The Greyhound (10 page)

The dogs were led to a starting box.

“Aye, look at our Long Shot, like she’s never been away from the track,” said Mahoney, watching as Long Shot began her high-stepping nervous walk. “That’s her trademark, lads. She tiptoes into the chute.”

The dogs were loaded into their chutes. Sally started a mechanical lure that whizzed around the inside perimeter. A bell sounded and the gates flew up. The dogs bounded out of the starting gate, pounding against the earth. This was repeated a couple more times, as the dogs went through several short training runs. At the end, both Mahoney and Beverley said it was clear that Long Shot could run again.

“And run well,” Mahoney said with a smile.

Long Shot was a natural at Beverley’s track, leaning into each turn on the track as if she’d never been away from racing. She went up against Big Willy, one of Bev’s best runners; a wily dog, Big Willy appeared to enjoy nothing more than testing the strength of other dogs on the oval.

Danny and Ben stood at the rail, watching the clockwork precision of Long Shot’s racing. Danny marvelled at how her running style seemed to change, depending on the competition. Sometimes she looked like a she belonged on the African veldt, gracefully moving over the soft dirt of the track, her feet barely leaving a mark as she touched down, then leaped forward over and over again. Other times she looked like a toy, wound up with a spring, then suddenly released to run
chocka-chocka-chocka
around the track, kicking up soil, eating up the dirt, and throwing clods of earth everywhere. And as she got closer to the finish line, she sounded like a distant, rhythmic freight train.

“Why do they have to have the muzzles on?” asked Ben. “None of them seem to be very ferocious.”

“We put them on just to keep them safe,” said Bev, putting her cowboy-booted foot up on a lower rail. “Sometimes, dogs being dogs, they get excited and nip at each other. This just saves some of that wear and tear, keeps them healthy so they’re not distracted by anything. These guys are pounding along at forty miles an hour: they can’t be thinking about nothing else other than chasing that lure. They’ve gotta be focused on running, and running to win.” Bev climbed over the railing and went onto the track.

Ben leaned against the rail, kicking at the dirt. The three of them watched as Bev’s helpers herded the dogs back to the kennel area to cool off.

“These dogs love to run, eh?” said Ben. “How did people start racing them?”

“Ah, lad, they’ve been racing greyhounds since ancient times, more than two-thousand years.” Mahoney was clearly warming up to a topic he really enjoyed. “The Egyptians used to keep them and feed them the best of foods, and they treated them like gods. Watching greyhounds chase down game was a great sport back then. Then the Romans brought them to the British Isles, and they started a sport called coursing, where the dogs would chase after rabbits and other game across a wide-open field. It was all about letting the dog run, using its sight, instead of smell, to track the prey. As people became more concerned about animal welfare, the game animal was changed to a bag that was dragged across a field, and that’s the way they do it in many places today. They actually raced greyhounds and lurchers.”

“What’s a lurcher?” Danny interrupted.

“A lurcher is a mixed breed. Looks a bit like a greyhound, but with frizzy hair. They’re a cross of greyhound with a collie or deerhound. Anyway, one of the English queens, many years ago, was quite a fan of coursing and it became known as the ‘Sport of Queens,’ same way that horse racing is sometimes called the ‘Sport of Kings.’

“Coursing was brought over to North America with some English immigrants in the 1800s. They was used to hunt down game for food, not just for sport. And, of course, people would breed the dogs for the type of running they wanted, and that was a really well-muscled, strong, and wiry animal that could spot its prey and run fast over short distances.

“By the early 1900s, greyhound racing became a popular sport here, with the dogs running on tracks rather than across a field, although there’s still coursing in a lot of places. A good, healthy dog will run for three or four years, and they reach their prime when they’re about three years old. After age five, most dogs are ready to retire.

