by Steven Wolf
Throughout most of their four-thousand-year history as human companions, greyhounds have not been trained to race in a circle competing against other dogs. They were initially bred to run long distances over varied terrain in order to chase down game such as deer, which provided food for their owners. When racing on a short oval track with a lot of other greyhounds after being confined and mistreated, bad things are bound to happen. Hips and legs are shattered. Spines are severed. Brains are scrambled. And dogs are electrocuted by the charged inner rail that operates the bunny lure.
Even if a racer survives these risks, the dog’s long-term prospects are grim. Hounds who never place in the money far outnumber the winners, and even the winners will start losing one day. Most of the losers are three years old or younger. Because food and care cost money, no racing kennel wants to keep them around. Since greyhound breeders produce tens of thousands of dogs every year, it’s easy to obtain a replacement. The president of the Pensacola Greyhound Association summed up the industry attitude when he said, “That’s just a bad part of the business, unfortunately. I compare it to owning a professional sports team. If you have one of your star players who isn’t putting out, then you have to make other arrangements.”
The “arrangements” are what lie at the end of the road for hundreds of thousands of greyhounds. Some are killed legally by veterinarians hired by the dogs’ owners. I suspect that the vast majority of vets would never agree to or condone euthanizing young, healthy dogs, but you can be sure there is someone at every track who has no such qualms.
Then there is another option, known within the industry as “going back to the farm.” A man named Robert Rhodes operated one such farm—eighteen acres in rural Alabama where he admitted to shooting thousands of greyhounds during his forty-year career in the racing industry. An aerial photo revealed an estimated three thousand greyhound skeletons scattered around his property. Rhodes, a security guard at a Florida track, said dog owners and trainers had paid him as little as ten dollars per animal to dispose of their greyhounds.
Something similar had happened in Arizona. In 1992 the rotting corpses of 143 racing greyhounds were found after the bodies had been mutilated and scattered in an abandoned citrus orchard. After shooting the dogs, the killers had cut off the tattooed ears, hoping it would prevent them from being identified. Good police work led to the discovery of some of the ears, and an Arizona breeder and kennel owner was convicted for his part in the massacre. He was fined twenty-five thousand dollars, sentenced to thirty days in jail, given eighteen months probation, and ordered to perform four hundred hours of community service. Compare that to the punishment of Michael Vick, the professional football player who in 2007 was convicted of animal cruelty and served a twenty-three-month prison term for his part in a dog-fighting ring that resulted in the deaths of several pit bulls. The disparity in those two sentences may point to how differently “pets” and “livestock” are valued.
In addition to the massacres, there are a multitude of documented cases where greyhounds have simply disappeared. Thousands have been “donated” to medical research, and many more have been transported to other countries. Advocates for the Greyhound Protection League say that twenty-five thousand is a conservative estimate of the yearly number of greyhound killings that occurred during the racing industry’s heyday from the mid-1980s to the early 2000s.
“If there’s anybody to be indicted here, it’s the industry because this is what they’re doing to these animals. The misery begins the day they’re born. The misery ends when my client gets ahold of them and puts a bullet in their head.” That is how Robert Rhodes’s attorney attempted to defend his client’s actions as late as 2003. The defense was ridiculous, but his observations about the industry were on target. A racing greyhound’s misery does begin the day the dog is born. However, owing to growing public awareness, greyhounds are being rescued and adopted in ever increasing numbers. By 2003, eighteen thousand retired racers were being placed with families each year. Unfortunately, that still left seven thousand hounds who were needlessly put to death. While the numbers might be fewer today, the percentages haven’t necessarily improved.
Watching Comet asleep at my feet, I tried to erase the image of this gentle creature being raced, abused, starved, and abandoned. I could not predict how well she would adapt to her new world, but I could do my best to ease her into it slowly.
