Story Blog


GPA New Mexico Greyhound Connection would like to share stories of people and their greyhounds - both from owners and trainers of their racing hounds, or from adopters and their retired racers.

Queenie

by Bob Rider

My story isn't about an All American and most will think I'm nuts even telling it. Over the years I have either owned or trained at least 3,000 greyhounds and another 100 Field Trial dogs. The first house I bought I sold a young field trial dog for enough to buy a house so you could say dogs have always been good to me. This story is about the greatest greyhound I ever owned and most will never have heard of her unless you raced against me in the late 80's.

Her name was Status Queen and she won her first race at Wheeling her first start ever. My wife and I drove 750 miles one way to pick her up and take her to Sodrac Greyhound Park in S.D. To open my first booking that I ever had before Queenie got her 2nd start. We schooled her in and the racing Sec, who was new to the job drew her in a grade A race. I had a fit and went to the state and they said if she looks bad we will drop her a grade her next start. She won by 9. I raced her at 4 tracks I had bookings at and she never fell out of grade A but the thing I could not believe is she would not sprint or leave my side except when I was schooling her or she was in a race. I took her to weigh in at Waterloo without a leash but the state judge said no more of that he wasn't having me bringing her without wearing a leash. I used to truck walk her with my pickup because it was the only way I could keep her in shape. She would stay right beside my window and the only thing she worried about was me.

She broke a quarter bone in a race and was off for two months but came back her first start and won a grade A at The Wisconsin Dells.

I figured I would take her home and retired her early and raise some puppies from her but after one litter I knew I wanted her to be a pet and not a brood female so I never did bred her again. It took me over a year to talk my wife into bringing her in the house, she didn't want "a house dog", but she finally with the help of my grandson let us bring her in. She slept every night by the foot of my bed and if you came to visit and you petted her when you first saw her she was like a little kid wanting more until I would tell her to stop. I have a bunch of cats as anyone that has ever been to my farm will tell you because they are all over the yard. I would turn her out just like any well trained house dog and she never chased a cat or even a kitten. She never went out of my yard not even to the kennel building unless I was with her.

She liked my wife and kids and their kids but she still was only mine if I said her name.

Then my wife got breast cancer and had operations and had all kinds of medicine to take and got very sick and I lost my dog. It was like she could tell something was wrong and she became Luetta's dog. She would check on her every few minutes she was in the house. Would fret all the time she was gone to the doctors. No longer slept at the foot of my bed but shared Lue's.

She was coming 15 years old and could not get up to go outside without falling over. I carried her out and held her up to do her business and then did the hardest thing I have ever done. I have been married for over 50 years and I can count on one hand the times I have seen my wife cry, this was one of them. I took Queenie to my veterinary. He has treated dogs for us on the farm and at his office for over 40 years and I swear I never him show any emotion (he knew how much we loved Queenie) but he had tears in his eyes when he got his needle and medicine out of his cupboard.

My wife has never let me bring another greyhound into the house for a pet and says she won't because that was 12 years ago and she is never going to get that attached to another dog again..


Lippy and the Goddess of the Hunt

by Dennis McKeon

I suppose one of the reasons I loved to train greyhounds was rooted in my impatience for all other things but dogs. Most of my personal troubles always were. Why not a good thing? You see, one of the wonderful aspects of race-training, is that if you make a significant change in a dog’s routine, diet or training protocols, you don’t usually have to wait 3-6 months to find out if you did the right thing. I liked that. You usually receive a quick, definitive answer from the Fates, informing you that you are either a gormless blockhead who might be better off managing ant farms for grade-schoolers, or that you are a blossoming genius whose horizons in canine husbandry are as endless as space itself.

Lippy came to us one mist-drenched spring morning in the emerald mountains called Green. He was nothing to look at, underweight and blowing his coat. Of course, just about every greyhound who was not mine, looked underweight to me. I like them fat and sassy. So I looked Lippy over, and he was most cooperative. He seemed to have no obvious injury issues, and he walked and trotted perfectly, with no hint of imbalance or lameness. Poor guy had no idea what he was doing here in the mountains, or what he’d done wrong to be sent here. As for myself, well I had no idea why we were sent a 30-month old dog who had graded off at Hinsdale, which was pretty much last call at the time. But as I said, I was reactively impatient with everything in life but dogs. Someone must have thought something of him. I’d give him a try. I knew I needed to start stuffing Lippy with groceries, he was framed to carry about 10 more pounds than he was packing at the time. I shuddered mentally at the sight of him, but knew that whatever the case may be, he’d be a different dog with some muscle and fat added to his diet and that frame, and some attention to his grooming and fitness.

