regale Ben with humorous stories of their exploits at the Retirement Home, I joined the other seven handlers with dogs engaged in the first race. Even after this morning’s stressful activities, I couldn’t wait for the meeting to start. To me, training and racing greyhounds was up there with Christmas—losing your virginity—winning the lottery—a date with the delectable Hugh Jackman…
Okay, okay, maybe cancel the last one.
But hey, you know what I mean. The thrill of watching those beautiful canine athletes gallop around the track, striving with every sinew and muscle, gave me goose bumps. No matter how many times I watched greyhounds in action—it was always an enormous buzz.
My first entrant for the day, Witchy Woman, a black brindle bitch with snow white paws, wriggled and leaped in the air like a firecracker while I struggled to fit a stretchy pink lycra rug over her head and ease it down across her back. It was like she was saying, ‘for Woof’s sake, just let me onto the track so I can show ’em how good I am’.
“Okay, Witchy, not long now,” I told her and gently tugged her ears. “How about saving all that enthusiasm for the race?” As usual, the wriggling ball of energy ignored my advice. I shook my head at her like a proud Mama with a recalcitrant but gifted child as she bounced outside into the parade ring on the end of her lead. After letting her empty out I trotted her briskly up and down on the grass to warm and stretch her muscles. Box eight should suit the little black brindle bitch as she was a wide runner. Not overly fast out of the traps, she had a powerful finish and I hoped, as she matured, she’d become a handy distance proposition.
After placing my dog in the starting box nearest the outside fence, I stood back with the other handlers and let out a shaky sigh. It was all up to Witchy now . The lure approached, the lids lifted and, as predicted, my girl jumped last. Please don’t get hurt . Mouth dry, I watched as the little dog stayed wide on the track, negotiated the first bend without trouble and once she found her balance in the back straight, began to lengthen stride. You can do it, Witchy! Although still a pup and at the beginning of her racing career, this bitch was awesome to watch. In full stride she was a perfect example of the old cliché— poetry in motion .
“Go girl!”
And go she did. In the back straight Witchy lay fifth—when she rounded the home turn and passed me at the boxes she was third—by the time she crossed the finish line she was two lengths in front and pulling away.
A massive run—and a welcome addition to my bank account.
After that it was as though my greyhounds had sprouted wings and could do no wrong. From three dogs to race, Witchy and Clark were winners and the unplaced dog, Bugs, who was knocked out of the race on the first turn, still managed to rattle home for third. From my 50% share of the prize money I had enough to pay last month’s overdue mortgage, cash to pay the feed man and maybe buy a new tire for my car.
I couldn’t stop smiling.
Lofty was in the last race of the day, the best-eight nominated for the Gawler division of the Country Championships. If he won today, he’d represent Gawler against the winners of the other country tracks in the final.
After waiting for Chris, the vet on duty, to apply a one inch track-leg bandage to Lofty’s left hind leg, I floated into the parade ring. Couldn’t douse my enormous grin. Hey, if this winner’s high could be bottled, people would queue at their state’s Greyhound Racing office to apply for a license. Much healthier than popping pills, sniffing white powder or smoking weed. I smiled at Lofty—a picture of canine arrogance strutting on the end of his lead. A short-priced favorite to win the race, you’d swear the dog had studied the bookmakers’ odds and listened to the tote fluctuations on the radio.
It was as I paused by the railing to let Lofty cock his leg and
Okay, okay, maybe cancel the last one.
But hey, you know what I mean. The thrill of watching those beautiful canine athletes gallop around the track, striving with every sinew and muscle, gave me goose bumps. No matter how many times I watched greyhounds in action—it was always an enormous buzz.
My first entrant for the day, Witchy Woman, a black brindle bitch with snow white paws, wriggled and leaped in the air like a firecracker while I struggled to fit a stretchy pink lycra rug over her head and ease it down across her back. It was like she was saying, ‘for Woof’s sake, just let me onto the track so I can show ’em how good I am’.
“Okay, Witchy, not long now,” I told her and gently tugged her ears. “How about saving all that enthusiasm for the race?” As usual, the wriggling ball of energy ignored my advice. I shook my head at her like a proud Mama with a recalcitrant but gifted child as she bounced outside into the parade ring on the end of her lead. After letting her empty out I trotted her briskly up and down on the grass to warm and stretch her muscles. Box eight should suit the little black brindle bitch as she was a wide runner. Not overly fast out of the traps, she had a powerful finish and I hoped, as she matured, she’d become a handy distance proposition.
After placing my dog in the starting box nearest the outside fence, I stood back with the other handlers and let out a shaky sigh. It was all up to Witchy now . The lure approached, the lids lifted and, as predicted, my girl jumped last. Please don’t get hurt . Mouth dry, I watched as the little dog stayed wide on the track, negotiated the first bend without trouble and once she found her balance in the back straight, began to lengthen stride. You can do it, Witchy! Although still a pup and at the beginning of her racing career, this bitch was awesome to watch. In full stride she was a perfect example of the old cliché— poetry in motion .
“Go girl!”
And go she did. In the back straight Witchy lay fifth—when she rounded the home turn and passed me at the boxes she was third—by the time she crossed the finish line she was two lengths in front and pulling away.
A massive run—and a welcome addition to my bank account.
After that it was as though my greyhounds had sprouted wings and could do no wrong. From three dogs to race, Witchy and Clark were winners and the unplaced dog, Bugs, who was knocked out of the race on the first turn, still managed to rattle home for third. From my 50% share of the prize money I had enough to pay last month’s overdue mortgage, cash to pay the feed man and maybe buy a new tire for my car.
I couldn’t stop smiling.
Lofty was in the last race of the day, the best-eight nominated for the Gawler division of the Country Championships. If he won today, he’d represent Gawler against the winners of the other country tracks in the final.
After waiting for Chris, the vet on duty, to apply a one inch track-leg bandage to Lofty’s left hind leg, I floated into the parade ring. Couldn’t douse my enormous grin. Hey, if this winner’s high could be bottled, people would queue at their state’s Greyhound Racing office to apply for a license. Much healthier than popping pills, sniffing white powder or smoking weed. I smiled at Lofty—a picture of canine arrogance strutting on the end of his lead. A short-priced favorite to win the race, you’d swear the dog had studied the bookmakers’ odds and listened to the tote fluctuations on the radio.
It was as I paused by the railing to let Lofty cock his leg and
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