by Steven Wolf
“How long are they kept like that?”
“Well, they typically race for only one or two years. If the dogs don’t win quickly and often, the owners don’t want to spend one more dime on their food or anything else. At that point, they’re just an expense that needs to be eliminated. Rescue and adoption groups have been formed to keep the dogs from being killed. We really need people to adopt them.”
I instinctively stepped back, sensing a hard sell coming my way. Maggie picked up on it and laughed.
“We’d better get going. So long,” she said.
“Right. Bye,” I replied lamely.
Lance led Maggie through the parking lot, his muscles flowing and his spine articulating with each step. The languid movements reminded me of a cheetah.
The next day was rainy and cold—not Nebraska cold but chilly enough to keep me inside, immobile, and drowsy from pain medication. The rain pelted the concrete slab outside the sliding glass doors, and gas flames waved in the fireplace. I smiled at the thought of a sleeping greyhound warmed by the heat. Do they ever miss racing? I wondered. Are they truly content being still? Are they strong or incredibly fragile, or both?
AFTER FOUR MONTHS in Sedona I became more accustomed to fending for myself, but I never got used to how long it took me to do everything. When I lived at home, Freddie and the girls had always been quick to pick up items I dropped, and if they weren’t around, one of the goldens was happy to help. Because I required two canes to walk, I often needed a hand opening doors or an arm to grasp if I had to climb steps. It was only now, without that help, that I realized how much I had depended on them. I had always thought of myself as the original lone cowboy, the guy everyone else leaned on.
Even answering the phone was a hassle. Freddie and the girls usually called at night, so I was surprised to hear it ring early one February morning. After a hectic search that left me panting, I finally retrieved it.
“Is this Steve Wolf?” asked a female voice.
“It is.” I sat down to catch my breath.
“Hi, Steve. My name is Anne. I’m part of the greyhound rescue and adoption effort here in Sedona.”
Uh-oh. I had almost forgotten that a few weeks earlier, Maggie had cajoled me into filling out an application to adopt a greyhound. I had run into her and Lance at the IGA again. This time Maggie was fund-raising for her rescue group, Wings for Greyhounds. She owned a small plane that she piloted around the Southwest, retrieving greyhounds who were in danger of being disposed of by their owners. She then transported the hounds to foster families. Maggie told me she had recently helped rescue a group of dogs that had been abandoned at the Tucson racetrack. I was so moved by her story that I agreed to fill out the adoption application, but I had no intention of actually bringing a dog home.
“Good news,” Anne was now burbling. “The greyhounds rescued from Tucson were placed with a foster family on a ranch outside Flagstaff. The rescues responded and are successfully socializing.”
“Excellent,” I mumbled. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks!” With a hint of hesitation, Anne continued, “The greys all received veterinary treatment—their teeth were fixed and cleaned, shots brought current, and all were spayed or neutered.”
I could tell there was more, but I interrupted, “I really am happy about this, Anne. But I’m not feeling so great. May I call you another time?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I just wanted you to know.”
I cleared my throat and prepared for good-bye. “Wait!” Anne almost shouted. “I also wanted to give you the phone number of the foster parents. You were approved to adopt, and I wanted to give you the first opportunity.”
No point in arguing. I jotted down the number and address and got off the phone.
I went back and forth about the whole outlandish idea over the next several weeks. What was I doing? Why would I lead these people on? I didn’t need any more hassles in my life, not to mention the fact that if I got a dog, Freddie would feed me to the fish. She had been at me for years about saying yes to every request and taking on too much.
Beneath all the uncertainty was fear. It was natural to be leery of the unknown, of course. How would a new dog fit into our family? What would happen if the greyhound just wouldn’t socialize? But those weren’t the issues that were making me so anxious. I was mad at myself for being a coward. I was afraid that I was no longer capable of taking care of anyone but myself. I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to cope with complex tasks. I was afraid that pain would keep me from caring for a dog who urgently needed love and attention. More than anything, I was afraid I would fail again.
