End of the Race (11 page)

“Are you enjoying the races?” he continues. “How about that Five Dog, Bettor’s Dream? Were you
lucky enough to bet on a winner today?”

“I don’t bet,” Gran replies.

Manny continues as if he hasn’t even heard her, like he’s so infatuated by his voice that he wants to hear it talk, talk, talk. “I’ve been in this business for thirty years and I haven’t seen any faster than Bettor’s Dream. He’s won cup after cup. Bettor will be in the American Greyhound Hall of Fame in a few years, soon as he retires.” Manny grins proudly.

Taryn and I exchange glances. “What about Bad Girl, your Two Dog?” I ask, my pulse racing. “She shouldn’t run again Monday after spraining her foreleg, like your men expect her to. That kind of injury takes time to heal—maybe even a couple of weeks.”

“She’ll do just fine.” Manny’s grin distorts into a downward curl. “What men?”

“We have evidence your dogs are being tampered with,” Gran says. “We assume that you run a legitimate business here. But some of the dog handlers are performing unethical activities, which could get them fined and the dogs disqualified.”

Manny’s face twists into a scowl. He folds his arms
across his barrel chest. “We don’t do anything shady here. This is a class operation, so don’t get smart with me.”

“Let’s keep this discussion calm, Mr. Drescher, because I’ve alerted the police downstairs that I may need their help,” Gran warns. She turns to Taryn. “Go ahead.”

Taryn takes out her mini tape recorder and clicks it to “play.” The basement conversation replays loud and clear: “Shoot her with the painkiller. She won’t even feel that sprained ankle on Monday.” Snickers all around, then a yelp from Bad Girl. The dog’s cry hurts me, just as it did when we heard it live.

The color drains from Manny’s face. He and his secretary stand there awkwardly.

“Forcing an injured dog to run before the injury is healed is cruel and unethical,” Gran says, obviously shocked again by Taryn’s tape recording, but quickly regaining her composure. “The Humane Society would like to hear about this.”

I gather my nerve to talk. “We also saw a dog named Whiskey ’n’ Water about to be force-fed laxatives so that he’d weigh less before the next race. Doping dogs to run before an injury is healed
and laxative abuse are both grounds to remove a dog from the active racing list. Plus there could be big fines from the Division of Special Revenue.”

“My handlers don’t feed their dogs any laxatives.” Manny yanks his shirt farther over his belly.

“Maybe the owners are bribing the handlers—who knows?” I say. “Don’t believe me? Here’s the bottle.” I fish into my pocket and hold it up, with the label face out. “You should be ashamed of the way your dogs are treated.”

“What do you people want, anyway?” Manny shouts, pounding his fists on the table and sending a flurry of candy-colored betting forms to the floor.

Gran speaks. “We’d like to close you down. But at the very least, we want to open up a greyhound adoption booth at your track so that the older and injured dogs can find good homes instead of being abused or put to sleep.”

Manny shrugs. “Listen, lady, I’m running a business, not an animal shelter. Not every dog has what it takes to be a winner. Dogs come, dogs go.”

I jump back in. “But where do they go?”

“That’s not my concern,” says Manny. “I’m running a track here. What the owners do with their dogs is their business.”

“It should be your business,” Gran retorts. “You create the market for these greyhounds, so you should share the responsibility for what happens to them. Did you know that Gingerbread, one of your racers who was dropped on your sister’s lawn by a Speedway van, almost died this week from infected wounds and a broken foreleg?”

“My grandmother writes a syndicated newspaper column,” I point out. “She could write an exposé about Speedway and how the racing dogs are treated. Her column has millions of readers. They would be horrified to know—”

“Are you threatening me? Who do you think you are? Get out!” Manny shouts.

His secretary, glued to the spot, comes alive. “You heard him. Scram!” She points to the hallway. Manny comes at us with his fist raised. My legs are wobbly. Will I be able to run? I can hardly walk.

“May I remind you about the police downstairs?” Gran says quietly. “Shall I call them now?”

Manny doesn’t answer. The veins in his forehead bulge and pulse with anger.

