Somewhere near dawn almost every day for the past six years, Randy Burrow begins his morning by burying plugs into his ears as protection from the deafening racket of the forty or so very large, very fast dogs at Greyhound Friends of North Carolina. Outside the doghouse, sunrise in the rural town of Oak Ridge is quiet, peaceful, languid. Inside, the powerful lungs housed in the oversized chests of these hounds generate a sound that rattles your skull. The din continues until each dog puts on a muzzle, communes with frenzied colleagues, tours the yard, gets its cage cleaned, returns home, removes the muzzle, eats the first of two large daily bowls of premium dog food, and melts back to sleep as if etherized. Randy has been conducting this orchestra every morning and evening in Oak Ridge since 1994. Unless you understand the score, the performance seems like chaos: noise, clatter, fumbling, misdirection, excitement, even adrenalin. Randy and his volunteers move through this daily routine at pace that makes a circus seem calm. But when you realize that forty big-dog apartments have just been emptied, cleaned, and refilled with a feeding, well-toothed seventy pound animal in less than an hour, you begin to appreciate the tempo of this opus. |
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After breakfast, the pop tunes on the kennel's tiny portable radio finally emerge over the sounds of those awesome lungs. It's relatively quiet now, and Randy, the Director of Greyhound Friends, takes a momentary seat in the office. The first chorus is over. Like a conductor who stares at the ceiling to concentrate on a developing symphony, the Director appears to stare out the window aimlessly, oddly distanced from the constant action around him. You eventually realize, however, that he's actually absorbing the rhythms and movements of the place; he's calculating. The kennel whiteboard lists the status of the ten dogs that will be adopted to new homes today--this number is exactly equal to the number of incoming dogs that were driven all night to arrive this morning from a racing track in Daytona, Florida. The conductor is processing which new dog will get which bed, who has been tested for what, which animals are cat friendly, and whether each of the dozen greyhounds blazing past the window is playing well with others. |
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Randy leaps up violently as is if hearing a gunshot, bolts through a fence, and dashes to the far side of the kennel. He's instantly isolated the sound of an injured dog amidst the barking outside, a noise only his trained ear discerns. Minutes later Randy and a volunteer carry the submissive, worried hound to the hospital. She's back thirty minutes later--just a bad sprain from playing too hard. This is the kind of treatment only professional ball players get. But, come to think of it, these animals are literally professional athletes. Well, they use to be. |
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Greyhound Friends and other similar organizations save retired racing greyhounds from euthenization once their brief careers have ended. The tragic news is that tens of thousands of greyhounds are killed every year by folks whose economy and morals lead them to slaughter dozens of animals in the pursuit of one or two money-making dogs. The greyhounds that make it to Oak Ridge first had to avoid being killed before ever leaving the breeding farm. And retiring from the track can be just as hazardous because, in the past, dogs that could no longer compete had outlived their so-called purpose and were also typically euthenized. Fortunately, greyhound rescue and adoption agencies have begun to intervene in increasing numbers. |
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By all estimations, the greyhound is an amazing breed. It's difficult to appreciate their power, speed, and grace unless you've ever stood in a large pen with a pack of them as they thunder past. Your first instinct is to stand very still and not get in their way. They have basketball-sized muscles strapped to their hind legs which seem strong enough to benchpress a Toyota. They require a few strides to reach overdrive, but, once they do, they surge like a jet with afterburners. If they're accelerating away from you, their large rear paws might kick dirt in your face from twenty feet away. Greyhounds have been bred for millenia to do one thing: wake up, see prey (they hunt by sight, not smell), run faster than it, eat it, then sleep the rest of the day. Because they have been bred for speed, not looks, greyhound coloration varies widely. Thus, unlike many of today's popular large-dog breeds, they have a wide gene pool that helps their longevity--that is, if they can survive euthenesia. Perhaps it's the healthy gene pool or the breed's basic temperament, but greyhounds are also renowned for their amazingly civil, tranquil demeanor. A squirrel probably shouldn't get near these dogs, but most greyhounds are exceptionally gentle and lovable when it comes to people. |
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On the one hand, these fastest of all dogs are easy to live with because they lounge all day. On the other, greyhounds have special needs which make it necessary for organizations like Greyhound Friends to help them make the transition from jock to pet. Think about it, a animal that's been trained to chase something as if its life depended on it (and it often does) is not about stop when someone shouts "Stop!" or blows a whistle. That might cause clamor at the betting window. Once adopted, a greyhound might not differentiate between the front door and a track gate or the neighbor's cat and a mechanical rabbit. Consequently, almost all greyhounds need a fenced yards or constant leashing. Fed properly, they will have zero body fat (aren't you jealous?) which means that they cannot tolerate extreme temperatures and are best kept indoors. They eat a lot in order to fire that huge engine in their chests. And they are often initially skiddish because of the harsh emotional and physical treatment they endured in training for the track. |
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Even so, greyhounds make wonderful pets for those who have the space (mostly in their hearts) for them, which is why Randy and others endure the aural explosion twice a day, every day. The early morning ritual is too complicated for anyone but the conductor or one of the section leaders to fully comprehend. Certain dogs are turned out with other dogs because they get along. Mickey might get fed before Sasha because the reverse upsets his world order. New dogs arrive; their drivers haven't slept since south Florida. Elvis needs a bath because he's going to a home at noon. Charts, medical records, care instructions, and adoption contracts accompany each of the 500 dogs that now find homes through Greyhound Friends annually. At 9:00 a.m. the "playgroup," a collection of local greyhound owners, meets in one of the large pens so that their dogs can exercise and entertain their proud, giddy parents. By 9:30 visitors begin to arrive to take home a dog previously selected, consider an adoption, or just see the stunning creatures up close. The parking lot fills up. The kennel office is about twelve by fifteen feet; it contains a washer and dryer, four box kennels, the "test cat" high up in a secure cage, the five or so dogs who live in the "lobby" not the kennel, an elevated bathtub, office equipment, and at least four or five people at a time: volunteers, fans, visitors, new parents, spouses, documentarians. When the door opens, everybody, except the dogs, must shift. |
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Why do people like Randy, his wife Amy (they met at the kennel), Sandy Williamson, and Bill Grubbs get up so early, endure the noise, and sacrifice their weekends and evenings? After all, why not spend your time helping people rather than dogs? There's no denying the tragic undercurrent that first prompted most of them to be here. Approximately 30,000 greyhounds are killed annually. Their bodies are heaped in dump trucks or waste bins and buried in landfills. They're found in ditches outside racing tracks, their ears cut off because the tattooed serial numbers inside would link the carcass to its owner. No other working dog is trained so brutally and retired so cruelly. However, if you ask, you'll find that the volunteers are more motivated by love of the breed than by outrage. The tragedy is so omnipresent that there seems to be little reason to harp on it, especially since the atmosphere at Oak Ridge is more about sanctuary than demise. |
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Ghandi once said that you can gauge the humanity of a culture by the way it treats animals. That concept may be difficult to grasp initially; why wouldn't you first judge a culture by the way it treats its unfortunate human members? In the movie Wall Street, the corrupt corporate pirate Gordon Gecko says, "I just got on the board of the Bronx Zoo. It cost me a mill[ion dollars]. That's the thing you gotta remember about WASPs, they love animals; they can't stand people." But the idea that animals should be treated with kindness seems to permeate all cultures. Sure, some people revere certain animals more than others. North America doesn't have too much respect for cows, for instance, compared to India. The Christian Bible is clear on this account: humans are responsible for the welfare of animals. Animal cruelty laws are prevalent throughout the United States. The controversial organization PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) describes it this way:
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