Thirsty.

There was a little black Greyhound, not much bigger than the average size Greyhound bitch, who gave his all whenever he ran. One Sunday morning during a trials session at a Lancashire independent track, he rounded the final turn in style clear of the field. Galloping further ahead on the run to the line...he stumbled on the uneaven surface...a crack was heard. Getting back to his feet it was clear he had broken his off fore. He hobbled as best he could towards the pick up point. His connections looked angry, gathering him up roughly as they removed him from the track.

While they were discussing what to do with him, a concerned individual who had often seen the little Greyhound run, and admired his spirit, enquired what was happening. The connections asked the Greyhound's admirer if he wanted him...the individual refused, offering reasons why he could not. One of the connections said he had a friend who would take care of him in a slaughter house, his shift began that evening, he would take the dog then.

The connections let the little black Greyhound make his own way as best he could to the back of a small van. They didn't help the little fellow as he scrambled awkwardly into the back of the van. He turned sideways, standing on three legs with his off fore raised...moving his head his eyes fixed his admirer...the hound's mouth opened, his tongue hung out at the side...he was thirsty. The van doors closed.

That was the last the admirer saw of the Greyhound. Moist eyes blurred his vision, nausea overwhelmed him thiking about the scene of carnage that would greet the little hound's eyes, the stench of destruction that would assault his keen senses, his head ached at the thought of the spring loaded bolt that would smash into the skull of that brave little individual. The admirer stood alone...and ashamed.

(Written by an ex-racing enthusiast.)

Thirsty

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