The Greyhound (11 page)

With that, Mahoney took out a pocket-sized chart, and spent the next half-hour explaining the details of training and conditioning Long Shot.

After that, Danny took charge around the house. Getting Long Shot ready for the race would be his job. He walked her for half a mile in the morning and again at night. He prepared her food: chunks of beef from the local butcher, rice, carrots, and other vegetables, cooked in a big pot on the stove. He began cutting lawns for some of the neighbours, putting the money into the vitamins and food Long Shot needed so she’d have as much energy as possible for the big race.

* * *

That night Danny dreamed of walking through woods.
There were birch trees and maples. I was alone. The ground felt soft, like marshmallows, and it was hard to put one foot ahead of the last one
, he wrote in his journal the next day.
It was in the late afternoon and there were sounds of frogs trilling and the sharp whistling song of a red-winged blackbird. I followed the sound of a blackbird, and came to a clearing where the woods spilled away to reveal a pond where tufts of bulrushes along its green-water edge moved in the afternoon breeze. Painted turtles lazed on a log in the middle of the pond and I could see minnows darting below its surface. The ground here was firmer and made for easier walking. Beyond the pond, maybe a hundred yards away, was a racetrack; I could hear Long Shot
“roo-rooing.”
It was just sitting in the middle of nowhere, in this field. I went toward her sound, and there were other dogs, all yowling and howling as they lined up in the starting box at the end of the track. Mist from the pond drifted across the track. The mechanical bunny whirred past, the gates burst open, and the dogs charged down the track. Each dog had a monkey for a jockey on its back.

The monkeys chattered and swatted at the dogs with banana peels, but the dogs didn’t seem to feel a thing. Each monkey was dressed in jockey clothes, bright orange and purple and green and yellow, matching the jackets on their respective mounts. The dogs raced down and around the track, sand being kicked away by eager paws, the sound of yapping trailing away into the mist. The dogs ran into a cloud of mist and disappeared.

The mist was cold and damp and clung to my face. I could still hear the sound of dogs, but faintly. My eardrums were pounding. “Where did the dogs go?” I asked aloud, to no one. Then they reappeared on the other side of the track, coming around the final turn, heading for the finish line. And I was no longer alone, the mist lifted in a blaze of late-afternoon sun that painted the track and the sand and me in a warm orange glow. A crowd of people were lined up against the railing, ghosts of people from long ago. The announcer’s voice boomed and crackled in the afternoon sun.

“And heeeeeere they come!!” Long Shot, wearing green and ridden by a capuchin monkey with a long tail curled alongside her flank
, rooed
and howled to the finish, coming in first. “That’s a girl, Long Shot!” I called. The monkey chattered in delight. The crowds of people swept onto the track, surrounding the dogs, stroking their tightly muscled bodies, petting the monkeys. All happy. I was elated. Long Shot trotted up to me, panting and pleased with herself.

* * *

The dream made Danny more determined than ever to investigate the ravine that ran behind a row of houses just a few streets over. Riding by it on his bike, he was reminded of the valley that opened up behind his old backyard. “It’s like a giant wedge of key lime pie, and the clouds on the horizon are the whipped cream,” Jack used to say. The old ravine fell away in a mass of green and brown, down, down, down, and away from the backyard of his old house, thick and shining and filled with the woodsy smell of wild plants, dense with tangles of vines and creepers and pushing relentlessly, all the way to Myerson’s Lake, getting wider as it petered out into tall brown grasses, hardscrabble earth, and lake gravel. You could hear raccoons chattering in the trees at night, the sounds of cicadas droned during hot summer days, and a lone coyote would lope through the woods long into the evenings, a grey ghost hinting at a time when woods like these were everywhere, a reminder of the time before the big housing tracts came.

There was a narrow dirt path that led through the new ravine, and Danny felt a pang of curiosity and anxiety looking at it.
What would Dad compare this to — a skinny, meandering snake that slithered its way off — somewhere?
He both did and did not want to investigate it, but the desire to wander down among the twisted trees and hanging vines won out. It was as if a hand were pushing him to find out what this place was all about. He was worried, though, that travelling through it might stir too many memories of what things were like
back then
.

Back then it was different. I didn’t know what to expect in life, and so I didn’t know that anything bad might happen. It seemed like things just happened the way they should. Now, things seem to happen the way they shouldn’t.

Still, Danny was compelled to explore it. He took Long Shot with him for support, and wandered along the dirt trail. Crickets stopped their chorus as he passed, a chipmunk and its playmate skittered across the path in front of him, and he could hear the cawing of crows somewhere beyond the trees. He paused at a tiny pond that smelled of rotting vegetation and listened to the high-pitched conversations of the leopard frogs that climbed through the cattails ringing its edge. A fat bullfrog sat in silence, watching his passage, its large yellow saucer eyes, speckled with black pepper spots, blinking once or twice. Dragonflies scouted the cattails for bugs, and, startled by Danny and Long Shot, a muskrat slipped quickly into the pond, making a soft splash as it dived under the water.