About an hour after bathing and putting him in his crate, he began to fret--that is, to whine and hyperventilate at once. So I let him out by himself, knowing that any dog stresses out after being thrust into a new situation, and knowing how tough that is for some of them. He was content to lay down in the cool of the pens, and look around at his beautiful new surroundings, as the sun struggled to burn away the misty morning. I had lots of stuff to do, and he’d be fine out there. I told him not to worry about a thing, and he’d be right as rain in a few weeks, and just to learn some patience—as much trying to remind and reassure myself.

As I got the feed ready, I heard the same fretting noises I’d heard before, only this time, coming from the turnout pen. So I went out there, and gave him a nice pet, and brought him back in, putting him up in his new crate, and promising him he was about to have the best meal of his life. As I added the steaming stew to the meat and meal, I asked him if he’d ever smelled anything this good. He didn’t answer until I’d given him his feed pan filled to the brim. I didn’t bother to weigh it, I just piled it on. He devoured it at once, and I had my answer to several questions. A dog with a good appetite for food is usually one with a good appetite for work. And he sure needed both.

So I turned everyone out post-meal—one should always turn the dogs out before and after feeding—and Lippy met his new pack mates without incident. After I had put them all back up, I groomed Lippy thoroughly, paying particular attention to stripping away what tufts of his blown coat hadn’t rinsed off with his bath water. His nails needed filing desperately, and so it was done.

After I had put him back up and while I was puttering around some with the others, he began again to fret. So I figured he needed to go out once more after such a huge meal. I left him there to attend to business while I puttered around some more, and maybe a half an hour later, the same thing. I heard the breathless, coloratura-soprano fretting from the turnout pen. So Lippy was a fretter, or as they were also called, a “weight loser”. That somewhat explained why he weighed only 59 pounds. In bygone days, dogs who lost more than 3 pounds of body weight while being held in the ginny-pit waiting to race, were designated in the racing program as “weight losers”, with the letters WL printed next to their name. This was to advise the wagering public, though common practice at the time for a trainer was to keep the dog several pounds heavier than his/her ideal weight, to compensate. Apparently, no one had done that for Lippy. Now, however, Lippy’s kennel life would be spent going in and out of the kennel as his fretting implored—all day long, each and every day. Otherwise, he’d drive us all nuts.

So the verdant and splendid mountain springtime once again revealed its multi-hued tonalism to us as the days went by, and we were surrounded and touched by its magnificence. Lippy grew strong and fit. He proved to be a demon for work, just as I had hoped. Schooling him against moderate stock, it looked as if he had no holes in his game--only the fretting. It went on all day long, and every hour or so, Lippy began to fret, either to be let out or in. And I dutifully obliged him. I wondered what sort of treatment he had received elsewhere for this most disconcerting quirk of nerves. He was a son of Lucky Bannon, who was a great sire and an American Derby winner. Lippy had some class about him--and now, filled out, all muscled and slicked up, he was a sight to behold. He was a most loving and companionable sort, a sweetheart of a greyhound, who wanted to be with you all the time. I had solved the problem of his keeping the others awake all night with his operatic fretting, by bringing him home with me, when the toys and the music had failed to calm him. He still fretted, but simply letting him out on the lead during the night for a minute or two seemed to do the trick. I was a high-energy person anyway, so I didn’t really mind the interrupted sleep. I sucked it up. And, heck, I liked Lippy.

While having lunch at a local diner, I decided that it was time to put Lippy on for official schooling, and get a sense of who he might be on the racetrack. He was a different dog now. While pondering our plan of attack, I caught a glimpse of the deaf girl who was always there, dining and speaking in sign language to a much older man, who I assumed was her father. They were regulars. She was an utterly stunning, dusky hued, twenty-something beauty, with dark brown hair and deep brown eyes that were perpetually on fire. I’d seen eyes like that in a greyhound once. It was what we call the “look of eagles”. I couldn’t help but be captivated by her. This day, she seemed more animated than usual, and as I dull-wittedly gazed upon her striking loveliness, she made some motions that indicated to me that I should stop my stupid staring, and come over to her. Ever in the mood for adventure, there I went.

