I scrounge up my nerve. “Her leg is healing. But we’re not here about that. I mean, not exactly.” My face turns hot from embarrassment.
“May we come in?” asks Gran.
Roselyn holds open the screen door. “Please.” She leads us into a small room with a few chairs and a worn sofa. “Have a seat.”
A photo on the coffee table shows Roselyn with a heavy-set man in front of a stadium. Arranged along wall shelves are gold-colored trophies: greyhounds leaping in the air, greyhounds standing proudly at attention. If her dogs aren’t racing dogs, then what are they—maybe show dogs? Her place hardly looks like a serious show-dog setup, but all these trophies…
Gran starts. “Your neighbor, Mrs. West, came into the clinic today with her kitten, Missy.”
Roselyn squirms in her chair.
“Her kitten died!” I blurt out.
Roselyn’s face stiffens. “Yes, I know. Mrs. West called me up this morning, screaming.” Roselyn’s knuckles turn white as she grips the armrests on her chair. “She’s threatening to sue me and says she’s going to have my dog, Swift, put down. Can she do that? He’s a good dog, never touched an animal before. I don’t know what came over him.” She shakes her head from side to side. “I try to watch my dogs, but sometimes they get out.” Her eyes search Gran’s.
“Do you have any idea why Swift might have attacked Missy?” Gran asks.
“Not really.” Roselyn’s eyes shift to the floor.
“Are those statuettes along your shelves racing trophies?” I ask.
No answer. Roselyn’s eyes are still focused on the rug. Why won’t she look at us?
Finally, Roselyn’s voice squeaks out, tight and strained. “OK, it’s true. Swift and Gingerbread and all the dogs I’ve owned, they’re all racing dogs. Or rather, they were. Swift probably thought he was back at the track, chasing a lure.” Roselyn looks scared, like she did at the clinic when she first came in.
Gran exhales slowly. I can tell she’s holding back an angry response, but she speaks perfectly calmly.
“It’s not uncommon for an ex-racing dog, who’s been trained to chase a mechanical hare, to chase small animals. Has Swift been around any small animals outside of the track?”
“No. Well, one,” Roselyn replies. “Mrs. West has a full-grown cat, but Swift has never bothered it. I didn’t know about the kittens until it was too late.”
“How many dogs do you have?” I ask. Gran might be calm, but my heart is racing.
“Right now? Gingerbread, Swift, and Yellow Bird.” Roselyn’s fingers loosen their grip on the armrests. “Sometimes I have more, sometimes less.”
“Where do all the greyhounds come from?” I ask. “There’s no track around here, is there?”
“Dog racing is illegal in Pennsylvania,” Gran points out. “Roselyn, I want to make sure nothing like this happens again. I’d hate to have to report you to the Humane Society.”
“Please don’t do that,” Roselyn says nervously. “Let me explain.” She hunkers down in her chair. “First of all, my name is Roselyn Drescher. My brother, Manny, and I opened Drescher’s Speedway, near Bridgeport, Connecticut, about five years ago. We bought Speedway from a racing family we’d met at a dog show. It seemed like a great business at first. I love dogs, always have. I loved to watch them run. They’re such graceful, beautiful creatures. Like dancers.” She smiles sadly. “It was good money, lots of excitement. All our friends got into it. The business got bigger and more complex, with dog owners from all over the East Coast.” She pauses. “Then…”
“Go on,” Gran says softly.
“Then I began to see how the dogs were handled—like objects, or business inventory, not like animals with souls. As much as I love dogs, the business became intolerable.”
“What do they do to the dogs?” I ask, not sure I want to hear the answer.
Roselyn picks at the chair fabric. “Greed does strange things to people. Not all people, mind you. Some of the owners were great. But some ran their dogs too hard, or abandoned them when they stopped winning, or even force-fed them diuretics, which remove body fluids, to make them lighter and faster, which is against gaming commission rules. And worse.”
My stomach twists. “That’s sickening.”
“Yes,” Roselyn nods. “Sickening’s right. I had to get out, but I didn’t tell Manny at first. I was scared of him—he has quite a temper, so I eased out slowly. When Manny realized what I was doing, he threw an absolute fit! You see, he needed my help to keep Speedway running. But, in time, he calmed down some. And I’ve never regretted my decision.”
