That speech was awesome, Dr. MacKenzie! You must be famous for inventing those veterinary tools. Comments, please?” Taryn’s project for social studies is to interview people of different ages and lifestyles. She holds up the mike to her mini tape recorder, reporter-style, as Gran exits the stage after her “New Tools” keynote speech.
“Well, uh…” Gran is used to being admired and quoted, but not idolized by a fifth-grade groupie! She seems flustered, which has me giggling. “It’s true that I developed a few devices, but my colleagues deserve credit, too.” Gran introduces us to several veterinarians making their way down the aisle and describes their contributions to the field, which Taryn records. Gran also brags to her colleagues about us volunteering at the clinic.
When Gran goes to chat with another presenter, Taryn aims the mike at me. “Maggie MacKenzie, your thoughts on the lecture?”
My thoughts? Well, now that you ask…“I’ve heard Gran’s speeches before, but this one was definitely the best. Her diagrams made the devices understandable, and the discussion was interesting.” Studying hard in school might even be worth it, if that’s what it takes to be a vet.
Taryn hands me the mike so I can interview her. “So, Taryn, what’s the best thing about volunteering at Dr. Mac’s Place?”
Taryn’s eyes light up. “Helping sick animals, like Hoops. It was hard putting that activated charcoal down his throat, but he felt so much better afterward that it made me feel good, too.”
“What were your favorite aspects of the presentation this morning?” I ask.
“It was cool to hear about the inventions, like Dr. Mac’s tiny rodent toothbrush that you can set at different angles.”
Gran returns. “Sorry I took so long.” She directs us out of the convention center. “Ready for a bite to eat?”
“Sure,” I agree, even though I’d rather skip the food and go right to Speedway. There’s no doubt that Gran can read minds, because she says, “Let’s just grab pizza to go, so we don’t miss the afternoon races.”
“So, we’re going to watch a race or two and then talk to Manny, right, Gran?”
“You got it,” Gran says. “Onward to pizza and Drescher’s. Girls, are you ready?”
Taryn nods enthusiastically.
Am I ever!
Drescher’s Speedway is intimidating: it’s a huge indoor stadium with two restaurants, five tiers of seats, and many concession stands. The walls are lined with photos of champion greyhounds and races from earlier years.
We spot a few scattered protesters with signs that read, “Write Your Congressman to End Greyhound Racing” and “Greyhound Racing Is a Crime, Not a Spectator Sport.” I’m glad to see other people are concerned about greyhounds, too.
Crowds of people fill the halls to buy refreshments and to wait in long lines trailing from a bank of windows.
“What are they waiting for?” asks Taryn.
“To place their bets,” Gran says in a tight voice. I glance at the faces—a few families and tourists, and a lot of men smoking cigars. Some look worried as they examine their programs. Some are arguing.
Yuck. Cigarette and cigar smoke makes me cough. I’m not used to being in public areas that allow smoking. I feel sorry for the greyhounds, having to breathe in all that smoke while they run.
Gran quickly guides us away from the betting area. “I’ve never placed a bet in my life and I never will.”
For all Taryn’s bravado, she sticks close to Gran. She and I have gone over our plan to scout around between races, but it looks like she’s thinking of chickening out. Taryn’s hand rests on her tape recorder, safely nestled in the pocket of her jacket.
“Here we are, Gran.” We inch along the second tier of seats, staring below at a sandy track with six cage-like glass rooms at one end. That must be the starting gate. Behind that is a row of old-fashioned scales, like the kind you weigh meat on.
“Where are the greyhounds?” Taryn asks.
“Here they come!” I point to an area behind the glass enclosures. “See the guys lifting them onto those big scales? They’re weighing them.”
“But why?” Taryn asks, watching as the men write the weights on a blackboard.
“All dogs in a particular race have to be the same general weight, like wrestlers,” Gran explains. “Thinner dogs go faster.”
“If a handler’s caught using laxatives on a dog, the handler is fined,” I tell Taryn. “Laxatives make the dogs lose fluids and appear lighter than they really are.” She nods.
“They’re putting the dogs in the starting boxes!” Taryn exclaims.
“Wow, the handlers sure push them into their boxes roughly,” I add.
“I’ll say,” Gran says.
“The dogs are muzzled, too,” Taryn notes.
Still, the greyhounds look eager. Maybe they actually like to race? In spite of myself, I feel an unexpected eagerness to see them run.