The man she was with said to me, “Donna wants to know if you work with the dogs at the track?” So I told him my story, and he relayed it to Donna, who seemed thrilled by it all. He further informed me that his daughter (I was right) loved the greyhounds, and wanted to have one. So I wrote down their telephone number and said I’d be glad to help arrange an adoption for her if she was still interested when a suitable greyhound became available. I’d have been glad to run up Rattlesnake Mountain backwards, with a backpack full of lead and several New Years Eve noise-makers hanging from my belt loops for her.

Back to business, I entered Lippy for official schooling, and brought him to weigh in on his scheduled day. He weighed in at 70 pounds. The clerk of scales looked at me with a great degree of puzzlement. He then mentioned that for Lippy’s last race--some 60 plus days ago—he had weighed in at 59 pounds. Then the presiding judge came over with Lippy’s Bertillion card, and began to scrutinize what markings were noted on the definitive ID card, including the color of each of Lippy’s nails. Onto the ear tatoos, and everything matched up just fine and dandy. Except for the weight. This should not have been an issue by letter of the rules. Lippy had not raced in over 30 days, and so his weight should have been of no consequence. But it was to these guys. They smelled a rat.

I was informed that Lippy would not be allowed to school that evening, and that he must be “re-Bertillioned” before he would be allowed to do so. I had no earthly idea what difference this would make, but I held my temper, and went along with the silliness. The last thing I wanted to do was to throw a tantrum at the weigh in with Lippy on lead—he’d be fretting enough in the ginny pit, no need to have him associate weighing in with my impotent ranting and loss of composure. So we went through the process later on in the week, where a new Bertillion card was drawn up by the judge. It noted his color, markings and ear tatoos once again, just as the original had, and as if that had changed anything, the new and heavier Lippy would now be allowed to race.

I don’t recall how Lippy did the night he first schooled officially. But I do recall that he became one of the top greyhounds at the small venue, mainly used to break in puppies, called Green Mountain Park. He was a tad short, but he was a lightning bolt out of the box. He could take the turn from all but the 2 or 3 best dogs on the grounds. He was, to put it mildly, a revelation. He taught me more than I could have ever learned on my own, and something that was indelible. Because I had accepted and shown him some love, even with all his quirks and flaws, he had gifted me with his great and boundless heart. He laid it on the rail every time he ran. There was never a question that if your pup drew in with Lippy, he was in for the ride of his young life trying to catch him. Lippy never gave in, and if you beat him, you were someone to reckon with.

Lippy never stopped his fretting. He just couldn’t help being who he was. And who he was, was a grievous angel.

As the meet at Green Mountain wore on, and as the lush, heavy husk of summer became the vivid explosion of brilliant and then melancholy autumn, I began to make preparations for my next move and job. It was about this time that Lippy came off a bit lame one day after winning his 12th grade A race. No, it wasn’t the major leagues, but 12 grade A wins anywhere usually means you can run. Lippy could damn well run. But he wouldn’t be running for a while. He’d torn a slight hole right in the center of one of his clavicle muscles, a very rare injury, and it would require some care and rehab. He was done for the meet.

It dawned on me that I had no idea where Lippy would go after the track closed for the season. I couldn’t risk his winding up with anyone who couldn’t deal with his odd and disruptive behavior. I made numerous inquiries of Lippy’s listed owner as to what was to be in his future, and received no reply. I asked the track to intercede. Again, there was no reply. It seemed as if no one wanted or owned Lippy. So I decided I did.

His incessant whining was an anathema to any kennel’s tranquility. I knew that. Lippy was over the top. He wasn’t a pup with a big upside. He was a 36 month-old with an uncontrollable habit that would test the patience of Job.

So there we were, Lippy fretting away, and me in my autumnal reverie, two lost souls. Suddenly I had a vision of someone like Diana, Goddess of the Hunt. She was dressed in a long white gown tied at the waist and slung across one shoulder, with a quiver of arrows on the other, her bow and her graceful hound in hand. But I realized that it wasn’t Diana at all. The face was too beautiful, the eyes were too aflame—and I recognized those eyes—why of course!

It was Donna, the deaf girl.


The Abuse of Perception Part 1

by Dick Ciampa

I love greyhounds and support adoption of retired racers. I donate to adoption groups and toward hauls to move adoption-bound greyhounds where ever they need to go. I am a racing greyhound owner, and there are many, in fact most, who are just like me. We make sure our hounds are well cared for from birth to adoption.