I’ve got to try one more tack. They always say you can catch more flies with honey…“On the other hand, Mr. Drescher, if your dogs could be retrained and had safe adoptive homes to go to, we’d be so grateful. I’ll bet those protesters we saw outside the track would be grateful, too, if they saw you doing good things for these dogs,” I add. “We’d like to help you—”

Manny cuts me off. “An adoption booth costs money. What’s in it for me?”

Gran steps in. “What’s in it for you is your public image. Retraining your dogs and providing them with homes after their racing days are done is just plain good business. It improves your reputation in the community. You’ll get good publicity—and get rid of those pesky protesters downstairs. If you cooperate, I’ll encourage some of the local veterinarians to volunteer their services for the dogs to be adopted. Dog tracks should be illegal, but as long as they exist, the least we can do is see to it that the dogs are well taken care of.”

Manny silently ponders our proposal.

“You know, it might not be such a bad idea, Manny,” his secretary says.

“But the cost?” Manny squints suspiciously. “You people think I’m rolling in dough?”

“We’ll raise the money for the adoption booth and for retraining the dogs,” I explain. “We’ll even staff the booth and advertise the dogs on a Web site we create and maintain. All you have to do is provide space and maybe kick in some dog food now and then.”

“You won’t have to spend much money on it,” Taryn assures him.

“I’ll think about it.” Manny rakes his hands through his hair. “Good for business, huh?”

Gran smiles, but her square MacKenzie jaw juts stubbornly. “One last thing, Mr. Drescher. We’d like to take the dogs who are in the worst shape, including your Number Two dog, Bad Girl, who has no business racing again after a sprain injury.”

“I’ll have to call their owners. Let me see what I can do,” Manny mutters.

T
he secretary escorts us back into her office while Manny makes calls to the dog owners. After a few minutes, Manny returns.

He admits that Whiskey’s owner is eager to get rid of him—Whiskey’s been on a losing streak for months. Bad Girl’s owners have agreed after Manny told them about the alternatives—a fine and the threat of disqualification from the gaming commission. “Like I said, I run a class operation here. No funny stuff allowed,” Manny repeats. He gives us fifteen minutes to get what we need from our van and meet his driver, Thomas
Mahoney, back at Speedway’s main entrance.

We quickly gather leashes and Gran’s medical bag. She carries it with her wherever she goes, because she never knows when she’ll get an animal emergency call on her pager.

Mr. Mahoney greets us at the entrance. He’s built like a beanpole and wears a sports jacket emblazoned with Speedway’s logo on one shoulder.

“So, you’re friends of Miss Drescher’s? She’s a real nice lady, that Roselyn. Tries so hard to fix up those dogs. Got her hands full, she does.” Mr. Mahoney has a soft voice with a touch of an Irish accent. I like him tons better than the two greyhound handlers, but I’m a bit nervous as he escorts us back down to the dingy basement. Will those creepy men still be there?

Gran coughs when the pungent odor of wet dog and mildew hits her sinuses. “My word, this place could use a scrub.” The dogs howl and yap at our arrival.

“Here’s Bad Girl,” I say, kneeling beside her. She’s still tied to the post and whines as I touch her foreleg. “She’s licked her leg so much, it’s all wet.”

Gran kneels down next to me and checks the greyhound’s wounded leg.

Bad Girl whimpers. I stroke her fawn-colored coat.

Gran gently places the dog’s paw back on the floor. “It’s a sprained carpus—wrist. We’ll need to splint and bind it, but first we need to clean her up. Mr. Mahoney, is there a sink here?” asks Gran.

“Right over there.” He points to a far corner, where food bowls and supplies are stacked in wobbly piles. “Vet’s usually here by now, but ours had an emergency.”

“I see,” Gran murmurs. “Here, Taryn, fill this with warm water.” Gran holds out a plastic bowl and a bottle of antiseptic soap. “You can wash her leg, very gently.” Taryn nods and gets right to work. When she’s done, I hold a metal splint under Bad Girl’s foreleg while Gran wraps it tightly. “This will hold until we get her back to the clinic. Now, where’s that other greyhound? The one that’s had the laxatives?”

“Those men didn’t get anything down Whiskey ’n’ Water,” Taryn says. “Maggie stopped them just in time.”

Gran pats me on the back. “Good work, Maggie.
We’ll need to check him, regardless, to make sure they haven’t been feeding laxatives to him all along.”