Danny let Long Shot off her leash; it was clear that Long Shot was not going to take off after anything, since she loved to be as close to Danny as possible. As he walked along the path, the dog loped up ahead, just a few steps in front of Danny, looking back every once in a while to make sure he was still there.

They passed an old shed, its ash-coloured timbers in disrepair. An ancient crippled remnant of a farm that existed in the area fifty years before. They walked by twisted trunks of willow trees and a stand of poplars; the dirt path twisted uphill and the pair reached a ridge, where a cloud of monarch butterflies hovered over a wildly overgrown plot of milkweed.

Emerald cocoons hung from the milkweed, and some butterflies were just emerging. Danny knelt down by the chrysalises, watching a damp monarch carefully emerge from its sparkling green bed, its wings like two damp pieces of paint-splotched tissue paper. It moved slowly onto the edge of its cocoon, like a novice tightrope walker. Danny watched and waited as the sun dried out the butterfly, and its wings stretched out taut and firm, ready for flight. He turned to look at the black and orange cloud of monarchs, moving like a winged orchestra to a stand of golden ragweed, landing as a group on the flowers, drawing on them for nourishment. Danny moved along the path, his movement surprising another group of butterflies, which exploded into the air in a silent burst of black and yellow and orange fireworks.

He wandered away from the ridge, following the path toward the traffic sounds that were growing louder. He soon reached the end of the ravine at a county road, a long black asphalt snake that stretched and twisted itself past fields of corn into the distance, losing itself between two hills in the distance. It was the late afternoon and the sun was a wash of crimson. Cars followed the setting sun along the ribbon of asphalt, driving faster and faster, as if escaping from something distant and menacing to the east.

AUGUST

The race was being held at a track far from home. It took Danny and Jack two days to get to Belle River. Long Shot rode in a crate at the back of the van. It was a small town with a Walmart on the outskirts and the road from the highway, Cole Avenue, running through the centre of town crossing Centre Street, where a line of stores, a bank, and the town library told you that this was the centre of town. Nearby, there was an Esso service station, and not far away from that was a Tim Hortons, and then the town park, where a granite monument proclaimed the names of Belle River residents who had died serving in the First and Second World Wars.

“Dave Langley said the track is about ten minutes outside of town,” Jack said to Danny, who was balancing a map on his knees. Long whined gently in the back. Jack turned onto Cole Avenue, leading out of town. They passed a retirement home, an arena, and some larger houses built on a hill that cradled the road as it wound its way out of town. Soon the town was behind them and Danny could see apple orchards and green fields out of his windows. The track appeared as a streak in the distance, not far from the lake. It was a former car-racing track. A battered, weather-beaten, old grandstand, its green paint chipping and worn, was laid out alongside the track.

Dave, the big and blustery Texan, met them at the gate. “C’mon in,” he said, grabbing the brim of his cowboy hat in greeting. Dozens of cars were parked neatly on the grassy field outside the track. Though the grandstand had somehow been missed, the track had been renovated. It was a neat oval of reddish-brown sand. They were testing a mechanical rabbit in the centre loop, where it was whizzing around the track. Danny could feel Long Shot, on her short leash, starting to get agitated.

“Easy, girl,” he said. “You’ll get your chance to run again.” They moved easily through the crowd, all of the spectators seemed to recognize the fabled Long Shot. Old duffers in porkpie hats nodded in Long’s direction. There was a buzz of excitement as they made their way to the far end of the track, where the dogs were kept before the race.

“Long Shot will have to provide a urine sample,” said the Texan, holding out a large plastic cup. He saw Danny’s look of disbelief, and said quickly, “I know you fellas play by the rules, but it’s understood that we’re being held to a set of rules, pretty strict ones, too, and I have to make sure we all play by them.”

The dogs were led into the starting box. Most of the eight dogs were jumpy and strained a bit at their leads, but Long Shot was calm. A few minutes earlier, the announcer’s voice had rung out, like thunder on a clear day: booming and powerful and commanding.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. A special event for you today. A match race featuring the greyhound world’s best of the best for the last three years.”

The crowd murmured its approval. A heavyset man with an unlit cigar furiously wrote down names as the announcer’s voice rolled across the weather-beaten grandstand. A woman in blue jeans and a canary yellow sweater got up from her seat and hurried to the betting window. An old man with a leathery face, his neck a length of deeply furrowed wrinkles, craned his neck to see the dogs.
He looks like a turtle
, Danny thought,
a turtle watching dogs
.

Long Shot was wearing a red jacket with the number 7 on the side.

“Lucky number,” Jack said quietly. His enthusiasm, it seemed, had been tempered by seeing the other dogs at the track.