I examine my program, trying to match the greyhounds to their names, but something’s not right. “Look at your programs, guys. These dogs have such awful names! Whiskey ’n’ Water, Just a Bum, Bad Girl. What kind of owners would give their pets names like that?”
“The kind of owners who think of their dogs as a business commodity, not as pets,” Gran replies stiffly.
“What’s that?” Taryn asks, pointing to a long rod with a dangly thing on it, rotating around the circle toward the gates.
“The track workers are setting up the mechanical rabbit,” Gran explains.
“It looks like a stuffed animal,” Taryn says, as the bar stops in front of the gates. She’s right, it does look like a stuffed bunny, propped up forlornly on the long bar.
When the rabbit lure begins to move, the greyhounds start to howl like crazy. A buzzer sounds, the doors slide open, and six greyhounds burst onto the sandy track, each with a number sewn on a fabric piece attached to their backs by a belt. A gravelly voice blasts over the loudspeaker: “They’re off!”
The greyhounds move like Olympic athletes, their muscles and joints interacting with smooth precision. I’m spellbound. They’re so incredibly graceful.
Taryn jumps up and down, caught up in the excitement. “Wow! If I could run that fast, I’d beat everyone at my track meets.”
“Five Dog is gaining on Three Dog,” the announcer’s voice blares. “Six Dog lags behind ten paces, but he’s gaining, gaining on Five Dog!”
The people in the stands scream: “Go, Three Dog!” “What’s the matter with you, Six Dog?” “I told you to bet on that Five Dog!”
“Why don’t they call the dogs by their names?” Taryn asks.
Gran shrugs, looking disturbed.
My eyes try to keep track of each dog’s progress, “They must be going about fifty miles an hour, especially Two Dog on the outside of the track.”
Suddenly, as I watch, Two Dog stumbles and falls. She doesn’t get up, just lies there yelping. “Oh, no!” I shout. “Let’s help her.” I’m ready to jump out of my seat, when a dog handler runs out.
Meanwhile, the announcer continues with his brassy play-by-play as the other greyhounds streak past the finish line. “We have an upset victory. Our frisky Five Dog, Bettor’s Dream, is Drescher’s winner today!” Groans and cheers rise from the stands.
The handler leads the injured greyhound out and down through what looks like a trapdoor.
“Where’s he taking Two Dog—I mean, Bad Girl?” I wince as I read the name listed on the program by number two.
“I hope to an on-site vet, to get her attended to. She took quite a spill,” Gran replies.
I’ve got to see where they’ve taken Two Dog. It’s now or never, because the next race is in fifteen minutes. If only I could find a shred of evidence, something to use as leverage to pressure Manny into seeing that these dogs are treated better. But what? Gran will never let us snoop around in unauthorized areas. I glance meaningfully at Taryn. “Gran, I’m going to the bathroom,” I announce.
“I’d better come along, Maggie. This is no place for a girl to be milling around.” Gran returns her reading glasses to her shoulder bag and latches it closed.
“I’m fourteen, Gran,” I sigh. “Besides, it’s right at the end of our seating area.” But Gran doesn’t look convinced.
Taryn jumps in, just as we’d planned. “Don’t worry, Dr. Mac. I’ll go, too. We’ll protect each other.” Taryn adopts a kung fu stance,
Gran chuckles. “OK, but come right back. I made the appointment with Manny Drescher immediately following the next race.”
I give Gran a thumbs-up, and Taryn and I inch back along the row of seats. When we reach the main hall, I turn to her. “Last chance to back out. This mission might be kind of scary. And Gran will be mad at us if she finds out.”
Taryn looks insulted. “My track team doesn’t call me Nerves of Steel for nothing.” Her sparkly brown eyes hold a dare. “How about you, Maggie—are you scared?”
“No way.”Yes way. Who are you fooling, Maggie MacKenzie?
As we weave through the stream of people, I glance down side passages and check for doors that may lead to kennel areas. Meanwhile, Taryn’s talking a mile a minute. Maybe that’s her way of keeping calm. “Even my mom’s grandpa, the first African American to win gold medals for the U of P’s track team, couldn’t run as fast as that Two Dog.”
“Your great-grandfather won gold medals in track? That’s awesome,” I tell her—then hold up my hand. “Hear something?” Muted animal sounds reach my ears. “Do you hear a dog whining?”
“From which direction?” asks Taryn.