Roselyn pauses to gauge our reactions. I am numb, but relieved to hear the truth. Gran’s brows are knit in a fierce MacKenzie scowl.
“So, how did you get Gingerbread, Swift, and Yellow Bird?” I ask.
“The last time I spoke to Manny, I asked him to bring me some of the dogs who were injured and slated to be put down. He brushed me off, but I told him that I’d report the unscrupulous handling of the dogs at his track—the diuretics, the steroids, the selling of dogs to laboratories—if he didn’t agree. The gaming commission would slap him with some hefty fines, and his reputation would be muddied. So he began to send his driver down with the dogs who would die otherwise. When I get them, I try to fix them up and find them new homes.”
A heaviness weighs my body down. “Why didn’t you tell us that Gingerbread was an ex-racing dog from the beginning, when you first brought her in?”
Roselyn raises her hands in dismay. “I was afraid that if Manny found out I’d spilled the beans about what’s going on at the track, he’d be furious—and he’d stop allowing his driver to bring me the few dogs I do get to help.” She pauses, then adds, “It’s been so hard to know the right thing to do. But as long as I can keep helping the dogs—” Suddenly she jumps up. “Let me introduce you to someone.” Roselyn disappears into her kitchen. A screen door creaks open and shut, and a large white greyhound bounds in. He makes a beeline for me and starts wetting my hand with sloppy licks.
“Well, hello to you, too.” I pet him between his pointy ears with my dry hand.
“This is Swift,” Roselyn says. “He’s a sweetheart. Unfortunately, I’m afraid he’s the one who ran after Missy.” Swift goes to lick Gran’s hand. “What will happen to him, Dr. MacKenzie? If Mrs. West sues me, can the court order Swift to be put to sleep?”
Gran responds cautiously. “She could sue for property damage, since she witnessed the attack and it occurred on her property. But she can’t have Swift euthanized unless she wins a dangerous-dog suit in civil court. There’s a chance Mrs. West would be satisfied without a suit if Swift was relocated.”
“I see,” Roselyn nods. “Dr. MacKenzie, thanks for the information. I would hate to lose Swift, but I’d rather have him relocated than dead!”
Chapter Seven
Back at the clinic, I feed and walk Gingerbread, whose temp is down to normal. She hobbles around bravely on her injured foreleg. Gran says her limp may be permanent, but at least the leg didn’t have to be amputated. When we return to the kennel, Gingerbread wants me to play catch with the chew toy I couldn’t resist buying for her. I tell her, “I’m beyond happy to see you rebound, but you’re not quite ready for catch, Gingerbread!”
Meanwhile, Brenna has walked Fletcher and cleaned the kennels, and David has prepped the Herriot Room for Podge’s procedure. After I return Gingerbread to her kennel, Brenna, David, and I lounge around the reception room, taking a breather before Podge’s operation.
“It’s sad to think of that sweet dog, Swift, attacking a helpless kitten,” I say.
“The racing life must really traumatize the dogs,” Brenna says.
“Mr. Quinn says dog racing is a much harsher business than horse racing,” David adds. “He says that the dogs are basically trained to be racing machines.”
I go to the front desk, switch on the computer, and grab the mouse. “Let’s check online for some greyhound info.”
&nbs
p; “Good idea. It’s important to back up our feelings with facts.” Brenna pulls up a swivel chair beside me.
“Brenna, you sound just like your mother,” David says, sitting on the desk and swinging his legs. He ducks as Brenna tries to swat him.
I scroll past all kinds of greyhound sites. Some are tracks advertising their races and dogs; some are breeders bragging about their pedigree lines; some are adoption agencies for former racing dogs, complete with photos. “You guys, listen to this,” I say. “Greyhounds begin training shortly after they are born. Of the fifty thousand born each year, only twenty will generate enough money at the track to stay alive until age four!” I pause, swallowing back my anger, then continue. “It says here that the dogs are kept in cramped cages, usually measuring about three feet by three feet, until race time. After a racing injury, dogs are sometimes given painkillers and made to run before their injuries are completely healed.”
“That’s barbaric!” Brenna exclaims.
“And what happens to all the puppies who don’t make it to the track?” David wonders.