At the same time, everything I had learned about these racing dogs and their survival tugged at me like spring mud pulling at my boots. I knew that life was revealed mostly in shades of gray, but my upbringing had also taught me that certain issues were black or white, right or wrong. Killing healthy dogs in the prime of their life because they don’t make enough money is wrong. When you have the chance to right a wrong, in whatever small or large way, you have a duty to step up and do it. But if that was the source of my conflicted feelings, I could simply volunteer to help with fund-raisers.
My attraction to greyhounds was something much deeper than duty. From the first time I saw Lance, sunlight sparking off his smooth coat while he calmly surveyed the world around him, my gut detected an attitude, a wisdom—an aura, if you will—that was Zen-like. I was left with the impression that Lance did not waste any thought or effort trying to correct the past, because he was too busy enjoying the moment. The softness of his eyes whenever he leaned for comfort against Maggie was proof he had moved on. That Lance could so obviously love a human being after being treated like a piece of meat was profoundly touching.
My head told me one thing, but my heart fought back. One evening, as I sat in my recliner weighing the pros and cons for the hundredth time, I wearily thought, Oh, to hell with this. I tossed a sleeping pill into my mouth and took a sip of water to wash it down. For some reason a quote by Henry David Thoreau flashed into my mind: “To be awake is to be alive … We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical aids, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn.” That sudden thought rattled me. It made me realize how desperately I wanted, needed, to believe that the sun would keep coming up every morning. And I had a very strong hunch that these greyhounds could help.
“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to take a look,” I said to the walls.
2
MARCH 2000—ARIZONA
One week later, I found myself sitting on the foster mom’s couch, looking into the face of a cinnamon-striped greyhound.
“Comet seems to have made the decision for you,” Kathy said. And with that, the greyhound was mine.
If Comet’s boldness inside the foster family’s house had surprised me, I was equally startled by how willingly she jumped into the back of my SUV. Then I remembered that Maggie had told me racing dogs are transported in trailers. As we left the ranch, Comet remained standing, staring out the windows like a little kid on a school bus.
“I know you’re not used to being able to see out,” I said, wanting to get her accustomed to the sound of my voice. “But with your long legs, you’re going to need to lie down before we start going too fast—it’s easy to lose your balance.”
Sure enough, as we rounded a sharp bend in the road, Comet fell down. She immediately jumped to her feet and shot me a hurt look, as if I had just played a mean joke on her. In very short order she lost her balance two more times, jumping up each time, unwilling to stay on the carpeted floor.
I pulled to the shoulder of the road and tried to soothe her. “It’s okay, Comet. It’ll take some practice before you get the hang of it.” I may have sounded relaxed, but I was beginning to sweat. How could I get her to lie down? I wasn’t flexible enough to climb around in the backseat and maneuver her into the right position. If I opened the rear hatch, I was afraid she’d bolt past me and be gone. But if I did n
othing she was going to get hurt; the road back to Sedona was forty miles of mountainous twists and turns.
Fortunately, I had brought several blankets with me. I limped to the back of the SUV, balancing on one cane with the blankets thrown over my shoulder. Very slowly, I opened the hatch. If I weren’t careful, I could lose this dog. Then, as if I needed another test, a truck went blasting past and the wind jerked the hatch door out of my hands, leaving me eye to eye with Comet.
“Whoa, girl. It’s okay,” I said softly. She just stood there looking at me with a touch of amusement. I reached out, petting her head and trying to offer reassurance. By all outward appearances Comet didn’t need it, but I sure as heck did.
When my heart stopped pounding I began to gently pull on Comet’s front legs, telling her to lie down as I helped her onto the blankets. She resisted, so I massaged her ears for a minute to calm her down. Finally she slid to the floor, and I quietly shut the hatch. Comet comfortably reclined on her blankets during the rest of the trip home.