“I started training Long Shot when she was young, only about a little older than a year. You give them a chance to run, and you give them some training, but it would be foolish to say that
you
teach the dog. Really, they already know what they want to do, they just need a little guidance.” He smiled nostalgically, surveying the hillsides beyond the track. “The thing they really need to learn is how to come out of the starting box. These pups, they love to chase after things. They watch for anything that moves, and if it looks like something good to chase, then they’re off, chasing after it! So it’s not hard to get them interested in chasing after small stuffed animals, and then a mechanical rabbit on an electric guide rail.”

“How do they know the distance to run?” Ben asked.

“You start them out on a small course, about 150 feet, or 50 meters. Then you keep increasing it until you’re up to more than 1,500 feet. That’s 500 meters, or half a kilometre. When a dog like Long Shot shows promise, by the time they’re a year and a half, they start training with other dogs, doing practise runs with people at the rail and lots of crowd noise, which gets them used to the sound of being at a race track.”

Danny watched the dogs at the track. “My dad says they need to eat a lot of protein. Is that true?”

“Absolutely,” he said. Mahoney then launched into a discussion of balanced diets, carbohydrates and fats, and the fact that racing dogs are like human track and field athletes, like Olympic competitors. Everything, from proper vitamins and lots of water to plenty of raw meat and vegetables, was geared to producing a top athlete.

“You know, there are a lot of misconceptions around greyhounds,” Mahoney added, showing no signs of slowing down. “Some people think kennel owners run their dogs ragged, but others think they do need to work them all the time. But what they really need is the right kind of exercise: walks in the early morning, maybe some practise runs. They get some time in a big yard, but they can’t be run too hard or they’ll hurt themselves. Later on in the day they’ll get another walk.” Mahoney went on to talk about giving the dog rubdowns and ultrasound treatments if they have mild injuries, as well as regular visits to the vet.

Mahoney looked at his watch. “In fact, right about now my son Rufus should be rubbing down a few of the dogs. They get treated like elite athletes because they are elite athletes. It’s in an owner’s best interest to treat his dogs with love and respect. After all, if they’re earning money for their owner, he’s got to take good care of them. He wants them healthy.”

And with that, Mahoney walked off to a nearby shed. Ben and Danny could hear him humming to himself.

The boys turned their attention back to the track in time to see something totally unexpected happened. The dogs were running another heat. Long Shot was coming around the far turn when she suddenly went down, shoulder first into the earth. She skidded for a few feet before coming to stop. She hopped up, and limped along the rest of the track, favouring her front left paw.

Bev ran across the track; she moved more quickly than either of the boys, despite her years. “Mahoney! Long Shot’s down. I need your help!” Bev called out. Mahoney came running, lifted Long Shot up, and, following Bev’s directions, took her to a cinder-block building at the end of the track. He lay her down on a stainless steel table. Bev turned on a bright light overhead. The room was set up like a vet’s exam room.

“I was a vet’s assistant for twenty years. You learn a few things along the way.” She cleaned the grit off Long Shot’s paw with a spray bottle. “She’s got a cut on her pad, not a big one; she must’ve stepped on a sharp stone that got onto the track somehow.” Long whined a little, a baby whine, as Bev showed the boys the cut; it was about an inch long and very fine, like a paper cut. “Not too bad, but she’ll have to be off it for awhile.”

“How long do you figure?” Danny asked.

“About a week and a half, maybe two weeks,” said Bev. “Cutting it close to your race, I know. But it needs to heal.”

Bev washed the wound, then put some antibacterial ointment on it and wrapped it in gauze.

“Keep her off it,” she said to Danny. “She needs rest. Long Shot had a long, long layoff and now that she’s started running again — too quickly, to my mind — she needs to take her time getting better. She’ll still have time to get ready for the race.”

* * *

Back home, a few days later, they examined the paw. “It looks pretty raw,” Danny said.

Rosemary, Danny, and Mahoney were sitting at an old picnic table in the backyard. The tomato plants were growing like weeds and cucumbers had started sprouting on the vines. Danny was working hard to tie the vines off. Bell peppers sprouted from the pepper plants, and the heads of the onions were pushing at the earth. Mahoney sipped a mug of tea, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the picnic table. Rosemary watched as Mahoney gently put the mug on the table. Danny didn’t think his mother liked Mahoney.
Maybe she thinks he’s sneaky
, he thought,
or maybe it’s because he knew Dad from before they met
.

