The dogs are led out in muzzles and jerseys, dancing and pulling at their leashes. Boys in blue shirts lead them into gates: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, and white panels shut them in. A voice comes out over the loudspeakers, quiet at our picnic table, and bored--not excited, like me--announcing the names of the dogs. Jessie, David, Shane, and I stand against the chain-link fence, leaning toward the track, waiting. "Here comes Swifty!" proclaims the voice, and a little car-like creature with a stuffed bunny attached to it shoots by. The gates swing up and the dogs are out, not running but flying. We chose number six, Phil's* Shane, (sure to win with a name like that). At first he was last, but half way round he surged forward and overtook the other dogs. My hands were in the air as he rounded the bend, my voice growing hoarse from cheering--and then he was there, the finish line, and he was first!
Out of the eight races we watched, Phil's Shane was the only dog we chose who won. But that didn't diminish the excitement of the races one bit. As soon as the dogs shot out from their gates, I was screaming at my dog, willing him to win. Who knew my heart would have become so entangled in a dog race? If you've never been to one, you ought to go. It's fascinating, it's fun, and it's free!
*Apostrophe added for the benefit of myself and any other grammar freaks out there. ;)
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Good times, good times.
ReplyDeleteBut my heart can't help but feel burdened for all the folks there who REALLY cared - beyond the hooping and hollering - and cast their hopes upon that desolate ground. (Or Den of Sin, as the boys were certain it was called! I hope David's mom reads this so she knows he went. Haha!)
This is about greyhounds!!! I had a greyhound for many years, they are awesome dogs :)
ReplyDeletei thought it cost $1
ReplyDeleteisn't dog racing considered animal abuse?
ReplyDelete