bunch of feelings because Darla’s listening, too.
“Rescuing those dogs and standing up to that sleazyracetrack owner took real nerve,” one of the boys remarks.
I continue the story up to the point when we treated the dogs at Dr. Mac’s Place: Gal for her sprain and Whistle for laxative abuse. “They’re going to be fine. And guess who called this morning.”
“Who?” David asks, hanging off his seat.
“Manny Drescher!”
“What did he want?” Sunita asks.
“He said he’d let us open an adoption booth at Speedway!” Cheers rise all around. I feel great, but the best, the absolute
best
, part is when Brenna comes up and hugs me.
“Wait until I tell my family about this,” Brenna exclaims. “Maggie MacKenzie, savior of greyhounds!”
Brenna, David, Sunita, and I are at Dr. Mac’s Place. It’s almost closing time. All the kennels have been cleaned and the animals walked and fed. Gal and Whistle are getting tons of attention, playing like puppies at our feet. Sherlock is jealous, so I’ve put him in the living room. The track greyhounds are camped out here just until wefind them homes through our new adoption program, Gingerbread’s Greyhound Rescue.
We’re finally working on our Web site. Sunita, our resident computer brainiac, is doing the programming. We’ll have portraits of adoptive dogs and tips on keeping greyhounds as pets. We’ll even have some breaking news on new legislation about dog racing, and a list of which tracks around the country have adoption services. If this project goes well, we might expand our services to other tracks. But first, we’ll need lots of manpower—and money.
When Taryn arrives, we show her what we’ve done so far. She suggests including personality profiles for each dog, which we all think is a great idea. We’re in the middle of creating our pro-spective owner form when the clinic bell jangles.
“I’ll get it.” I jump up, swing open the door, and stand there a minute, just staring.
“Hi, Maggie.” Darla runs her hand through her blond ponytail. “Can I talk to you?”
You’ve got to be kidding.
But something in Darla’s face seems different. I wave her in. Gal and Whistle bound over.
“Wow! Are these the Speedway dogs?” Darla leans down to get a better look.
“Yep. C’mon, wecan talk in my house next door.” I don’t feel like bringing Darla into our Web site workshop.
Darla follows me through the clinic and into the kitchen. Sherlock trots over and sniffs my corduroys. “I’m totally guilty of paying attention to other dogs. Sorry, boy.” I pet him, show Darla to the kitchen couch, and hunker in a chair at a safe distance. “Well?”
Darla sighs and rakes her hand through her ponytail again. She must be nervous. “I don’t know where to start. I just want to say, I really respect what you did at Drescher’s Speedway.”
Get to the point, Ball Hog.
Darla goes on. “Before I got Hoops, I read up on the greyhound racing situation. I talked to some handlers and went behind the scenes a bit, too. You’re not the only one who feels outraged by it.” She stares down at the carpet, not looking at me.
Your point is?
“I mean—” Darla hesitates. “What I want to say is…when I realized how much you’re actually
doing
to help the greyhound cause, like going to Drescher’s and mustering up the nerve to talk to the owner and confront those handlers, well—I haveto admit, you really walk the walk.” Darla pauses again, then looks up at me. “You know, Maggie, we aren’t that different. We’ve actually got a lot in common.”
I raise my eyes slowly, cautiously, to meet hers. She has a hopeful smile on her face. Darla’s never smiled at me before, and it feels weird.
“Say something,” Darla suggests.
“I’m listening” is all I can say so far.
“When I came to this school, all I had going for me was basketball,” she says quietly. “Have you ever had to change schools, make all new friends?”
I shake my
“Rescuing those dogs and standing up to that sleazyracetrack owner took real nerve,” one of the boys remarks.
I continue the story up to the point when we treated the dogs at Dr. Mac’s Place: Gal for her sprain and Whistle for laxative abuse. “They’re going to be fine. And guess who called this morning.”
“Who?” David asks, hanging off his seat.
“Manny Drescher!”
“What did he want?” Sunita asks.
“He said he’d let us open an adoption booth at Speedway!” Cheers rise all around. I feel great, but the best, the absolute
best
, part is when Brenna comes up and hugs me.
“Wait until I tell my family about this,” Brenna exclaims. “Maggie MacKenzie, savior of greyhounds!”
Brenna, David, Sunita, and I are at Dr. Mac’s Place. It’s almost closing time. All the kennels have been cleaned and the animals walked and fed. Gal and Whistle are getting tons of attention, playing like puppies at our feet. Sherlock is jealous, so I’ve put him in the living room. The track greyhounds are camped out here just until wefind them homes through our new adoption program, Gingerbread’s Greyhound Rescue.
We’re finally working on our Web site. Sunita, our resident computer brainiac, is doing the programming. We’ll have portraits of adoptive dogs and tips on keeping greyhounds as pets. We’ll even have some breaking news on new legislation about dog racing, and a list of which tracks around the country have adoption services. If this project goes well, we might expand our services to other tracks. But first, we’ll need lots of manpower—and money.
When Taryn arrives, we show her what we’ve done so far. She suggests including personality profiles for each dog, which we all think is a great idea. We’re in the middle of creating our pro-spective owner form when the clinic bell jangles.
“I’ll get it.” I jump up, swing open the door, and stand there a minute, just staring.
“Hi, Maggie.” Darla runs her hand through her blond ponytail. “Can I talk to you?”
You’ve got to be kidding.
But something in Darla’s face seems different. I wave her in. Gal and Whistle bound over.
“Wow! Are these the Speedway dogs?” Darla leans down to get a better look.
“Yep. C’mon, wecan talk in my house next door.” I don’t feel like bringing Darla into our Web site workshop.
Darla follows me through the clinic and into the kitchen. Sherlock trots over and sniffs my corduroys. “I’m totally guilty of paying attention to other dogs. Sorry, boy.” I pet him, show Darla to the kitchen couch, and hunker in a chair at a safe distance. “Well?”
Darla sighs and rakes her hand through her ponytail again. She must be nervous. “I don’t know where to start. I just want to say, I really respect what you did at Drescher’s Speedway.”
Get to the point, Ball Hog.
Darla goes on. “Before I got Hoops, I read up on the greyhound racing situation. I talked to some handlers and went behind the scenes a bit, too. You’re not the only one who feels outraged by it.” She stares down at the carpet, not looking at me.
Your point is?
“I mean—” Darla hesitates. “What I want to say is…when I realized how much you’re actually
doing
to help the greyhound cause, like going to Drescher’s and mustering up the nerve to talk to the owner and confront those handlers, well—I haveto admit, you really walk the walk.” Darla pauses again, then looks up at me. “You know, Maggie, we aren’t that different. We’ve actually got a lot in common.”
I raise my eyes slowly, cautiously, to meet hers. She has a hopeful smile on her face. Darla’s never smiled at me before, and it feels weird.
“Say something,” Darla suggests.
“I’m listening” is all I can say so far.
“When I came to this school, all I had going for me was basketball,” she says quietly. “Have you ever had to change schools, make all new friends?”
I shake my
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