The sky was growing dark when I finally pulled into my driveway, clipped a leash onto Comet’s collar, and coaxed her through the front door. The moment she stepped inside, her long nails clicked sharply against the tile floor and she shot straight up in the air like a frightened cat. What was that noise! The dog had never walked on tile before. She scrambled another frantic step and leaped straight up again, looking terrified. Stifling my laughter, I quickly ushered her onto the carpet in the great room, wondering what sort of creature I had adopted.
Exhausted and not knowing what might set her off next, I led Comet to my bedroom, where I had placed a large wire dog cage. Since racers spend most of their life inside crates at the track, I hoped the cage would offer some type of security while providing a familiar place to rest—and this one had a nice soft cushion. Comet dashed for it like a ballplayer sprinting for home plate. I left the cage open but closed the bedroom door so she wouldn’t make another shocking discovery while I was asleep. After giving her plenty of food and fresh water, I settled onto my own bed and shut my eyes.
The room was pitch dark when I woke up several hours later. I rolled onto my side, trying to see the clock.
“Holy crap!” I yelled and jerked back. Comet was staring at me from the side of the bed, utterly silent. She appeared to be more curious than afraid. My startled response didn’t faze her. Then, without any visible effort, she glided off the floor and onto the bed, barely causing a stir in the mattress. She stood next to me for the briefest moment before simultaneously sliding her front legs forward and folding her back legs under her until she was sitting down. I spent the next half hour talking to her, telling her who I was and explaining the mess she had gotten herself into.
“You would not believe this, Comet, but I used to be an athlete, too.” My spinal degeneration had first been diagnosed when I was sixteen, and supposedly repaired at that time with a fusion. I went on to earn two college sports scholarships, for football and baseball. Back pain had flared up intermittently since then, but I had always managed it with bed rest and willpower. Just two years ago I had been in the best shape of my life. I was even training for a triathlon. Then, during a lunch-hour basketball game at the YMCA, I had stumbled after a ball and couldn’t get back up. I had to be carried from the court and taken directly to the hospital. The doctors there informed me, “Your back’s a mess. You’ve got dehydrated discs, bone spurs, and stenosis. And the bone around your old fusion has become deformed.” The remedy? There was none. “It can’t be fixed. Surgery would only help with part of a very complex problem, if it helped at all.” I was forty-three years old.
Comet shifted to her side, stretched out, and shut her eyes. “So that’s the story,” I murmured as I softly stroked her flank. “To be continued.”
During the first few days at my house, Comet encountered many curiosities. The television confounded her. For minutes at a time she would stand directly in front of it, watching the action with tilted head and unblinking eyes. Then she would push at the screen with her nose. Finally, after not receiving so much as a wave from the tiny characters, she abandoned her attempts at communication.
Darkness brought different mysteries. The second night we were home, Comet suddenly rushed from the kitchen into the great room and squeezed behind my recliner. Odd. The next night she did the same thing, and I got a little worried. I sat down in a kitchen chair and called for Comet to join me. She crept out from behind the recliner and stood in the great room staring at me but refused to enter the kitchen. The house had an open plan, with the kitchen’s sliding glass doors visible from the great room. I saw her wide eyes repeatedly looking at the glass doors, then back to me. Maybe it was something outside. I went and stood next to her, determined to spot the demon. The darkness of the covered patio had created a shimmering, exaggerated reflection of Comet in the glass, making her think I had another dog in the backyard. I laughed when I saw the reflection, and Comet nudged my leg, letting me know my humor was not appreciated. Properly chagrined, I tickled her ears, saying, “That is scary, Comet. I’ll make her go away by closing the curtains.” Problem solved!