I continue reading. “Greyhounds hit their running peak during their second and third years. When they stop winning, their owners often abandon them, have them euthanized, or send them off as lab dogs for experiments.”
David shakes his head in disgust. “This whole thing makes me want to lose my lunch.”
“You’re not kidding,” Brenna says.
Another site tells us that tracks are still legal in eighteen states, including Connecticut, where Speedway’s located.
Tears cloud my eyes. “I’m so glad racing is illegal in Pennsylvania.”
“The racing industry is definitely in need of some serious reform,” Brenna announces sternly. She does sound just like her mom talking about issues that threaten wildlife. I can easily picture Brenna taking over her family business: Brenna on a mission to rescue river dolphins from polluted waters. Brenna telling elementary kids to cut up six-pack rings so that they don’t choke seals.
“How could Manny Drescher be so uncaring that he’d sell dogs to laboratories and drop off injured dogs on someone’s lawn, like he does at Roselyn’s?” I ask. “We should have him arrested!”
“How would we do that?” David asks. “Besides, one of Manny’s henchmen would just move up on the totem pole and keep doing the same bad stuff as before, right?”
“Yeah, that wouldn’t help the dogs,” Brenna points out. “We need to gather some kind of evidence—stuff that we could use to put pressure on Mr. Drescher to change his ways and treat his dogs better.”
I surf the Net some more. “Guys, here’s a list of activities that will get dog handlers in trouble—force them to pay fines—like messing with a dog’s weight before a race. If we could go to Speedway and catch Manny’s handlers doing something, maybe we could put pressure on Manny to open an adoption booth.”
“Now you’re talking, Maggie,” Brenna says. “I’m sure that the American Greyhound Association wouldn’t be too happy about some of the things that go on at Drescher’s, either. We could threaten to call them and report on Manny’s activities if he won’t consider opening an adoption booth.”
David’s got the mouse now. “Hey, check this out,” he says. We read over his shoulder as he scrolls through an FAQ about former racing dogs:
Do retired racing greyhounds make good pets?
Definitely! They are affectionate and patient.
Can you let your greyhound off-leash?
Not always. Greyhounds have little experience with doors other than as starting gates for races. They are so conditioned to race that when a door is opened it signals a race has begun!
Are they good with small animals?
Often they are, but sometimes they are not. Greyhounds are trained as pups to chase the mechanical hare. They may snap at cats, hamsters, and other small animals. To combat this, they may need proper retraining.
“Retraining. That’s the solution!” I shout. “Maybe Gran and I can help Roselyn find a handler for Swift. The faster he can be retrained, the faster he can find a new home far away from Mrs. West. Maybe Mrs. West would calm down and drop her threat of a suit.”
“Awesome idea, Maggie,” Taryn exclaims, coming into the clinic. “Maybe that trainer would also donate time to the greyhounds that’ll need homes.”
I guess Taryn’s not that bad.
Gran walks briskly into the waiting room. “Anyone who’d like to help with Podge had better get scrubbed up. Brenna, are you staying? David?”
“I’m working at Quinn’s Stables this afternoon, Dr. Mac.” David glances at his watch. “Oh, man, got to go!” He throws on his parka and flies out the door.
“My mom and dad are expecting me,” Brenna replies. “We’ve got a wild turkey injured by a biker plus a couple of homeless owl babies.”
“Sounds challenging.” Gran smiles. Her dangly earrings tinkle. “I guess it’s just me and my trouper, Maggie.”
“Yep.” I’m already climbing into my scrubs.
“I could help, too,” Taryn calls eagerly. I wait for Gran to explain nicely to Taryn that she’s not experienced enough for surgery.
But Gran nods. “It’s about time you get some operating room know-how. This one will be a good start. It’s not an emergency, so we can go slowly and I’ll have time to explain procedure.”
“Thanks, Dr. Mac!” Taryn’s dark eyes light up with excitement.
“Maggie, get Taryn some scrubs and show her how to wash for surgery,” Gran says to me with a sharp look.
Must I? Taryn follows after me, like a baby duck after her mama.
I steady Podge as he squirms on the metal table. The guinea pig’s teeth stick out from the corners of his mouth. Poor guy, he hasn’t been able to chew his food or even close his mouth for a while, so he’s as bony as a stick. Gran wanted to wait a few days after his arrival to operate so she could strengthen him with glucose before this procedure.