“Not sure.” As we walk, I tilt my head at various angles, trying to pinpoint the sound. Near a metal door marked PRIVATE, the whines and whimpers get louder. “Taryn, those aren’t happy sounds.” I hesitate, gathering up the courage to ignore the sign and open the door.
Taryn beats me to it, flipping open the door and running down the first few steps. “C’mon, Maggie.”
The dingy cellar smells of mildew, wet fur, and dog food. Rows of cages line the walls, filled with muzzled greyhounds. Some look emaciated. Some are agitated, turning round and round in their tiny spaces or clawing the sides of their cages.
“Taryn, there’s Bad Girl!” The fawn greyhound is tied to a post, licking her front leg. “They haven’t even bandaged her leg yet.” We walk up to her slowly, and she wags her tail. I hold out my hand, and she licks it. Cautiously, I stroke the silky space between her pointed ears. “Are you hurt, Sweetie?”
“Maggie—voices!” Taryn whispers. “Let’s hide.” I run to join her behind a cabinet as we hear two men in conversation, coming closer.
“You’ve got to run in the 420 Derby on Monday. There’s thousands riding on you, Bad Girl,” one of the men says.
He actually expects this dog to race again so soon? I peek out. The guy leaning over Bad Girl is short and stubby. He’s dressed in a derby and baggy brown khakis. The man standing over them is tall and smokes a cigar. As he exhales, I stifle an urge to cough.
Cigarro man says, “Shoot her with the painkiller. She won’t even feel that sprained ankle on Monday.”
The short man takes a syringe from his pocket, uncaps it, and injects the dog. Bad Girl yaps sharply. That is totally unethical! The Humane Society would consider this cruelty, and I know from my research that the Division of Special Revenue could slap these guys with some stiff fines. If only we had some way to prove what Manny’s handlers are doing.
I glance at Taryn for her reaction. She’s two steps ahead of me—she has her mini tape recorder out and is recording their conversation!
Maybe we can get something on Mr. Drescher—but not if they see us.
We duck down, squeezing ourselves farther behind the dusty storage cabinet as the men walk closer. Between the dust and the cigar smoke, I have to struggle not to sneeze.
“What about Whiskey ’n’ Water?” a gruff voice asks. I hear the creak of a cage door and claws scratching rapid-fire against metal.
“Get this down his gullet,” the other guy says. “That mongrel will never win otherwise. Weighed in too darn heavy this morning. What have you been feeding him, rocks?” Both men chortle.
More whimpering. I can’t bear to hear any dog abused. Got to peek out.
The stubby man is trying to force something down the greyhound’s throat while the tall man holds the dog’s jaws open. Whiskey ’n’ Water twists his head side to side in alarm.
I have to do something— now. Taryn is still tape-recording, so if the men do anything to me, at least she’ll have evidence. I take a deep breath, then step out from behind the cabinet.
“What are you feeding that dog? Stop it right now!” I try to sound stern and menacing, but my legs are shaking so badly, I’m afraid I’m going to fall.
Cigarro man glares at me. “None of your business, kid. You’re not allowed down here. Now scoot.” His face is one bone-warping scowl.
“She said stop it!” Taryn emerges with her recording equipment. “I’ve got you on tape.”
The stubby man startles, and the bottle falls from his hands. Taryn’s actually spooked him.
I reach down and grab the bottle before he can. “It’s laxative!” I shout.
The tall man throws his smoking cigar onto the floor. “Get those kids!” he yells to the stubby man.
Taryn and I run for it, with Taryn way in the lead. She is one incredible runner. We careen up the stairs, puffing and sweating, and don’t stop until we are down the hall, far from that metal door. I glance back. No sign of the two creepy guys.
I pull the laxative bottle out of my pocket. “Evidence.”
She pulls out her mini tape. “Evidence!”
We shake on it.
Back at the stands, we’re huffing and puffing. “Girls, are you that out of shape?” Gran inquires. “Don’t your coaches run you at your athletic practices?”
I can’t lie to Gran—I tell her the whole story. Gran is shocked, and I know we’re in for a major lecture, but all she says is, “Girls, you know what you did was potentially very dangerous. I won’t go into it now. We’ll talk later.” Gran checks her watch. “The next race is about to begin.”
I shake my head. I’m burning mad at the way those men were abusing the greyhounds. “We’ve seen enough, Gran,” I say. “Can we meet Manny Drescher now?”