she looking, Bev?” Mahoney asked.
Danny looked across a field toward the two runs, each about fifty yards long and separated by a chain-link fence. Two lean greyhounds, each in its own run, bounded back and forth, racing each other down the length of the runs, yipping happily.
“She’s fine. Just about six years old, but she probably retired at the right time. Still has strength in her legs, though.” She kneeled slightly and ran her crooked fingers over Long Shot’s ribs. The dog stood stock still, as if mesmerized by both the woman’s voice and her strong but gentle touch.
Mahoney bragged about Long Shot’s running career. “She was better than Mo Kick. Didn’t earn as much, but I never saw a greyhound leap out of the gate and hold the lead better than her.”
“Who was Mo Kick?” Ben asked.
“One of the best,” Mahoney said. “Ran in the early 1990s. Earned over $300,000. Well, this gal didn’t make me rich, but she sure didn’t disappoint either.”
“It’s true,” Bev said, straightening up after inspecting Long Shot’s paws, back, and neck. “She was a grand runner, this one.”
Mahoney told Bev about how he’d discovered Long Shot running around a high-school track. “Never saw anything like that before,” he said. “Usually they just run away and get lost, then you find them in someone’s backyard, if they ever get found.” Danny shuddered.
The old woman snorted. “You don’t see it too often, but this kind of thing happens. I mean, a dog that will just run a track and never wander from its owner. Takes a special kind of person, someone who connects with the dog at an emotional level.” She looked at both of the boys. “Could be one of you, or both of you, I don’t know.” She looked into Danny’s eyes. “You seem to really care for this old pup, don’t you? I think she feels that in you. She must love you a whole heap, young man, even look at the way she stands by you now.”
Danny was speechless. He hadn’t noticed, but the dog was just sitting there, looking up at him, waiting for whatever would come next.
Bev led them to the outdoor training track on her property. It was almost a quarter mile around, tighter in the middle than a regular track, “but it does the job,” Beverley said.
She got out a muzzle from an equipment box, slipped it onto Long Shot’s nose, then casually pulled the walkie-talkie from her belt. “Sally, can you bring out Chester and Filly?”
A few moments later, a young woman in her early twenties came with two greyhounds, one black and white, and the other a light brindle, both muzzled, on red nylon leashes. “Sally’s my daughter,” Beverley said by way of introduction.
The dogs were led to a starting box.
“Aye, look at our Long Shot, like she’s never been away from the track,” said Mahoney, watching as Long Shot began her high-stepping nervous walk. “That’s her trademark, lads. She tiptoes into the chute.”
The dogs were loaded into their chutes. Sally started a mechanical lure that whizzed around the inside perimeter. A bell sounded and the gates flew up. The dogs bounded out of the starting gate, pounding against the earth. This was repeated a couple more times, as the dogs went through several short training runs. At the end, both Mahoney and Beverley said it was clear that Long Shot could run again.
“And run well,” Mahoney said with a smile.
Long Shot was a natural at Beverley’s track, leaning into each turn on the track as if she’d never been away from racing. She went up against Big Willy, one of Bev’s best runners; a wily dog, Big Willy appeared to enjoy nothing more than testing the strength of other dogs on the oval.
Danny and Ben stood at the rail, watching the clockwork precision of Long Shot’s racing. Danny marvelled at how her running style seemed to change, depending on the competition. Sometimes she looked like a she belonged on the African veldt, gracefully moving over the soft dirt of the
Danny looked across a field toward the two runs, each about fifty yards long and separated by a chain-link fence. Two lean greyhounds, each in its own run, bounded back and forth, racing each other down the length of the runs, yipping happily.
“She’s fine. Just about six years old, but she probably retired at the right time. Still has strength in her legs, though.” She kneeled slightly and ran her crooked fingers over Long Shot’s ribs. The dog stood stock still, as if mesmerized by both the woman’s voice and her strong but gentle touch.
Mahoney bragged about Long Shot’s running career. “She was better than Mo Kick. Didn’t earn as much, but I never saw a greyhound leap out of the gate and hold the lead better than her.”
“Who was Mo Kick?” Ben asked.
“One of the best,” Mahoney said. “Ran in the early 1990s. Earned over $300,000. Well, this gal didn’t make me rich, but she sure didn’t disappoint either.”
“It’s true,” Bev said, straightening up after inspecting Long Shot’s paws, back, and neck. “She was a grand runner, this one.”
Mahoney told Bev about how he’d discovered Long Shot running around a high-school track. “Never saw anything like that before,” he said. “Usually they just run away and get lost, then you find them in someone’s backyard, if they ever get found.” Danny shuddered.
The old woman snorted. “You don’t see it too often, but this kind of thing happens. I mean, a dog that will just run a track and never wander from its owner. Takes a special kind of person, someone who connects with the dog at an emotional level.” She looked at both of the boys. “Could be one of you, or both of you, I don’t know.” She looked into Danny’s eyes. “You seem to really care for this old pup, don’t you? I think she feels that in you. She must love you a whole heap, young man, even look at the way she stands by you now.”
Danny was speechless. He hadn’t noticed, but the dog was just sitting there, looking up at him, waiting for whatever would come next.
Bev led them to the outdoor training track on her property. It was almost a quarter mile around, tighter in the middle than a regular track, “but it does the job,” Beverley said.
She got out a muzzle from an equipment box, slipped it onto Long Shot’s nose, then casually pulled the walkie-talkie from her belt. “Sally, can you bring out Chester and Filly?”
A few moments later, a young woman in her early twenties came with two greyhounds, one black and white, and the other a light brindle, both muzzled, on red nylon leashes. “Sally’s my daughter,” Beverley said by way of introduction.
The dogs were led to a starting box.
“Aye, look at our Long Shot, like she’s never been away from the track,” said Mahoney, watching as Long Shot began her high-stepping nervous walk. “That’s her trademark, lads. She tiptoes into the chute.”
The dogs were loaded into their chutes. Sally started a mechanical lure that whizzed around the inside perimeter. A bell sounded and the gates flew up. The dogs bounded out of the starting gate, pounding against the earth. This was repeated a couple more times, as the dogs went through several short training runs. At the end, both Mahoney and Beverley said it was clear that Long Shot could run again.
“And run well,” Mahoney said with a smile.
Long Shot was a natural at Beverley’s track, leaning into each turn on the track as if she’d never been away from racing. She went up against Big Willy, one of Bev’s best runners; a wily dog, Big Willy appeared to enjoy nothing more than testing the strength of other dogs on the oval.
Danny and Ben stood at the rail, watching the clockwork precision of Long Shot’s racing. Danny marvelled at how her running style seemed to change, depending on the competition. Sometimes she looked like a she belonged on the African veldt, gracefully moving over the soft dirt of the
Similar Books