Not long ago it looked like a failed adoption might go bad. When the racing kennel owner heard about the problem they moved heaven and earth to arrange to get the dog safely back. Ultimately the situation was resolved by the adoption group, but that owner knew, remembered, and cared deeply about the welfare of that hound. This kind of caring isn’t very newsworthy because it reflects the norm. Good news doesn’t sell.

Does any of this surprise you? Then you may know less about racing greyhound owners and caregivers than you think. What we think we know depends on the sources we depend on for information.

Who do you depend on? If you are skeptical regarding what I’ve just said, your source is probably an organization with a strong anti-racing stance, like Grey2K.

In spite of your skepticism, if you have an open mind, consider some of the following things.

Contrary to the perception carefully cultivated by self-interested fundraising campaigns, cases of wrongdoing are the exception. None are more outraged in such situations than those in the racing community itself. When a problem arises, those who discover it work with the proper authorities to ensure the situation is dealt with.

We do not simply lament the issue on the Internet, nor do we characterize an exception as the general rule. We take constructive action.

Since its inception 14 years ago, how many complaints has Grey2K, who constantly alleges abuse in their fundraising materials, filed with an animal control agency or with the National Greyhound Association? Ask them for a specific number.

If Grey2K is outraged by alleged mistreatment they claim to have observed, why haven’t they vigorously pursued it? After all, their organization’s president is a lawyer whose salary, along with her executive director husband’s is paid by donations from people who want to help greyhounds.

Have you ever considered why greyhounds in photos that appear in Grey2K material show little expression? Perhaps it is because they take advantage of how doe-eyed relaxed hounds look, or the sleepiness of a new greyhound mom.

Why are there no photos, among the many available, of pups being hugged and kissed by their owners, and held close by their children and grandchildren? Of pups growing strong, running and playing with their littermates, sharing common food bowls, jumping for joy when someone passes by?

Where are the photos of racers being massaged by their caregivers, being fed treats, and cuddled in their crates; photos of caregivers in tears when their hounds leave the kennel for another track or for a new life in adoption?

Those photos do not appear because they don’t work well with the endlessly repeated messages of greed and mistreatment that work so well in raising funds.

As a community we care about the welfare of animals, especially those we readily identify with, like the magnificent greyhounds so many of us have in our homes. The emotional bond that makes us to want to help a creature in distress leaves us vulnerable to impulse and manipulation by fundraising organizations. With emotions at the forefront, it is easy to discard the idea that we should do a little fact checking.

Most people do research before making a purchase or investment. Have you done any independent research about the lives of racing greyhounds, beyond what you are told by self-interested organizations with a Donate button on almost every website page?

Is the anti-racing organization you support confident enough to suggest you do some research of your own before sending them money?

It isn’t hard to do. Visit a farm or racing kennel. If you don’t want to go on your own, contact an adoption group that organizes visits, or can refer you to fact-based resources. Contrary to what you may believe, there are many adoption groups who work collaboratively with farms and kennels, and know first-hand how their hounds are treated.

If you can, visit a track, watch the post parade and see for yourself the magnificent condition of the greyhounds, then feel the exhilaration of watching them race for the lure. See the wagging tails at the end of the race, as the lead-outs come to collect them.

Eric Jackson, who is on the Grey2K Board of Directors, and indicated he had never been on a farm, was invited to visit one. The closest farm to him was a couple hundred miles away. He said it was too far to travel; however, he travelled from New Mexico to Florida for a Grey2K meeting.

I don’t know about you, but that leaves me shaking my head.

What those who take the trouble to learn will discover, is that people involved in racing are passionate, and driven by respect, admiration and love for their dogs. Contrary to the greed-motivated portrayal of organizations like Grey2K, racing greyhounds are not a primary source of income for most owners, and in fact for many it is a money losing hobby. Greyhound owners are as diverse as the folks reading this article. They are parents and grandparents, many are veterans, and they have jobs in all walks of life.

Many adopters discover their hound’s racing owner is thrilled to receive news of their retirees and happy to share information about their earlier lives. Friendships have formed starting with a simple enquiry, or a shared photo.

Before you condemn a group of people you don’t really know, please do a little research of your own. As a greyhound owner, I urge you to, I want you to. Does the organization you are relying on for information ask you to do the same? If not, doesn’t it beg the question, why not?

