image, thought I'd make you look more tough
But you'll find my boisterous nature has already got too much.
If you had thought to train me, with kindness and with praise
You would have had a faithful friend to share your darkest days.
I would lay down my life for you, but you simply cannot see
You make sure you get your money back on what you paid for me.
And on it goes, until one day, I'm no longer worth a dime
The retail on an adult staff - not worth the waste of time.
So what happens to a Staffy now? Do you really want to know?
Do you care what will become of us, when we leave our final home?
Have you ever thought to wonder, "Where is that Staffy now?"
The "Staffy" has another name; he's become a "stray" somehow.
Me, I was put into a car and driven far away
The door held open, I jumped out, I thought to run and play.
It was with joy and happy heart I turned to look for you
You drove away with all my trust and a piece of my heart too.
I wandered round for many days before I was brought here.
Now I wait with heavy heart, trepidation and with fear.
Seven days is all I have you see, seven days for you to claim
The little dog that you threw out, for which you have no shame.
This is my last goodbye now my seven days are up
If only more thought had gone into the future of that pup
As the needle empties to my veins I lay down with one last sigh
I'm sorry I was born a Staffy, because it means that I must die.
By Trudie James of Doris Banham Dog Rescue
Not on here no more