November was always the month for my annual inspection of Malcolm’s racing greyhound kennel. Malcolm was a larger-than-life character, and I came to know him well over the years. Not only was he a successful greyhound owner and trainer, but he was also the proprietor of a roadside café near Thirsk. It is difficult to describe the man properly. He had the appearance and sense of humour of the 1980s comedian Les Dawson, and was a kind man and a loyal friend. He was bursting with energy. Behind the grill of his café, he could flip a fried egg with abandon whilst holding an animated conversation on the mobile phone that was perennially glued to his right ear. However, it was the passion he held for his dogs that stood out more than anything to me, and it was through his greyhounds that I knew him.
Aside from his annual inspection, there were regular visits to check the dogs, to confirm that they were in the best of health and in peak condition. Behind the counter of the café, amongst the plastic trays of mushrooms which were a vital ingredient in the enormous fried breakfasts Malcolm conjured up for hungry lorry drivers, were numerous trophies and photographs of handsome, winning dogs. For all his own lack of athleticism (although he had, apparently, been a semi-professional football player for a team in South Yorkshire in his younger days), Malcolm obviously knew how to get his greyhounds to perform at the highest level. He was always looking to us, his vets, to confirm his latest idea, endorse his most novel feeding regime or comment upon the new potion that had been recommended by the Irish vet he had met at a race meeting.
The November inspection was always a cold affair, once the steaming environment of the café was left behind. On one occasion I left the café and walked into the most vigorous of storms. I was sure that the lorries parked in the enormous and distinctly uneven car park would soon be lying on their sides. Not a single leaf was left clinging to the trees, but all the kennels were warm and immaculate. I had to inspect each one, as well as checking on the health of the animals. Every kennel was deeply bedded in thick-piled carpet and paper shavings. The dogs were warmer than the humans, as each one had its own heat lamp, glowing red in the early winter gloom.
As I looked through the medicine book, to make sure all the greyhounds had been vaccinated at the right time and had received de-worming and flea treatment, Malcolm would keep up a running commentary, showing me his latest machine to massage the muscles of his dogs, presenting his newest treadmill or asking for my thoughts on his most recent tonic.
‘Rocky! Look at this! It’s from my mate in Ireland. His dog – beautiful dog he was, half brother to my old bitch – just came second in the Irish Derby. What d’ya reckon? It’s supposed to improve the blood! Is it worth a go? What d’ya reckon? Any good or complete waste of time? I’ll try it if you think it’ll work.’
But before I could come up with an answer, Malcolm had always moved on to his next idea, usually a pot of tablets or a new vitamin supplement.
Malcolm always called me Rocky. He also called his dogs ‘Rocky’ or ‘Rebel’ or ‘Flash’. These were their pet names, because the best dogs – those that made it past the ‘flapping’ tracks of the north of England – all had racing names. The only other pet names he would use for his dogs were ‘Peter’ or ‘Julian’. Peter is my work colleague and the senior partner at our practice, Skeldale Veterinary Centre, in Thirsk. Peter and I were the only vets to whom Malcolm entrusted the care of his greyhounds, but he saved our names especially for those dogs which he perceived had no chance of winning anything. I could not imagine seeing a photo behind the counter at the café, emblazoned with the winner’s name ‘Peter’ or ‘Julian’, although at this place, anything was possible!
There was greyhound miscellany in every direction and I was never surprised by any of the unusual things that I came across around the kennels. On one occasion I arrived to vaccinate a litter of puppies, all of which were, according to Malcolm, destined to be winners of the Derby when they grew older. Malcolm was sitting outside the kennels on a massive chair that was painted gold. It looked just like a throne. All he needed to complete the image was a crown, orb and sceptre. Instead he held a cigarette and a mug of tea. And, of course, his mobile phone.
On this inspection day though, there was no throne. After my usual perfunctory trawl through the checklist, peering into cabinets and scrutinizing records, we got onto the best bit – looking at the dogs. As always, the animals were handsome and healthy. Any instances of illness or injury were brought into the clinic immediately, with great urgency, always preceded by a loud telephone call from Malcolm, succinctly explaining the details of the problem. He expected Peter or me to see every ailment, however minor, within half an hour, which was the time it took him to lift the dog into the back of his estate car and race to the practice.
‘Raight. I’ll be there at half ten,’ were his usual parting words, after which the line would go dead. All other work would have to be shuffled around to make way for the larger-than-life Malcolm and his poorly dog.
Happily, today nobody was ill. The dogs were paraded out one by one for me to inspect.
‘Andre, fetch that brindle bitch from up top!’ Malcolm would bellow at the Eastern European kennel lad, who looked about ninety years old and always wore a confused expression. Andre would saunter away and, belying his confused expression, would usually return with the correct animal.
Finally, the last dog was summoned.
‘Rocky, can you bring me James?’ Today’s Rocky was Malcolm’s son, who also helped out in the café and the kennels and was proudly following in his father’s large footsteps. He wasn’t called Rocky either – I think his name was Greg.
