The Tuesday Dogs

He wags his tail at his executioner, He thinks at last someone's chose him, Pulls at the lead excitedly barking, Just wants anyone to stroke him. He leaves his cold kennel for a warm whitewashed room, Where he is fed real meat, On the eve of doom. It's always the older ones, who end up this way, Too old to look cute, Too old to play, They have 3 weeks to impress at the R.S.P.C.A. His kennel is fumigated with disinfectant, It's as if he never existed, And tonight he sleeps fully expectant, To be with new owners and not a statistic. Tuesday comes, 'Dead Dog Walking' Tail curled between legs. They weigh him, Just the right amount is put in the syringe, Then slay him, No green fields this time for him. A few yards away and thick convex glass, Another cute puppy in a Childs arm will pass, And the empty kennel will be empty less than a day, It may as well be invisible, For each time people look away, And soon, Soon it will be Tuesday.