Auch eine schöne Geschichte, über einen Greyhound - einmal im neuen Leben und rückblickend, auf sein vorheriges Leben.
Es ist untrennbar verbunden:
"Die eiligen Menschen im Common hasteten ihren Angelegenheiten nach und hatten keine Ahnung, wer dieser auffallende Windhund war, was er einst gewesen war und was er immer bleiben wird, in den Herzen derer unter uns, die ihn einst kannten."
Dennis McKeonYou always wonder if your greyhounds found the right person(s) to adopt them. This is the story of one who most certainly did.
Nobody Likes a Wet Dog
There's nothing more thrilling than when, as the greyhound trainer, you can get inside a dog's head, and find out just what it is that you can do to make him "tick" even better than he already does. Each one is an individual, and each one of them has his or her own set of buttons that you can push.
Sometimes you can feel and see the dog responding to your methods, things like workouts, walks in the woods or on the beach, maybe a swim-day when weather allows---massages, whirlpool treatments, meticulous grooming, lure pole games, amping up the quality of the feed, and so on. You treat each and every one of them like they are an All American, from the lowliest grade Ds to the top grade As....you get them to relax and you eliminate stress from their environment. They notice.
You train them to a state of pleasant fatigue, and they sleep like winter bears. They wake up like fresh blossoms in spring---if spring blossoms could bark---even the oldest of the warriors among them. When you turn out the lights at night, there is a pleasant, collective sigh of contentment that is palpable, as they all nest into their beds for the quiet hours, knowing that tomorrow they'll get to do it all again, with all their friends and pack mates.
There's nothing like it in the world that I’ve known. And when they win, or even when they don't win, but you know that they have given you the full measure of their ability because they realize in their own way that you have given yours to them---you just have to feel it to believe it. There are no more words.
One of the happiest moments in my time as a greyhound trainer wasn't winning a big race, or even a little one. It came one day, sometime after we had received a dog named Denver Dutch, who had raced with some distinction at a small track in South Dakota. His owner thought he was ready for the major leagues and so he sent him to us at Revere, in MA.
The dog didn't ship too well, he arrived a bit stressed and dehydrated, a few pounds underweight---easy stuff to deal with. We got him all settled in and gave him a couple of weeks to get acclimated. We flushed his kidneys and got that pinched up back of his to level out.
He was a delightful character, and he was a glutton for work. Whenever we had pups, or even an older dog who wouldn’t “sprint” with much conviction or effort, we’d bring Dutch along to help get some real work into them. Once you placed Dutch on the track, lure or no lure, the race was on. You see, Dutch would sprint on his own, at near race speed, no encouragement needed. And so the poorer workers would have a target to run at, and being that Dutch was a top class greyhound, they’d get in a good workout just trying to catch him.
He was a charming little dog, in all respects. He had a lot of what we call "class"---a refinement to him that was noticeable, conformation-wise and in his demeanor. Though initially, as noted, he was a bit rough around the edges---looking at him, that is.
Anyhow, that didn't take too long to remedy---good food and good grooming. After a month or so, his coat began to look like black mink. It was thick and slick, and as his physical condition improved, so did his coat.
He eventually showed us, on the track, that his owner had been correct, and that he was indeed able to hold his own and then some, against the big boppers at Revere---and there were plenty of them in those days. But that's not the story line I want to go down here.
One night, as Dutch was approaching the top of his form, feeling like he could probably chase down a sunray, and just jumping out of his skin to race--as I walked him over to the track to weigh in, one of my fellow trainers, who was on the way back from weigh-in, said to me, as he walked past us;
"Hey man, they aren't going to let you weigh in a wet dog!"....only thing was, Dutch wasn't wet!
He was just shining like buffed glass, and his every behavior spoke to it. He was feeling it and everyone else was noticing it. When we got to the scales, the presiding judge, a veteran who had seen many if not most of the greatest dogs of the last 30 years or so, looked at me and said in a most concerned and confidential manner...."Now son, you know you can't weigh in a wet dog."
When I suggested to him that he feel the dog’s coat, and he did, I can't even begin to think of how I might describe the look on his face---something like “where’s the Candid Camera?”
And so that’s how it went for the little Dutchman. You always looked forward to greeting him in the morning, and his behavior was every bit as splendid as his, luxurious, glistening, black coat. He spent most of the prime of his career, chasing after extraordinary greyhounds like OK Troy, Hondo Monopoly and Craigie Buzz. At a lesser venue than old Wonderland, he’d likely have been a top winner. He gave his all every time, nevertheless, and his courage and heart were second to none.
Years later, on a kitten-gentle and willow-soft spring day, lazing along the Common in Boston, I noticed a man in the distance, walking toward us, leading what could only have been a greyhound. Even from where I stood, I could make out the graceful carriage and movement, and sense the dignified and alert bearing of a high class individual. As we approached one another, the greyhound began to quicken, laying his ears back, vigorously wagging his tail. When we reached one another, I was amazed to see that this beautiful dog was none other than the little Dutchman, himself.
Our reunion was most joyful, and more than a little heartwarming. I’d lost track of where Dutch had ended up, after being given to a friend who had pioneered adoption in the local area, and subsequently re-homed. And while I knew that this gentleman had found himself a lifelong best friend, it was a revelation to hear from the man, just how much Dutch meant to him, and to see that he was being very well cared for, and loved every bit as much as he had been in his previous life.
While I was a bit disappointed that his magnificent black coat had perhaps lost just a little of its bold and dazzling luster---not quite appearing, now, to be wet---Denver Dutch had lost none of his irresistible charm and mannerly, good nature. He was as happy as ever. Nobody likes a wet dog anyway, is the way I figured it.
And so, after much good feeling was shared, we said farewell, and they walked off into the glinting sun, Dutch and his man---finally, just two silhouettes among the shade trees.
The busy people on the Common went about their business, having no idea just who that striking greyhound was, what he had been, or what he will always remain, in the hearts of those of us who once knew him.
Copyright, 2017