lobster that they’d bought at a roadside shack and cooked in their little rented bungalow. After dinner they played Scrabble and Monopoly.
Danny could hear a voice behind him. “Aye, she’s still got the legs, lads. Didn’t think I’d see it, but seeing is believing.” A rich, Irish brogue rolled across the field, catching Danny’s ear the way a spider catches a fly. He looked again, and saw an average-sized man with the larger-than-life voice in front of the lemon yellow of the school.
The man was wearing a green jacket and khaki pants, a cloth cap was perched on his head. He walked across the field with no-nonsense, purposeful steps. Long Shot was up and trotting toward him. She was usually friendly with everyone, but she was especially so with this man.
The man stopped and, bending slightly, gently cradled the dog’s head between his rough hands. “Young lady,” he said, “I do believe you still have that urge to run inside of you!” The dog happily wagged her tail, nuzzling at the old man’s hands. “I’ve got no treats for you today. But a nice try anyway.”
He extended a hand to the boys. “Name’s Mahoney. I come all the way up here from Florida to see how my girl was doing.” He saw the quizzical look on the boys’ faces. “Perhaps I should explain myself, then. I own a kennel of racing dogs. Long Shot here — do you still call her that?” Danny nodded. “Long Shot here was the best racer there was. I’d heard you might be racing her again. I come to tell you that you need to go easy on her in the training.”
Mahoney launched into the story of Long Shot’s life, up to the point where he had sold her. “I didn’t want to sell her, you see. But I needed the money, and I was offered a considerable sum. I heard that her new owner pretty much ran her into the ground, and then adopted her out. So I was surprised to hear that she might run again. I didn’t think she had it in her. But, you know, she was the best ever. A match for any dog that put its wee paws on the track.”
Danny took Mahoney back to the house. He and Danny’s dad grinned at each other and hugged right away. “So many years!” they each exclaimed, echoing each other. It came out, in a boisterous discussion around the kitchen table, that they knew each other from Jack’s days in Florida. They couldn’t believe Long Shot had brought them back together.
Mahoney stayed for a few days, sleeping on the pullout couch in the basement. He talked continuously, but not unpleasantly, about dogs, and joined Danny and Ben for walks at the track. The amazing thing about Mahoney was that he always had a new fact about dogs, every time he spoke: he was a walking library of dog-racing knowledge.
After a few days, Mahoney took Danny and Ben and Long Shot to a place out in the country. “I’ve got a friend out here; she runs a few dogs.”
“Name’s Beverley,” she said with a thin-lipped smile as she extended a handshake to the boys. She was a wizened, bony woman in her sixties. Her hands were knotted with arthritic bumps, and the sinews were taut against the surface of her skin, stretched like tight cords. She’d been seared by the sun. Her face had been toughened by decades of exposure to the weather until it looked like aged leather. But she was pretty spry. As she moved about, she reminded Danny of a cackling old crow hopping around a field.
“Bev, I’ve brought the best of the lot for you to see,” Mahoney said.
The woman hopped about, looking at the dog. The grass on her property, which was low and set amongst rolling hills, was a light, green brown; the colour would darken from the big heat of the summer. Danny could hear barking, the distinctive sound of a greyhound’s rooing , in the background, and saw, a hundred yards away a long, low kennel built of cinder block, with chain-link runs. Beverley touch Long Shot on the muzzle, lightly, then firmly ran her crooked, arthritic fingers down each leg.
“How’s
Danny could hear a voice behind him. “Aye, she’s still got the legs, lads. Didn’t think I’d see it, but seeing is believing.” A rich, Irish brogue rolled across the field, catching Danny’s ear the way a spider catches a fly. He looked again, and saw an average-sized man with the larger-than-life voice in front of the lemon yellow of the school.
The man was wearing a green jacket and khaki pants, a cloth cap was perched on his head. He walked across the field with no-nonsense, purposeful steps. Long Shot was up and trotting toward him. She was usually friendly with everyone, but she was especially so with this man.
The man stopped and, bending slightly, gently cradled the dog’s head between his rough hands. “Young lady,” he said, “I do believe you still have that urge to run inside of you!” The dog happily wagged her tail, nuzzling at the old man’s hands. “I’ve got no treats for you today. But a nice try anyway.”
He extended a hand to the boys. “Name’s Mahoney. I come all the way up here from Florida to see how my girl was doing.” He saw the quizzical look on the boys’ faces. “Perhaps I should explain myself, then. I own a kennel of racing dogs. Long Shot here — do you still call her that?” Danny nodded. “Long Shot here was the best racer there was. I’d heard you might be racing her again. I come to tell you that you need to go easy on her in the training.”
Mahoney launched into the story of Long Shot’s life, up to the point where he had sold her. “I didn’t want to sell her, you see. But I needed the money, and I was offered a considerable sum. I heard that her new owner pretty much ran her into the ground, and then adopted her out. So I was surprised to hear that she might run again. I didn’t think she had it in her. But, you know, she was the best ever. A match for any dog that put its wee paws on the track.”
Danny took Mahoney back to the house. He and Danny’s dad grinned at each other and hugged right away. “So many years!” they each exclaimed, echoing each other. It came out, in a boisterous discussion around the kitchen table, that they knew each other from Jack’s days in Florida. They couldn’t believe Long Shot had brought them back together.
Mahoney stayed for a few days, sleeping on the pullout couch in the basement. He talked continuously, but not unpleasantly, about dogs, and joined Danny and Ben for walks at the track. The amazing thing about Mahoney was that he always had a new fact about dogs, every time he spoke: he was a walking library of dog-racing knowledge.
After a few days, Mahoney took Danny and Ben and Long Shot to a place out in the country. “I’ve got a friend out here; she runs a few dogs.”
“Name’s Beverley,” she said with a thin-lipped smile as she extended a handshake to the boys. She was a wizened, bony woman in her sixties. Her hands were knotted with arthritic bumps, and the sinews were taut against the surface of her skin, stretched like tight cords. She’d been seared by the sun. Her face had been toughened by decades of exposure to the weather until it looked like aged leather. But she was pretty spry. As she moved about, she reminded Danny of a cackling old crow hopping around a field.
“Bev, I’ve brought the best of the lot for you to see,” Mahoney said.
The woman hopped about, looking at the dog. The grass on her property, which was low and set amongst rolling hills, was a light, green brown; the colour would darken from the big heat of the summer. Danny could hear barking, the distinctive sound of a greyhound’s rooing , in the background, and saw, a hundred yards away a long, low kennel built of cinder block, with chain-link runs. Beverley touch Long Shot on the muzzle, lightly, then firmly ran her crooked, arthritic fingers down each leg.
“How’s
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