The Born to Run. Ryan Reed

the Gulf, Corpus Christi, and Valley Greyhound Parks. The kindness and professionalism of TGA executive director Diane Whiteley and TGA executive assistant Lois Mowery exceeded my wildest expectations. Without the RIGOA and TGA grants, the Rhode Island and Texas chapters in this book would not exist.

      Other types of valuable assistance were provided by Don Conatser, Judy Enyard, Maurice Flynn Jr., Jim Gartland, Cheryl Gilson, Rory Gorée, Herb “Dutch” Koerner, Patti Lehnert, Connie Loubsack, John Manning, Charles Marriott, Craig Randle, Steve Rose, Ann Waitley, and Carl Wilson. Countless others contributed in valuable ways to this book project. Without their collective support, Born to Run would never have become a reality.

      Finally, I would like to express my deepest appreciation to my parents, John and Rosemary Zimmerman, who never lost faith in my ability to complete this project.

      Preface

      The seeds of this book were planted in the Pacific Northwest some twenty years prior to its publication. In 1989, at twenty years old, I realized that something was missing in my life—companionship. After visiting a friend who had just adopted a black Lab puppy, I realized that I needed a dog.

      Having never adopted a dog before, I realized I needed to do some research. I turned to the local library, searching through its books to gain any tidbits of information I could. After browsing through the small selection of dog books available, I pulled out an encyclopedia and looked up the word dog. A full-color insert showed illustrations of every dog breed. In the most defining moment of my life, my eyes slowly wandered to the Greyhound illustration, which depicted a weird-looking, aerodynamic creature. That casual glance would profoundly change my life.

      When my older brother heard about my new interest, he suggested that I call the Coeur d’Alene Greyhound Park in northern Idaho for information. His college roommate was a regular patron and had once mentioned something about adopting a retired racer from there. That was the first time I had ever heard about Greyhound racing. I called the racetrack the following morning and was referred to the Greyhound Pets of America’s Idaho chapter in nearby Post Falls. When I explained to the adoption volunteer what kind of dog I was looking for, she replied, “Oh, I’ve got a pup that would be just perfect for you. Her name is Toolie.” I later visited the racetrack, where Toolie had once greeted patrons, and saw how much the trainers enjoyed being around the dogs and how well they cared for them—the affection was genuine.

      Illustrating a sharp contrast in design, Toolie’s (R’s Snowbird–SC, CD) streamlined profile counters the rigid lines of an old steam locomotive in a Potlatch, Idaho, city park.

      A few months after adopting the white-ticked beauty, I joined the adoption group and set out to find as many homes for retired racers as I could. In my first six months, I placed a dozen retired racers and was subsequently voted onto the board of directors at the age of twenty-one. For years afterward, I served the adoption organization by handling media relations, conducting home visits and interviewing potential adopters, providing long-distance transportation, managing a weekly Greyhound get-together, and even repossessing a retired racer here and there for various reasons. While I maintained an interest in learning more about the sport of Greyhound racing, nearly all of my firsthand experience with Greyhounds came from the realm of adoption.

      When I adopted my second-generation pups, Dino and Abby, in April 2001, I began to chat with other adopters on Internet discussion boards. I quickly discovered that people had incredibly strong opinions about racing, but when asked how many racetracks or breeding farms they had been to, the answer was almost always, “None.” I was struck by the fact that a person could have such strong feelings about something he had never seen for himself. I remembered dogs coming into our adoption kennel who were happy, healthy, bouncing, and acting like everyone in the world was their best friend. I knew that if the dogs were indeed universally mistreated, as some people claimed, they would require a great amount of behavioral modification before being released to adopters. But the dogs went happily into adopters’ homes, often immediately after retiring from racing. This is what made me think about doing a book about Greyhound racing and adoption—I needed to see for myself how these dogs lived before they arrived for adoption.

      I started the book project in the summer of 2001 in an effort to travel to and gather information on racetracks, breeding farms, and adoption organizations across the country as well as to learn the history of Greyhound racing in America. The first racetrack I approached was the Multnomah Greyhound Park, located in Portland, Oregon. I came with no references and could not even say I knew anyone in racing, yet they gave me full access to the racetrack and allowed me to photograph anything I wanted to. My first thought was, "Incredible! Not only do these people have absolutely nothing to hide, they’re extremely proud of what they are doing."

      I next traveled to the National Greyhound Association facility in Abilene, Kansas, and visited several other racetracks located in Colorado, Kansas, and Iowa. I had not previously met Gary Guccione of the NGA, yet he took half a day of his own time to arrange several farm visits for me. I told him I had been an adoption volunteer in the past, and that was good enough for him. Craig Randle, the NGA’s chief farm inspector, drove me from farm to farm, answering questions along the way.

      From 2002 to late 2005, I continued to visit racetracks in Florida, Rhode Island, Texas, and again in the Midwest. I began to see the book project as a work on Greyhound racing and adoption in America, and I set out to expose every nook and cranny with my camera and my pen. What I saw along the way were healthy and happy-go-lucky Greyhounds. Every dog acted as though I were his long-lost friend. My own dogs acted as though every breeding farm they visited was their old home. I had never seen them so happy before—or so disappointed when the visits were over.

      During the years I was conducting my research, I began to realize that there was a family environment within Greyhound racing that was separate yet overlapped with the family of those in Greyhound adoption. It also became apparent to me that Greyhound breeders were not in the business for mere profit. They were a collection of people who simply loved being with the dogs. A breeder in Oregon once told me, “If I were to put the same amount of effort into any other business than raising Greyhounds, I would be a millionaire!” I realized that there was no chasm between racing people and adoption people. They stood on the same ground with the same ideology.

      The dogs themselves genuinely love the competition and athleticism of their sport—a love they feel even years after retirement. At the Abilene Greyhound Park, my retired dogs got to run on the racetrack one last time—down the frontstretch and into the first turn. After the mock race, a handler walked them over to me in the pens. They had looks on their faces that seemed to say, "Did you see us, Daddy? Huh? Huh? Did you see us?" That was a wonderful moment for me.

      Conversely, one of the worst things I experienced while creating this book was standing next to a group of trainers when a dog took a spill on the first turn. There was a collective gasp, and I heard a trainer cry out the dog’s pet name in a way that wrenched my soul. The animal was entirely uninjured, even finishing the race, but the trainer was deeply shaken. None of the other trainers laughed or made fun of her because they had all been there before. Another difficult moment for me was watching a trainer worry about the fate of a sick dog. He was leaning on a fence, overwhelmed with concern for his pup. This was a very large individual—a man you might expect to meet in a raucous bar somewhere. But there he was, hunched over, with two other old trainers comforting him. I could have taken a picture—and I wanted to—but I couldn’t bring myself to intrude on the man’s painful moment.

      These people care deeply about their dogs. On Fourth of July, they are in the kennel buildings to comfort thunder-phobic dogs that are frightened by the loud fireworks, often climbing into the crates with the dogs. On Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, as on any other day, they are in the kennel buildings, scrubbing food bowls and sweeping floors. While visiting the racetracks, I saw a universal dedication far beyond even that in the pet world at large. While I was learning firsthand, individuals on the Internet were still talking about how all of the dogs are terribly mistreated. But I learned the truth. As a dog lover who had taken his first steps