Whatever you decide to do, if you really want to help greyhounds, support your local, hands-on adoption group. This website will help you find one in your area:
http://www.adopt-a-greyhound.org/directory/list.cfm

Copyright, 2014


From Florida

by Michelle Edgar

There was an article written recently by a Miami Herald reporter and published in Florida newspapers concerning the deaths of greyhounds at greyhound tracks in Florida. Some of you may have seen it on Facebook. One of those dogs belonged to the Campbell Racing Kennel. Some of you may also have heard a few years ago of the fire at the Campbell Racing Kennel at Derby Lane in Florida. James Campbell ran into his burning kennel and saved every one of the dogs. Our group had the privilege of placing 5 of those dogs. The following is a letter written by Michelle Edgar of Campbell Racing concerning that one dog who was highlighted in the news story. I have been given permission to share it here. The letter follows:

Hello all, Michelle Campbell here. I had deactivated my facebook just in time to stay away from all of the negative social media that has circulated in the greyhound world the last few weeks. So many have asked our opinions, and its been hard to really put it all into words. We are mad, sad, and angry and truly believe that the media is so one sided and uninformed about the truths.

The story that was on the front page of the times was a huge slap in the face. It was released 1 day after our 3 year anniversary of the kennel fire we had in 2011. The normal AR crap was spewed, but it was when it came to a part in the article about our beloved Harley that we came unglued.

Before I get to Harley, I want to point out. This article was written by a Miami Herald woman. These articles ALWAYS happen around this time of the year when legislation is hot in Florida. Trying to push representatives and senators to vote for decoupling. In 3 months, you wont see ANYTHING in the paper about greyhound racing. Its a vicious cycle, and the media uses it against greyhound racing to sensationalize misinformation and pull at heartstrings.

Now, the article titled "Raced to Death" stated "One-year old TD's Harley died July 16 after he collided with the fence on the first turn and finished last at St. Petersburg's Derby Lane." I will try to get through this forming sentences, but to be honest, I am shaking just typing this right now. Harley was 20 months old, a far cry from the one year old they claim. He did NOT hit the fence, and he certainly did not finish the race. I am going to copy the ENTIRE and ACTUAL report that I submitted to the DBPR after his death. You can decide for yourself how factual the times report is based on the EXACT report.

"7/16/2013... Approx 7:45 pm. TDs Harley. Racing owners Troy smith or nancy dillow. Ear numbers 111a-57430.

Reporting Michelle Edgar (kennel owners wife). Campbell Greyhound Racing- James Campbell owner and trainer. Business and trainer address *** **** ** . Naples FL 34117.

Derby Lane Racetrack. Freak fall during second race of evening card. Broken neck/back, was not savable, humanely euthanized in the arms of his kennel mom.

RIP my beautiful boy

Michelle Edgar"

Harley was a beautiful young red dog. Lived in the second section of the kennel, furthest crate to the right. Was such an "easy" boy with a wonderful demeanor, acted like an old soul. He was such a pleasure to have in the kennel. He LOVED to race, his personality shined when he knew he was going to go run. Our time with Harley was short, but the love we had for him was great. I was picking up the night of his fall. He lost his footing and went head over heels. A fall that normally they get right up from, but he was immediately paralyzed. I screamed "GET UP BUDDY GET UP" Yes, I know these details are hard to swallow. It is for us too. He was immediately carried 10 steps to the track vets office. All I remember is screaming NO NO NO NO Please Harley NO. A quick exam and Dr Beck looked at me straight in the eyes and said "Do you want to put him down?" I nodded as I knew he was in pain and struggling. I wrapped my arms around him and held him, Saying "You are not alone, mommy loves you, you are not alone." Over and over again. I was a disaster. I couldn't walk away from him. My angel, Brandy Glaspey (Cal Holland Kennel) draped her arms around me and just cried with me. I kissed him one last time and told him Munchie (A brood of ours whom died of lymphoma previous that year) would show him the way. He was the first dog we had lost in almost two years. I removed his collar, which is still hanging in our kennel as a reminder to never take them for granted. I dont know how long it took me to get back to the kennel, I had a few races off and just sat in his crate and sobbed uncontrollably. "I'm not cut out for this." "I cant do this" were things I said continually throughout the night. When it was time to go pick up the next few dogs races later, with big swollen eyes and a red face. I braved the other kennel employees and went to work.