A beautiful adolescent black dog stood in front of me.
‘That’, pronounced Malcolm, ‘is James.’ He stood back with his hands on his hips, bursting with pride. ‘James Pool.’
‘Wow!’ seemed the right response. He did indeed look handsome, but no more so than the other twenty-nine dogs I had just seen.
‘That is a lovely dog – and an interesting name,’ I commented.
‘Well, Rocky’ – Rocky being me, this time – ‘we expect great things of him. His father won at Sheffield the other weekend. That’s why we called him James Pool.’
‘Okay. Who is James Pool?’
I had never heard of him.
‘I don’t know, but I thought it sounded like a grand name. The name of a winner!’
I admired and then inspected ‘James Pool’ with the thoroughness that Malcolm expected. He did seem splendid and, once he had eaten the right food and moved through the ranks, I assured Malcolm that I thought he was a future champion.
‘Hey, Rocky. Look at this!’
‘What now?’ I thought. Was this to be an even more imperial greyhound, and if so, what on earth would this one be called? But I was not presented with another dog. Instead, I was ushered into the food preparation area. It was part of the kennel inspection process – I had to make sure the kitchen was clean and tidy, and that all the food was either in a fridge or a rat-proof container. However, Malcolm was not showing me his hygiene status. He was gesturing at a veritable mountain of meat, which was hiding under a tarpaulin on one of his kitchen units.
‘That, Rocky, is pure, prime beef! That’s got to be good for ’em, eh? Pure meat. No waste. What d’ya reckon? It’s good stuff, you know!’
Its provenance was obscure, apart from that Malcolm knew a man who ‘fetched it in a lorry all the way from Middlesbrough’. I tried to explain that the basis of a balanced diet for any dog, but especially a performance one, involved an intricate balance of calcium and phosphate that might not be met by this pure meat. But my cautionary words fell on deaf ears. Malcolm was back on his phone, no doubt organizing his next delivery of beef.
* * *
There is a common misconception that people who own a lot of animals must have a reduced affection for each individual. Surely it is impossible to have equal measures of affection for each of twenty dogs? For Malcolm, though, this could not have been further from the truth. Despite having many dogs at this time and many more previously, he treated each as his one and only beloved pet.
I saw him one morning after answering a typical phone call from him, urging me to see his dog immediately. He had been racing at Sunderland the previous evening. The dog had pulled up on the final bend, finishing lame and last. The veterinary surgeon attending the track had patched up the hobbling greyhound with a bandage of monstrous proportions, which gave no indication of the extent of the injury underneath. I suspected it would be serious. So did Malcolm, although he always feared the worst.
I admitted the dog (this one called Flash) to our hospital, and set about rearranging my morning visits. Once this was done, I sedated him so that I could take off the huge bandage and examine his leg.
As I suspected, there was a large amount of swelling in his right hock, and instead of being held together firmly, there was a marked slackness to the joint. Before Malcolm and Flash had even appeared, I knew it would be the right hock that was the problem – it always is in a racing greyhound. The dogs run around the track in an anticlockwise direction, so the right hind is subject to most of the stress. It is the hock (the equivalent of our ankle joint) that bears the brunt of this stress. The joint comprises many small bones, held together very tightly and very specifically by ligaments, which keep everything in the right place. Even a tiny misalignment causes the joint to be painfully unstable and renders the dog very lame and unable to race. I took an x-ray, and it quickly became clear that one of the bones – the central tarsal bone – was severely out of position. It was either the end of Flash’s racing days, or possibly even the end of his days altogether – most dog trainers do not even consider keeping a lame greyhound for a pet.
I telephoned Malcolm who answered immediately. I told him the bad news about the extent of the injury and the likely prognosis. Even if we operated, it was far from certain that the injury would heal well, and it would be complicated surgery. For most racing dogs, the outcome of this injury would not be a happy one, but Flash belonged to Malcolm.
‘Well, he’s been a good dog for me and he’s a good mate. Do what you can for him. If he doesn’t race again, I’ll keep him as a pet. I’ll pick him up this evening.’ With that, characteristically, the phone went dead and I did not have the chance to explain the various potential complications and problems.
It was a good thing I had rearranged my morning’s work because the repair of Flash’s injury was both fiddly and time-consuming. I needed to cut over the joint, realign the bones that had been squeezed out of place and then, whilst keeping them in perfect alignment, apply a tiny bone screw to attach two of the bones to one another. This would keep them in place and stop the main central bone from slipping out of position.
The operation went well and Malcolm arrived that evening as promised, to collect his dog. Flash was bundled into the estate car, soon to be back to the luxury kennel and heat lamp from where he came.
A neat post-op x-ray, a tidy bandage, a happy dog and a firm handshake from Malcolm were all I needed to make this day another satisfying one.
‘Thanks, Rocky! See ya next week!’
And with that he was off, mobile phone clamped back to his ear.