3
APRIL 2000—ARIZONA
When I first brought Comet home I had been concerned about getting her socialized, but as it turned out, I was the one who needed lessons. Comet’s insatiable curiosity about all sights, sounds, and smells in the neighborhood included every human being we passed on our walks. I had carefully cultivated a self-pitying solitude all these months, returning my neighbors’ greetings with a curt nod of my head. Not Comet. She didn’t gush over people like the goldens did but instead approached them like a well-mannered foreign diplomat. First she’d observe from a distance, giving the neighbor ample time to size up the elegant dog and her less stylish owner. After a few moments, Comet’s curiosity would get the best of her. With that unique greyhound dignity, she would stroll over to the neighbor, her head held high and her eyes so wide and inquisitive that the person would melt on the spot. Within a week I was on a first-name basis with all those neighbors I had so stubbornly avoided.
That was how I met Bill and Jana. Although my backyard adjoined theirs, I had made a point of not engaging in any extended conversations. But shortly after Comet’s arrival, while she was gleefully poking her long nose into the dozens of mole tunnels in a nearby vacant lot, Bill called out to me, “Is that your new dog?” I wasn’t totally over my pity party, but neither was I rude enough to simply nod and turn away. Who could blame Bill for wanting to meet Comet? It wasn’t long before I found myself joining him for a drink and a cigar on his patio and then accepting Bill and Jana’s dinner invitations.
I was pleased with the way Comet was settling in, especially after some of the horror stories I had heard about other rescued greyhounds. Some could never adjust to the noise level out in the real world. Like a deaf person whose hearing has been restored for the first time, they were overwhelmed by the onslaught of everyday sounds. In the same way, the background activity of normal life caused some greyhounds to become so anxious that they would regularly try to hide in the dark or run away. Other greys had trouble adapting to different dogs or to children because they didn’t understand how to playfully join in.
The most tragic tales involved greyhounds who ran away, not because they wanted to but because they were compelled to. The dogs can spot moving objects up to a half mile away, so if they see a distant cat or squirrel, their chasing instincts—reinforced at the track—immediately kick in. If not restrained by a leash or fence, many greyhounds are gone within seconds, and they don’t know to stop until they’re thoroughly exhausted. With no remaining energy and no experience finding their way home, the dogs are lost. Even worse, they’re not used to traffic and don’t understand that cars and trucks are dangerous.
Perhaps Comet had so few problems because of the gradual way she had been acclimated to normal life. She had several months at the ranch, and then I adopted her. Life with me was slow, to put it mildly, and there were no other adults or children around to distract her or complicate our routine. Whatever the reasons, Comet displayed an uncanny ease and graciousness with the neighbors.
What surprised me the most those first weeks was how little actual training Comet required. I was used to teaching a dog through discipline and commands. Sit, fetch, come here, lie down, no. That way the dog learned what you wanted and what behavior was expected. In contrast, Comet learned intuitively. She watched how people, especially me, talked and acted. After several days, I realized to my astonishment that she was doing most of this observation while I thought she was asleep. A greyhound’s speed requires an incredible amount of energy that must be available at a moment’s notice. Greys are not endurance runners
who rely on fat for extra stores of fuel. The only way to ensure that the energy will be there when they need it is for the dogs to rest when they’re not running.
But resting is not sleeping. Within just a few days of surreptitiously listening to my phone calls and hearing me talk to friends and neighbors, Comet could detect what mood I was in by the tone of my voice. When we were on a walk and I said, “Slow down,” she could tell whether I was amused by her excitement or in pain from exertion. If I was in pain, she would wait and patiently walk by my side. Comet’s tranquil demeanor was a welcome change from the boisterous goldens and their sweet but exhausting need for attention. She was always alert, even when resting, yet she rarely barked. I was starting to think she was a cat in a dog’s body. It seemed she was always watching me, sizing me up as a potential student rather than the other way around.
