The trouble with Staffies

I never thought I'd fall in love at the age of 41. Until my manchild and I decided to rehome a rescue dog. Tip: only go to one of those animal shelters if you have nerves of steel, otherwise you want to take them all home with you. Enter the hellhound. 18kgs of brindled attitude, a bit missing from one ear and one step away from a trip to the Big Kennel In The Sky. Instead he came home with us and my life has never been the same again. Pure, unconditional love. He comes bounding down the path in the morning, ecstatic that you're home and refuses to chase anything unless he can eat it. He repels all Jehovah's Witnesses and Mormons far better than my previous arguments about Paganism and the beautiful religion of Wicca and will do almost anything for a hot dog sausage.He would eat anything up to and including horse manure but put a bowl of complete dried food in front of him and he'd look at you as if you were out of your mind and walk away in disgust. He listens to me as if he understands every word I say and likes to roll in the grass and have his belly rubbed. His attitude to other dogs is either 'Come and have a go if you think you're hard enough' (for dogs) or 'Hey, baby' (for bitches). Now he's an old man and on regular treatment for arthritis but he'll still chase a cat should one be unwise enough to wander into the garden. And he'll always have that amazing Staffie grin. Nothing snores or farts like he does but I wouldn't swap him for the world. My husband once said (jokingly) 'It's me or the dog.) I miss him sonetimes.