End of the Race (13 page)
Authors: Laurie Halse Anderson
It’s the postgame party in our living room. All the dogs are trolling for dropped food bits. My basset hound, Sherlock, has given up trying to defend his territory and has made friends with Gal and Whistle. Socrates, our cat, is the only party pooper. He’s hiding out in the bathroom behind the shower curtain.
The adults have pointy party hats on that say Gingerbread’s Greyhound Rescue—and so far the kids
have resisted teasing them about how silly they look! David’s cracked a jillion dumb jokes but only tripped once, knocking into a bowl of chips, which the dogs “vacuumed” right up for him.
I greet Roselyn and Gingerbread, who looks sleek and healthy and walks with only the slightest limp. “Mrs. West called to wish us well and to thank us for relocating Swift,” I tell her. Until we find him a new home, Swift has been staying with Gran’s friend Dr. Haverford, who’s retraining him.
Dr. Haverford joins in the conversation. “Swift is a very smart dog. He’s already getting used to my cat, and he’s responding well to training.”
“That’s wonderful news,” Roselyn says.
Some of the eighth-grade boys, our game’s loudest cheerleaders, have shown up, mainly for the feast. “What’s this?” asks one of them, examining a platter of food.
Sunita answers. “It’s an Indian dish my mom made called
masala murgh
—it’s really glorified roast chicken.”
“Yum, chicken,” the boy says, digging in.
“Try my dad’s concoction,” Taryn suggests. “It’s a
spicy dish from Brazil called
feijoada
—pork and bean stew.” The boys load up their plates with stew as well.
“Don’t forget my mom’s cookies,” David adds, pointing to a batch of cookies decorated like basketballs. I don’t see how the boys can add one more thing to their plates, but they manage to pile on a few cookies each. I eat one, too. Darla sidles up to the table and picks up two slices of take-out pizza, the ones Gran and I had delivered. Well, not everyone can be a gourmet cook!
After we all eat, I go up in front of the room and try to shush the crowd. “I want to take this moment to thank everyone who came out to support our effort today,” I begin. People stop chatting and turn to listen. “Between ticket sales and contributions, we’ve raised over a thousand dollars for Gingerbread’s Greyhound Rescue!” Rousing cheers fill the living room. I continue. “Soon there will be greyhounds available through our adoption Web site—great dogs like Whistle and Gal, who are running around somewhere in my house as we speak. We’re lucky to have the services of Dr. Haverford, a colleague of Dr. Mac’s.” I point to him, and he waves his hand at the crowd. “He’s already retrained one of the dogs, Swift, who’s just
been placed with a new owner in Maple Glen. He’s donating his time to retrain more of Speedway’s retired dogs so that they’ll be well-adapted to the outside world before they move in with their new owners.” Everyone claps.
Taryn comes over with Gal, whose tawny fur looks gorgeous after a bath and brushing. “I’d like to announce that I’m about to adopt a Speedway dog,” Taryn states. “I am the proud new owner of Gal!” More hearty claps. “Finally, a pet who can go on morning runs with Mom and me.” Everyone smiles. Mrs. Barbosa gazes proudly at her daughter.
I round up Whistle, who looks great in his new purple collar. He’s sharing a flattened pig-in-a-blanket with Sherlock. “We happen to have another handsome greyhound from Gingerbread’s Greyhound Rescue with us today. Meet Whistle.” Oohs and aahs ripple through the room. “If there are any prospective owners out there, please raise your hands.”
Coach Williams’s hand shoots up. He steps to the mike. “I’ve been looking for an athletic pet to keep me company. What do you think, Whistle?” Whistle rests his snout on Coach’s knees. “It’s settled,
then,” Coach says.
Roselyn inches her way up. “I’d like to offer my services as a staffer for your rescue booth at Speedway.” Her green eyes sparkle.
“Really?” I’m beyond excited—that’s one of the key logistics we haven’t figured out yet. “Are you sure you want to work at Speedway again?” I ask.
Roselyn nods. “I have Dr. Mac’s Place to thank for giving me the courage to face my brother again. After your visit to the track, I called Manny. I told him he was doing the right thing and I wanted to help. Since then, things are much better between Manny and me.” She gives all of us hugs.
Finally, Gran makes her way up front. She gives us bear hugs, too. Then, she raises her glass and says, “I’d like to make a toast.” Dozens of glasses are raised in expectation. “A toast to Maggie and Taryn, and to the success of Gingerbread’s Greyhound Rescue.”
The melody of jingling, tinkling glasses and yipping, yapping dogs sounds even better than the racket of Ambler fans stomping their feet after I sink a winning shot!
Life in the Fast Lane
By J.J. MACKENZIE, D.V.M.
Wild World News
—Everyone knows greyhounds are fast. They can run up to 45 miles per hour—almost as fast as a racehorse. The dogs’ great speed eventually led to the modern sport of dog-track racing. But what most people don’t know is that of all the many dog breeds around today, the greyhound is the oldest. The breed dates from the time of the ancient Egyptians.
Hark, Royal Hounds!
