Woof! No fun at the track
The Tucson Greyhound Park was not where I wanted to be on a Friday night, especially not if I had to be there alone and sober. I was expecting the place to be weird, but when I walked in and saw a group of men gathered around a television laughing at a midget in a phone booth grabbing at dollar bills that were blowing around him, I realized this was another dimension altogether.
I was through the looking glass.
A lot of people stay away from the dog tracks because they feel sorry for the greyhounds - those skinny tortured little things - but the people that were there to bet seemed to be the victims of a far more unsettling kind of abuse. There was an air of illness and hopelessness that comes with gambling. These were ugly people of all ethnicities in a stumbling parade of limps and skin problems. The lost souls oozed back and forth, blowing Salem cigarette smoke into their racing forms.
But don't get me wrong; some people were really friendly, and everybody was willing to give advice. I went up to one guy, who introduced himself as Dr. C, and seemed particularly at home. I asked the good doctor how he bets on dogs.
Between chugs of Bud Light and frantic scratching, he told me how to play the numbers, how to take into account a dog's weight and who the best trainers are. I took his advice and figured it was time to make my first bet.
I chose Speed Trap, a 70-pound dog in the fifth race. He had a good solid record, a real contender.
I went outside to watch the race. The dogs were led into the starting gates by a ragtag group of adolescents dressed like sex offenders. "Eye of the Tiger" started playing over the tinny P.A. system.
As soon as I started thinking about how much I hated my life at that moment, the gates opened and the dogs started tearing around the track after the fake bunny, which remained always so torturously out of reach.
The one ugly guy who was watching the race with me had his money on the number one dog in the lead. He started screaming, "C'mon One, C'mon One!" His dog fell back at the very end, and when the race was over, the guy let loose a symphony of profanity.
I was rather impressed with his vocabulary until he threatened the dog with things that have been outlawed by every civilized group of people on the planet.
I didn't take it as badly when Speed Trap came in dead last.
Betting on numbers didn't work, so I tried some alternative methods. I decided not to make a bet until I got a chance to look at the dogs. In one race, I chose a dog because I swear it winked at me. That dog lost.
In another race, I chose a dog because he was pacing around and shaking his head just like Mike Tyson; I figured he was pumped up, but he lost, too.
I started getting bored by watching these animals run around, and I wasn't about to go mingle with the outpatients anymore.
For my own amusement, I decided to take fate into my own hands: I started heckling the other dogs. I yelled things like, "Where's your game at, dog?" or, "Time to put down Ol' Yeller!"
This isn't the kind of thing I would normally do, but when there's a man next to you twitching violently and repeatedly lighting the wrong end of his cigarette, you don't feel so out of place.
When heckling didn't work, I tried aggressive encouragement. "You are a sexy little dog," I whispered. "You're going to win this thing because you're just so hot." This approach didn't do anything but make the people around me hold their children a little tighter.
Nothing worked. I lost about $20, and by the end of the night, it felt like I had been the one chasing that bunny around. And I never even got close. So what did I get for rubbing shoulders with the leper army of the night? Nothing.
Dogs are unpredictable. Behind their wagging tails and fluffy, happy demeanor lies extreme unpredictability: In dog we do not and cannot trust.
It is the maddening quest to solve the mystery that is Dog that brings people to the dog-track. These tired and downtrodden were once like you and me but were led astray by the pooch.