“It’s gonna be okay, I think,” Mahoney said, beckoning the dog to him. Long Shot lifted herself off the patch of thick grass she had been lolling about on. There was no trace of a limp as she trotted to the old man. “I brought something along that might help,” Mahoney said. He looked at her paw, ever so gently pushing at the leathery pad, looking for discharge. He went to his truck and came back with a leather pouch the size of a large billfold, like one used for legal papers. An unusual symbol, like endless oblong rings encircling each other, was embossed on the leather.

“What’s that on the pouch?” Danny asked.

“Oh, it’s a Celtic knot,” he said. “My ancestors believed that these symbols offered some form of divine or spiritual protection for things. I say, why argue with it? You never know when you’re going to need some kind of divine protection. Anyway, it’s what’s inside here that counts,” he tapped on the pouch, and laid it on the tabletop to open it. Inside were small plastic bags filled with crushed spices and herbal plants. “If you can bring me a wee bit of filtered water and a spoon, I’ll use this stuff to make a poultice that we’ll put on Long Shot’s paw. Recipe’s been in my family for generations. I wasn’t sure if we’d need it earlier, but it looks like it might help.”

Danny did as asked, and Mahoney hummed as he went to work, adding herbs to water, stirring it until it thickened into a green mush. From one of his jacket pockets he produced a gauze bandage and white tape. “Come here, girl,” he said, and then proceeded to expertly apply the green paste to Long Shot’s paw, wrapped it in gauze, and taped it in place.

Mahoney had another surprise for them. “You ever see booties for dogs?” he said and pulled out a leather boot, just the right size for Long Shot, slipped it over her paw, and laced it up. “She’ll get along fine with this. I’ll change the poultice every day and in about five days, she should be good as new.” He paused. “I can’t guarantee it, you know, but she should be all right to run again.”

Mahoney was as good as his word. Every day he changed the dressing, and in five days, Long Shot’s paw was healed nicely.

“I don’t know what’s in that stuff you brought, Mr. Mahoney, but it sure worked,” Danny said.

“Ah, we’ll know for sure, lad, when she gets back to the track, and we best be getting a move on. The race is coming up soon. This old gal needs to get her legs back.”

* * *

A few days later they were back at the track, with Long Shot in tow.

“Our gal will want to run, lad, but we’ll have to ease her into it.”

Mahoney started giving Danny more advice about greyhounds: he could talk about them all day. Danny wondered if, in his sleep, Mahoney talked about greyhounds all night, too.

“You might’ve seen that when Long Shot gets nervous, or if there’s something that’s too new to her, she’ll suddenly stand still. The dogs, they get like a statue, not moving a muscle, tensing up, ready to run.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen that,” Danny nodded. “But other times it’s like she’s going to take off, just run away.”

“Aye, it’s their nature: they go from a standstill into a flat-out run in an instant. That’s why you have to have a firm hold of the leash when you’re walking her. I had one red brindle that once heard a truck backfire. Didn’t bother any of the other dogs, seeing as how we were near a highway and they were used to the sound of traffic. But this red brindle, Sheba was her name, up and scaled a high fence. We found her miles away.”

He cleared his throat. “For racing, you have to take advantage of the dog’s ability to react. And how much they love to run.”

They looked out at the track. Mahoney cleared his throat before continuing, “But I have to tell you something, Danny. I have to go back to look after my business. My son Rufus needs me there. I’m going to tell you what you need to do to get her ready. Remember that greyhounds want to run that more than anything, but Long Shot still needs to be eased back into racing life. My question is, she knows what to do and how to do it, and she can do it, but are you up to it?”

Danny looked down at the dog. He thought about how happy his father had been when he’d learned about the big prize at the end of the race. “Definitely,” he said. “Just show me what to do, and I’ll do it.”