I want to explain one thing before I finish about that night. The greyhound industry isnt a tight close knit, all friends type of business. But EVERY SINGLE person working that night came up and wished their condolences for Harley. Leadouts, kennel personnel, and the occassional "are you okay" from the vet even. Any time a dog passes, its not easy. It tests every ounce of faith we have that we are in the business for the right reasons. There's a saying: "If losing one is ever easy, then you need to get out NOW." They are our family. We spend more time with them than our actual families. They lick our tears, hear all of our fears, dance away the nights being goofy, and are the first ones we see on any holiday. Our lives revolve around them.

This is the hardest part when an article like "Raced to death" comes out. They portray our dogs as a statistic, stretch truths, misinform facts. It is heart wrenching. They arent statistics, they arent pawns in your political endeavors. They are living beings. I understand AR say any death is too many, and WE AGREE!... They aren't disposable. To think about it, ARs and PRs probably agree on a lot of issues. But the difference is, we would rather see them live a life that their instincts can fulfill than to see such a magnificent breed nonexistent or overweight and understimulated. And until you can hold a dog as its about to be handslipped in morning schooling and feel their hearts race, and FEEL what it means to them to be able to run, or witness dogs in the sprint path that just want to burn rubber for the sheer fact of running... Then I can never expect someone to understand. I only wish we could get a little respect for the animals that have passed, their owners, trainers and any one who has ever loved them.

As for the other mistruths in the recent articles, that's for an entirely different day.

RIP Harley *Fly free my sweet boy*


A Simple Way to Dispel Anti-Racing Mythology

by Dennis McKeon

You’ll need only a kennel full of Racing Greyhounds, one anti-racing zealot and a camera phone.

I used to dread it when friends of mine (or anyone who was a comparative stranger to the dogs) would come to the kennel for a visit. Not that I didn’t want to see them. I did. But they would invariably insist on coming out into the turnout pens with the dogs, and then I’d have to worry about them being smothered to death with dog-love and unbridled enthusiasm. I think most kennel operators and trainers shared my conflict there. You love to show off your dogs, but people who simply aren’t used to the sheer power of the “surge” of a small colony of hounds, can unknowingly present a danger to themselves. Back in the days of heavy wire muzzles, there was always the chance of a fat lip, a broken nose, or in the worst case scenarios, a knocked-out tooth or two, courtesy of those hounds who would suddenly stand on hind legs to get eye-to-eye with their new visitor. Until one has been the “new human” (and thus the sole object of desire in the entire world) for 25-30 greyhounds, simultaneously, you really have no idea of just how friendly they can be, or how competitive they truly are, even when it comes to seeking your acquaintance and friendship.

Only the real troopers could put up with more than a few minutes of this mass-marketed bonhomie, and even they could become quickly exhausted with being the most important thing in the universe, however temporarily, to a kennel full of muscled-up, smotheringly affectionate, finely conditioned athletes.

I’ve always figured this is why so many anti-racing activists say they’d never want to go near a racing kennel or a breeding establishment. Have you ever noticed that? None of them could possibly have any idea of what they’re talking about, or what they’re missing, because they’ve never been to a racing kennel or a breeding facility. Huh? That’s right, they haven’t a clue. Most of them know only what they’ve read on the internet, courtesy of extremist and donation-seeking propagandists.

It would shatter many of them to actually have to come to grips with their own prejudices, looking into the faces of these happy, gregarious and ebullient greyhounds, while trying desperately to keep from being overwhelmed or knocked to the ground with unabashed greyhound affection. They would realize at once, in their hearts of hearts, that they have been grievously unfair to these remarkable dogs. They’d have to admit to themselves that they were wrong and/or that they had been lied to.

Because abused, brutalized and poorly socialized dogs don’t unquestioningly shower their affections and friendliest attentions on complete strangers. Dogs just don’t work that way. Even the most demure, reserved, timid, tightly-wound Omega greyhound personalities can become beguiling, impish coquettes on their home turf, at the prospect of making a new friend.

I challenge anyone who is a true believer in the popular, false anti-racing narrative, to arrange a visit to kennel full of actively racing greyhounds, and to partake of the turnout festivities just once. And let the kennel operator or the trainers film your introduction to them. You won’t soon forget it. And you’ll know the truth, and then so will everyone else.

It couldn’t be any simpler, or more logical.