Gran injects Podge with a sedative. “Just a little something so he won’t bite us in fear when we check his mouth and file his teeth,” Gran explains. The guinea pig’s muscles relax and his eyes close.
“Boy, his snout sure is puffed up and red,” Taryn comments.
“He has moist dermatitis from his slobbers, which we’ll treat topically with an antifungal and antibiotic cream.” Gran examines the inside of his mouth with a little flashlight. “First we’ll need to shorten those teeth. They’re too thick for the regular clipper. Maggie, will you put the burr in the dental handpiece? It’s over in the drawer. Taryn, pick up that felt-tip pen. You can mark off where to cut—right about here.” Gran points to show Taryn where to mark.
“What causes slobbers?” Taryn asks, screwing up her nose as she draws two lines.
“Sometimes it’s hereditary—bad jaw alignment. Other times it’s caused by insufficient abrasion in the diet,” Gran answers. Taryn looks puzzled.
“Rodents’ teeth never stop growing. They need to chew things to file their teeth down. That’s one reason why beavers like to chew wood,” I explain. “Podge needs some wooden blocks in his cage.”
“Wow,” Taryn says. “What would happen if his teeth just kept growing?”
“He wouldn’t be able to eat, and eventually he’d starve to death,” I tell her. Maybe this will shock Taryn enough to make her stop asking questions for a while. She nods solemnly.
I attach the dental burr, plug it in, and hand it to Gran. Then I hold Podge’s jaw open while she runs the burr, a small cutting tool, back and forth over Podge’s front two teeth until the extra parts fall off. After that, she smooths the surface of the teeth so they won’t cut the inside of his mouth.
“Maggie, will you clean his mouth, please?”
I use antiseptic soap and gauze pads to gently clean the matted areas around Podge’s mouth and apply medicated cream.
“Podge needs vitamin therapy, too,” Gran says, injecting him with vitamin C. “He’ll need repeated vitamin and dental treatment
s as well as a change of diet—more carrots and lettuce. Guinea pigs are the only mammals, aside from humans, whose bodies can’t manufacture their own vitamin C. Podge will need vitamin C added to his water every day.”
Taryn looks confused again. “But what does vitamin deficiency have to do with overgrown teeth?”
“Slobbers is worsened by lack of vitamin C. It creates abnormal tooth development. For example, did you notice the way Podge’s teeth curved way outside of his mouth.” Gran removes her gloves. “Maggie, why don’t you take Podge to recovery. Taryn, you can help me clean up.”
“Yes, Dr. Mac!” Taryn replies.
I’ve never seen someone happier to clean. I take Podge to recovery and then head off to work on a crucial piece of homework, even though it’s Saturday: to psych myself into playing my best game on Monday. It’s our final game against Fort Washington. I can’t let my confidence be sabotaged by Darla’s mind games.
Chapter Eight
The crowd is tense. I sense the energy in the gym as my knees flex nervously, anticipating the whistle. My voice is tight with tension as I call out strategy to Lucy, my small forward, and Mary, my shooting guard. Fort Washington’s moms, dads, sisters, and brothers pack the bleachers to witness their team’s final game. I glance at the Ambler crowd. I’m pleased to see a bunch of eighth-grade boys, including David! But our fans are outnumbered, and Fort Washington’s confident cheers make it clear to everyone that they expect to win.
Coach Williams has me on center again, to Darla’s complete annoyance. She’s pouting in her power forward spot. Gran waves from the crowd as the jump’s about to happen. I wave back. A flicker of irritation bristles through me as I spot Taryn next to her, sharing popcorn and talking. OK, so Taryn’s a clinic volunteer—but that doesn’t make her Gran’s best buddy
Don’t go there, MacKenzie. No petty distraction. Concentrate!
Ambler gets the jump ball. Yes! Mary passes to Darla, Darla dribbles like thunder upcourt, steering way clear of Fort Washington’s defense. She sinks it in, like a tossed ball in a retriever’s jaw. The Ambler bleachers go wild. I have to admit, Darla’s darn good when she’s got a clear court. But the next time Darla gets the ball, the bullish Fort Washington guard is right on her.