Just when I would get carried away thinking Comet must be a guru in disguise, able to sense my moods and impart the wisdom of the ages, she would remind me that she was first and foremost a dog. And most dogs are crazy about kids. When Comet met Emily, the red-haired little girl next door, it was love at first sight. The two of them bonded instantly, nuzzling and communing on a private dog/kid wavelength while I dawdled at the other end of the leash. Within days they had struck a deal: Emily and Comet would get together three times a week for an after-school walk. My only role involved paying Emily a stipend.
At the first scheduled walk, I tried to explain to the excited ten-year-old the unique qualities of a retired greyhound.
“Comet is a racing dog—she’s been bred to chase things, especially animals that are running away from her.”
“Got it.”
“If there’s a sudden quick movement down the block, she’s going to be off like a rocket, so you’ve got to hold on tight to that leash.”
“Got it.”
“She doesn’t know how to find her way home like other dogs do. She could be lost in an instant.”
Emily nodded impatiently. “Can we go now?”
Chuckling, I nodded back. She grabbed the leash from my hand and marched out the front door, calling, “We’ll be back in a jiffy.”
Her words swirled in Comet’s jet stream as the greyhound shot through the open door before Emily got a chance to attach the leash.
“Uh-oh,” she whispered.
Comet was gone. I frantically hobbled to the sidewalk shouting her name, and neighbors quickly joined me in a frenzied search. Shouts of “There she is!” and “She went that way!” sailed across backyard fences. But at forty-five miles per hour, “that way” could be Flagstaff in a flash.
An hour later I returned to the house. Flustered and dismayed, I limped through the still-gaping front door, snatched the keys from the kitchen counter, and headed for the garage. I would continue the search in the SUV. It was going to be a long night.
I was just about to leave the room when my vision snagged on a pair of black ears sticking straight up from a sleek triangular head. Comet was outside, peering in through the sliding screen door. Her amused expression asked, Where have you been?
That night I sat half dozing in my recliner, bone-tired and intensely relieved that I wasn’t out driving around Sedona. Comet lay on the floor in front of me, her rib cage rhythmically stoking her contented fire. Poor Emily had been almost as traumatized by the day as I was. Comet, however, seemed fine.
ABOUT TWO WEEKS after I brought Comet home, the phone rang just as the sun was dropping behind the nearby cliffs. It was Freddie.
“What’s that sound?” she said in response to my hello.
“What sound?” I nervously replied, glancing at the sliding glass doors in the kitchen.
“That noise. It sounds like a barking dog.”
“Oh, that. The neighbor’s dog is outside. The weather’s gorgeous, so I opened the doors.”
“What’s wrong with your voice?”
I noticed the higher pitch and corrected. “Might just be some early spring pollen.” Grabbing my canes, I hustled across the room to pull the curtains on Comet’s reflected twin, which had materialized as the sky darkened.
“So how are you and the girls doing?” I huffed. “Tell me everything.”
“Woof woof woof!” Comet barked three quick warnings—totally out of character for her.
“Where are you? That barking sounds like it’s in the house.” An edge of skepticism crept into Freddie’s voice.
“The neighbor’s dog. He’s standing by my door,” I stammered.
“Which neighbor?”
My mind went blank. I had only known the neighbors’ names for a week, and I couldn’t recall a single one of them now.
“Steve?” Wolfie was Freddie’s preferred name for me. Steve was not.
“Steve, are you still there?”
A good trial attorney is a good storyteller. I knew the same skill was not as highly valued in matrimony, but I scrambled for a persuasive tale anyway. No luck.
“Yes, I’m here,” I finally admitted. “That was my dog.”
“Your what?”
“I have a new dog. There’s this greyhound adoption agency, and—”
“Wait! What? Did you say greyhound? As in ‘racing dog?’ ”
I felt a head softly brush against my leg.
“How long have you had this dog and when were you going to tell me?”
The floodgates burst and I launched into a breathless monologue. I started with Maggie and Lance, proceeded through Flagstaff, and ended at the sliding glass door. “Comet thinks the reflection is some sort of ghost. She hardly ever barks,” I concluded hopefully.