Hounds are hunting dogs, and greyhounds are no exception. The Egyptians used greyhounds for hunting rabbit and gazelle as far back as 2500 BC. The dogs were such highly esteemed pets of royalty that they were mummified and buried with their owners. In ancient Arabia, the desert-dwelling Bedouins also kept greyhounds for hunting. Greyhounds were the only animals allowed inside their owners’ desert tents, and some even got to ride with their owners on camelback.
In the Middle Ages and Renaissance, grey-hounds
were considered animals fit for royalty only. In England, it was illegal for commoners to keep a greyhound, and the punishment for breaking the law was death. Even after this law was changed, it was still quite a luxury for a commoner to obtain a greyhound for hunting.
Prairie Police to Racing Dogs.
In the mid-1800s, greyhounds were imported to America in large numbers to rid pioneer farms of coyotes and jackrabbits. Farmers soon discovered that their speedy greyhounds could be used for sport. The first race, then called a
coursing meet,
was held in Kansas in 1886. Live rabbits were used as lures to attract the dogs and keep them running. The fences around the coursing area contained holes to allow some of the rabbits to escape. These coursing meets were rather chaotic events, with dogs and rabbits running every which way, and it wasn’t always entirely clear which dog had won.
Around 1912, a man in California named Owen Patrick Smith invented the mechanical lure to address these problems. Smith’s lure was a set of rabbit mannequins on a pole that moved in a large circle around a track. Using
a lure instead of live rabbits made life easier for both the track owners and the rabbits! Smith’s invention also allowed the greyhounds to run in a neat circle, making it much easier for the audience to watch the race and identify a winner.
A Dog’s Life.
Greyhound puppies are bred on breeding farms, where they spend much of their first six months in crates and kennels. After a year of training, they’re given six chances to show strong racing ability. If they don’t qualify, they are either put up for adoption or euthanized (put to death). Track racing is very hard on the dogs. Many suffer heart attacks and severely broken limbs. Some dogs are made to race even while injured. When they’re not racing, the dogs spend most of their time in cramped cages, even though by nature greyhounds are as friendly and sociable as any other dog.
Even dogs with successful racing careers stop racing after age three of four, but they may live for another ten years—leaving their owners with the problem of what to do with retired racers.
Startling Statistics.
The National Grey-hound Assoc-iation’s records show
that each year 38,000 new greyhounds become racers, while approximately the same number of older racing dogs retire. Of these, 6,000 to 7,000 dogs get adopted as pets. What happens to the other 31,000 dogs?
GREYHOUND RACING IS POPULAR—BUT IT IS NOT ALWAYS PRETTY
According to the Humane Society, every year about 40,000 greyhounds in the United States are either killed, sold to labs for experimental research, or abandoned. These unfortunate dogs include both retired racing dogs and young greyhounds who never made it to the track.
Some dog owners care deeply about their dogs and take good care of them, on and off the track. Unfortunately, many do not. Since the early 1980s, animal activists have been working to expose racing’s darker side and to promote greyhound adoptions.
Turn the page to read a sample of the next book in the Vet Volunteers series…
New Beginnings
T
he tabby cat with black, gray, and white stripes is hanging out near the Dumpster behind our store again. I’ve seen him every day since we moved here a week ago. It’s getting late and I promised Mom I’d help with dinner, but I want to see if the cat’s okay. Yesterday, he had a tear in his left ear, but he was too jittery to let me look at it closely or to clean it.
“Hey there, kitty,” I say. “How’s your ear? Still no tags or collar?”
“Meow,” he says. He watches me, but keeps his distance, his ring-striped tail twitching from side to side. Aside from no collar or tag, and his ear, which looks like it’s healing okay, he doesn’t look like
a stray. His coat is short, thick, and shiny, and he looks well fed. In fact, he’s more chubby than sleek. Each day he comes a little closer to me and the water dish I set out for him, and twice he’s let me pet him. I’ve been changing the water daily. Maybe today he’ll let me pet him again and check his ear more closely.
“Meow?” he says again, this time a question.
“Yes, you can trust me,” I say.
He tilts his head, and his green eyes stare right at me.
My twin brother, Josh, says I have a sixth sense—Animal Sense.
“I won’t hurt you.
The tabby is still skittish, but he’s so cute. I love his markings—gray, black, and white stripes, with two thicker black lines in his fur on the top of his head between his ears, forming what looks like a little M. He has more furry black V’s accenting his eyes, and lots of fuzzy whiteness around his chin and neck. According to a cat website I found, he’s a domestic shorthair brown mackerel tabby. But there is nothing common about him. His eyes and markings are so expressive. He’s beautiful.
I kneel down a few feet behind the water dish and stay still. He finally approaches. He sniffs the water, laps at it, and then he walks closer to me. I
slowly lean forward, pausing before my hand reaches him. He sniffs it, and then rubs his furry forehead against my fingers. His slightly wet white whiskers tickle me as he tilts his head one way then another against my hand.
“Meow,” he says again as I pet him, first his back, then his head, around his ears, including the ear with the little notch in it, and finally the warm, soft spot under his white chin until I feel and hear the vibration of his purr. Cats like me.