Some of Comet’s reactions were unlike those of any dog I had known. For instance, my golden retrievers hated it when I left them at home, but Freddie assured me that they moped only until they caught the scent of a new adventure. When I returned, their greeting was a massive celebration primarily because they had forgotten I was gone. Comet took it much harder. She soon realized that when I grabbed the keys from the peg by the garage door, it meant I was leaving. Instantly the sparkle in her eyes would vanish, to be replaced by a lifeless wooden stare that reminded me of one of those deer heads mounted over a fireplace. Her tail would droop between her legs and she would turn and slowly walk off, never once looking back at me, like a prisoner on death row. Maybe she acted that way because when she was left in her crate at the track, she never knew when or if her trainer would return. Eventually she was abandoned. Comet was probably convinced this life would be more of the same. I only hoped she would soon understand that I would always come back, and that her life had truly changed.
THE ADOPTION APPLICATION had hinted at many of the unique challenges a new greyhound “parent” might encounter. The dogs’ upbringing made them brilliant at racing but stunted in terms of human interaction, sort of like canine aliens. They would require a lot of TLC and would need to be taught social skills that the average pet absorbed by growing up with a family. Greyhounds couldn’t be kept in an outdoor kennel, because their low body fat made them extremely sensitive to heat and cold. They needed a place to run on a regular basis. As comprehensive as the application was, however, it didn’t spell out the daily trauma of a racer’s life, which could have a permanent impact on the hound. I uncovered those details on my own, using the nascent Internet.
My interest was piqued when I spied what I thought was a birthmark inside Comet’s right ear. I looked closer, and saw that it was a faint tattoo: 11-8-C. She pulled away from me when I tried to glance at the longer markings in her left ear. Racers are identified by those tattoos, I learned. A dog’s registration number is tattooed inside its left ear. The numbers and letters inside its right ear indicate its date of birth and order within the litter. (Comet was born in November 1998, third in the litter.) So for the first two years of her life, Comet didn’t have a name, only a number. It was a far cry from pedigreed show dogs with their aristocratic titles.
I was certain that I had seen greyhounds in the Westminster Dog Show, which I watched religiously every year. But it turned out that most greyhounds never enter the mainstream world of families or dog shows. A few are registered with the American Kennel Club (AKC) and compete at events like Westminster. However, the great majority of greyhounds are bred and raised as racers and registered as such with a different organization, the National Greyhound Association (NGA).
What are racers? They are the same greyhound in style, appearance, disposition, and ability as nonracers, but beca
use they are registered as property of the racing industry, they are commonly raised like livestock. Greyhounds are treated more like cattle or hogs in a 4-H project than like beloved family pets. It’s true that many racing-dog owners are kind to and admire their greyhounds, in the same way that a rancher is kind to and admires his brood stock. It’s just that from birth, racing greyhounds are seen as a commodity: raised, bought, sold, and even slaughtered as the economies of the gambling industry dictate.
In an average seven-puppy litter, only a few are tattooed (by three months) and registered (by eighteen months). In the days before rescue, the dogs that were not registered were presumed dead, destroyed because they were deemed unsuitable for the track. Of the registered greyhounds, some are held for breeding purposes, and the rest enter the racing cycle. It takes only a few races to pick out which dogs have a future as winners and are worth pampering. The “losers” are transported from racetrack to racetrack in tiny cages built into trailers, where they run the risk of dehydration, weight loss, and injury. The only reason the losers are kept around anyway is to give the featured racers bodies to compete against. The trainers spend as little as possible on their upkeep.
The animals that survive the travel are forced to live in wood-and-wire crates at the track. The crates are stacked one on top of another and don’t have enough room for many of the larger animals to turn around or to stand with a raised head. Their only creature comfort is the shredded paper on the floor of the cage. Crowding so many dogs into such a small space causes extensive flea, tick, and worm infestations. The greyhounds are often muzzled for the twenty or more hours a day they spend in this spartan confinement. Sometimes they are able to drink, but not to eat, through the muzzle. They are mainly fed cheap “4-D meat”—meat from diseased or destroyed animals, which can’t be used for human consumption. Their only exposure to life outside their prison comes when they are released a few times a day to relieve themselves and to train.