Mr. Mahoney follows me as I make my way to Whiskey ’n’ Water’s cage. His tail wags against the bars:
thump, thump, thump.
Mr. Mahoney opens the cage and lifts Whiskey out.

I point to his wagging tail. “Look—his tail is lopped off!”

“This one’s a real wagger,” Mr. Mahoney says. “He wagged his tail so much he kept hurting it. We had to cut some of it off so that it would heal.”

“That’s awful. These cages are much too small,” Taryn says, frowning.

I gaze into Whiskey’s deep brown eyes. “You’re such a happy boy. Even here.” But despite his wagging tail, he’s trembling and panting, as if he’s just run a hundred miles. “Hey, Gran, he’s shaking!”

Gran comes over and listens to the dog’s heart with her stethoscope.

“Is he sick, Dr. Mac?” Taryn asks anxiously.

“The heartbeat is very rapid.” Gran pushes gently around his kidney area with a grim look on her face. “His kidneys have an abnormal feel. We’d better
get some fluids and electrolytes into him right away.”

I gather up the portable I.V. and a container of Ringer’s solution. Gran swabs an area on Whiskey’s shoulder and inserts the needle. I attach the Ringer’s to the needle.

“What would cause this kind of kidney problem?” Taryn asks.

“If it is laxative abuse, which I suspect from his shaky condition, the body becomes depleted of minerals, which affects the kidneys,” Gran explains. “Sometimes this damage is so great, the kidneys fail.” Gran’s words send dread through me.

“Try not to worry, Whiskey, we’ll help you.” Taryn strokes his blue-grey back, which trembles violently as I insert a thermometer and Gran takes blood samples.

“His temp’s below normal,” I note.

“Consistent with laxative abuse,” Gran remarks. “As soon as we get home, we’ll get his blood results. They’ll show if he’s potassium depleted and how well his kidneys are functioning.” She inserts the sample tubes into a plastic protector kit and packs up her medical supplies.

How could anyone mistreat an animal like this?

I clip a leash on Whiskey ’n’ Water, and Taryn takes Bad Girl’s leash. As we leave the raceway, both greyhounds become extremely nervous. They tremble at the clump of Mr. Mahoney’s workboots along the cement and at the loud remarks of the people in the parking lot.

“Why are they so jumpy, Dr. Mac?” Taryn asks.

“They’re not used to life outside the track—not cars, not open spaces, not even fresh air.”

I open the van’s back doors. “It’s good we brought those two kennels. They’ll feel more secure in them.”

Gran nods. We nudge the dogs into their kennels. Whiskey shakes and Bad Girl whimpers softly.

Mr. Mahoney wishes us good luck. Taryn and I hop in back to keep an eye on the dogs. Gran drives quietly, concentrating on retracing our route back to the interstate.

The greyhounds have such sweet, innocent faces, even after all they’ve been through. “Taryn, I have an idea,” I announce. “Let’s rename the dogs. We’ll pick nice names that are so close to the
ones they already have that they won’t even know the difference. But we will.”

“Great idea, Maggie!” Taryn speaks softly to Bad Girl. “How would you like a prettier name?” Bad Girl’s long snout seems upturned in a smile. “How about just plain Gal?” Bad Girl barks playfully.

“Gal?” I repeat. “That’s kind of weird.”

“It’s not weird at all,” Taryn replies. “My dad’s Brazilian. Gal is a common Portuguese term for ‘girl,’ just as it is here, and it’s a really popular girl’s name in Brazil.”

“Gal.” I say it a few times. “It does have a cute ring to it.” I gaze at Bad Girl. “Hey, Gal, you happy now?” She presses her nose to the kennel window and licks my hand. “Gal it is. Now my turn.” I turn to Whiskey. “Whi, whis…” He’s wagging that crimped-off tail and making a breathy sound through his open mouth. “You sound like a…whistle. That’s it! Hey, Whistle, you like riding in this car?” Whistle’s bandaged tail whips around the kennel like Roselyn’s whirligig.

“Whistle it is,” agrees Taryn.

Whoops. We forgot to ask a very important person’s opinion. “Gran, what do you think of those names?”