Granted, they were all around Long Shot’s age, all of them great winners, but some were imposing. Bristol’s Coneybeare, a tall, dark red female out of Sarasota Springs, high-stepped it past the punters along the rail. A tall, thin man in an oversized green tweed jacket leaned against the rail, pushing back the brim of his hat as he eyed Coneybeare. “This one’s a winner,” he said to his companion, a woman in blue jeans and a sweater with NASCAR emblazoned on it. “I’m damn sure of it.”

Other dogs came onto the track. Coleman’s Number One, a smaller but very wiry dog, like an oversized whippet, pranced about; a blue brindle prizefighter ready for battle. Langston’s Merit, a black and white runner from Georgia with a reputation for fast starts, simply gazed at the crowd with an unsettling confidence. Then there was Finian’s Rainbow, a grizzled, dark brindle veteran of more races than anyone could remember. He was likely the most muscular dog on the track, a powerhouse who had edged out some of the best runners in the United States. Danny, looking at the field of dogs, felt a sense of awe.

The mechanical rabbit hummed along, around the inside of the course. Whirring past the gate, frozen in time like a cartoon rabbit, Bugs Bunny leaping away from Elmer Fudd in still life. And yet it was moving; moving faster and faster, it seemed. The dogs, seeing it moving, were hyper-sensitized and started pushing and straining to chase after it. When it was about twenty feet past the gate, the doors swung open, and the dogs hurled themselves onto the track.

“Aaaaand, they’re out of the gate!” the announcer’s voice boomed. Small clods of earth were churned up as the dogs’ sinewy bodies pushed them, great machines of muscle and bone and tendon, trying to move each of them further ahead of the other greyhounds in the field. Long Shot’s red jacket flashed by the grandstand, like a quickly darting bird on the wing. Long was out in front, and Danny could almost hear her panting as she coiled and uncoiled her muscles, her back a solid line of animal grace and power. The next dog, Finian’s Rainbow, the muscular dog with a yellow coat and number 3, pushed alongside Long Shot. Long’s shoulder was hugging the rail as Finian streamed past, huffing as he strained to reach the madly, wildly fast-moving rabbit. Long was not to be outdone. Her hind legs moved in a smooth half-circle, reaching just ahead of her front paws, touching down, and then vaulting her forward. Small puffs of dirt and dust rose from the track as she moved forward, first bumping her muzzle at Finian’s haunches, then coming even with the bigger dog.

But a burst of speed from Coleman’s Number One sent the smaller dog hurtling forward. Panting, his chest heaving, he held the lead for a half second, then eased back, his burst of speed lost, the effort too much for him, as Langston’s Merit pounded forward to pass him, reaching Long Shot’s tail, then gaining enough hard fought ground to bring his muzzled nose even with Long’s right shoulder. Long Shot and Finian, neck and neck, were still in front, moving slightly ahead of the pack. The finish line came into view. The lights of the track caught Long Shot’s dark eyes, throwing off little sparks of glitter. The crowd began to cheer, a swelling upheaval of shouts and mindless whoops and gritty words and noise like Danny had never heard before became an ocean’s rush of sound that erupted and poured out onto the track. It was as if the sound itself was pushing, nudging, and propelling the dogs to the finish line.

Go girl, go!
Danny cheered to himself.

His father was pounding a rolled-up programme against his fist. “Yes! Yes!” Jack yelled.

The last twenty feet felt like slow motion for Danny, like in an action movie, for dramatic effect. Long Shot’s legs appeared to turn into pistons, pushing into the earth, her nose straight ahead, the number 7 a streak of black against the red of her jacket. She leaned into the run on the least few feet of track, edging out Finian’s Rainbow by a nose.

“She won! She won! Whoo-hooo!” Danny’s father cheered.

The crowd erupted into an impromptu chant: “Long Shot! Long Shot! Long Shot!”

Danny ran down to the rail. “Long Shot!” he cried. The dog looked over, recognized him, and wagged her tail as she was led back to her crate.

The celebration afterwards was outstanding. A banquet was set up in a large meeting hall at the local arena, and the room’s laminated wood floors were polished to a shine, the tables were laden with fried chicken, ham, roast beef, all kinds of vegetable dishes, and desserts. The dogs were kennelled in a specially built enclosure in a shady area outside and given their fill of “the best dang dog food this side of Texas,” Dave Langley said with a smile. Mahoney and several others beckoned to Danny and his dad as they joined the line of hungry greyhound fans. They filled their plates and headed to the table, stopped along the way by smiling people offering their hearty congratulations on Long Shot’s win. At the table Jack relaxed and basked in the adulation that continued to come, long into the evening. Three offers to purchase Long Shot were gently turned away. A small Zydeco band was set up at one end of the room, and soon people were up and dancing around the room. Even old Mahoney got up for a two-step.