I could hear Freddie breathing heavily, trying to stay calm. “But, Wolf, a greyhound? How in the world are you going to care for a racing dog? I can’t—I just can’t even fathom it.”
“Comet chose me. What was I supposed to do?”
“How about not going up there in the first place? C’est vraiment con! I thought you told me you have a hard time shopping for food and you never even cook yourself a meal. I worry about you all night. Meanwhile, you adopt a racing dog! I’ve got to go. I’m too pissed off to talk to you now.”
Formidable. In French it means terrific, in English it means fearsome. Both described my wife. Twelve years earlier I had met this petite, dark-haired woman while on vacation in Scottsdale, Arizona. In a thick and unrecognizable (to me) accent, she had introduced herself as “Frederique, but most people call me Freddie.” She told me that she lived in the United States but had been raised in France. I was entranced by the way Freddie spoke and looked—the warm olive skin, boyishly short haircut, hazel eyes, and quick, startlingly bright smile. She was full of life, ready for any dare. When we exchanged phone numbers and realized that we shared the same Nebraska area code, I could almost hear the swell of an off-screen orchestra.
Freddie and I dated for two years before marrying and moving in together along with our children: my young daughters, Kylie and Lindsey (their mom lived in Omaha and we shared custody), and Freddie’s two-year-old girl, Jackie. The five of us settled into the house on the lake where my daughters and I had been living. Despite some initial clashes, we eventually melded into a new family. Freddie was exuberant, smart, and not at all shy. When she was around the girls, she managed to restrain her penchant for swearing. Was cursing a national pastime in her country? If so, I didn’t mind. Merde sounded so earthy and poetic.
Freddie’s boldness was fine when in service of her joie de vivre. It could turn a little rough when she got stressed, and to be fair, things had been stressful for several years. I didn’t really blame her for her harsh reaction to Comet. I just needed a little more time to make my case. After several tense conversations, my wife and I struck a compromise. I would not immediately return “the mistake,” as Freddie called Comet. In a few weeks Freddie would come to Sedona and meet the greyhound. Only then, if she still thought “the mistake” was a mistake, would I drive Comet back to the foster family.
On a warm April aftern
oon Freddie arrived via the airport shuttle—a godsend for me, the Phoenix airport being a four-hour round trip from Sedona. She entered the house and set her carry-on inside the door. Several days seemed to pass during the next few moments as Freddie spied Comet, who was sitting stiffly next to the fireplace like a statue from Tut’s tomb. The greyhound eyed us cautiously. My wife’s face softened infinitesimally as she said, “It is sort of pretty.” Then, before I could exploit any potential weakness, Freddie kissed me and said, “Let’s talk.”
We sat at the kitchen table. Comet moved toward my chair to lie down. First her slender front legs buckled, and then her haunches sank until her rear made contact with the floor. Her front paws inched forward until her deep chest touched the ground, and finally, when her entire body was stretched out, her head very gently came to rest between her paws, and her large eyes closed. The slow-motion performance always reminded me of an old building being demolished.
“That was different,” said Freddie. “Now tell me why she shouldn’t go back.” Encouraged, I rushed to fill in the details about Maggie, Wings for Greyhounds, and the treatment of retired racers. Freddie was mildly interested in the flying taxi service, and her face registered shock when she learned of Comet’s condition at the time she was rescued. But she zeroed in on the foster family ranch, interrupting my story to point out, “So the greyhounds actually have a perfect home on that ranch, with lots of room to run, which is what they like to do.”
“But it’s only temporary,” I objected. “The family can’t keep all the dogs they foster.”
Freddie sighed and got up, heading for the bedroom. I followed. Spring sunlight warmed the pillows. Comet trotted in after us and, with a flicker of movement, leaped onto the bed and stretched out. Eyes closed, body relaxed, her pose signaled snobbish disinterest in our guest.
