Crisis did the dog no good

One of the lesser tragedies of the foot-and-mouth crisis was the fact that the greyhound in which I have a 6 per cent share-holding was temporarily banned from racing. To tell the truth, this was a relief to everyone concerned. Not least the dog, which has spent the past few months relaxing at its comfortable south Dublin home, no doubt enjoying such greyhound day-dreams as the one in which the electric hare walks into the kennels and gives itself up.

But all good things come to an end. And recently, with the ban lifted, the dog made his competitive reappearance at Shelbourne Park. "Competitive" would be overstating his past performances, but I use the word to suggest the sense of optimism with which members of the syndicate gathered for the occasion.

If nothing else, we could celebrate a return to normal life as the national emergency subsided. Just as Phoenix the calf had risen from the ashes of the British Labour party's props department, so our own four-legged hero was re-emerging from the shadows to announce all was again well with the country.

But there were other reasons for hope. For one thing, since our last visit Shelbourne had become an all-sand track. There was no reason to suspect this surface would suit our dog any more than grass did, but it was a new variable, and we were anxious to eliminate it from our inquiries, at least.

The other cause for optimism was the dog's demeanour. He was easily the happiest participant in the pre-race parade, his tail bobbing up and down like the Eircom share price. Like the Eircom share price, his had been seriously overvalued when we bought him. But maybe the enforced lay-off had been beneficial, we thought. Maybe he'd exorcised the demons that had been holding him back.

Or maybe he'd just forgotten he would shortly have to run a circuit of the track. Whatever the reason, most of his less happy rivals left him for dead, as usual, once the race started. They were probably trained to conserve energy during the warm-up, and leave any tail-wagging till afterwards.

REGULAR racegoers will know the form-guide features one-line summaries of each dog's prospects. Euphemism is a strong feature, as in these actual examples from that night's card, which also sound uncannily like extracts from my old school reports: "yet to deliver on early promise"; "could do better, but still a pup"; "hasn't been troubling the judge of late".

The last line refers to the photo-finishes that determine the outcome of a race. Not only has our dog never made it into one of these portraits, but the pathetic quality of his career to date was summed up in his one-liner, which noted that in the previous race he had led "to near first bend" before fading and finishing last. It's the word "near" that really hurts.

Unfortunately, he didn't emulate even that Icarus-like performance on this occasion. He was fading before he left the traps. After his standard short-lived revival down the back straight, he faded. The back-markers overtook him then, as usual, and if Phoenix the calf had been in the race, he'd probably have trotted past too.

In fact, the replays showed our dog clung on to fifth place this time, and the one who finished behind him probably tried to swallow rat poison after the race. It was an almost exact repeat of his previous outing - the only big difference was that, on the new surface, the other dogs were kicking sand in his face literally as well as metaphorically.

In the traditional inquest, we discussed our chances of buying something faster. But this is not as easy as it sounds. The greyhound market has experienced the same inflationary pressures as the property sector, and prices are such that, especially in Dublin, even a three-legged, semi-detached dog is now beyond the reach of most families. Trading up is expensive too, although the suspension of racing may have depressed prices.

The lay-off has taken its toll on the sport in other ways. Mid-way through the night, we noticed there was something different about the atmosphere, but we couldn't quite say what. Then we realised it was the atmosphere. There was suspiciously little cigarette smoke in the air: it was more like a Green Party conference than a race meeting.

Following inquiries, it emerged that the cigarette-vending machines had been removed during the close-down and not yet returned. As anyone who has visited even a bookies' shop will know, smoke is an integral component of the betting environment; like incense in a church, or water in a fish tank. But visibility at the track was disconcertingly high, and realistically it could be months before smoke levels get back to where they were before the ban.

Still, at least things are returning to normal, as the welcome sight of tourists at the track confirmed. And going home that night, we could be satisfied we had done our little bit to send out the message that Ireland was again open for business. Speaking of which, if anyone's looking for a secondhand greyhound, you've come to the right place.

fmcnally@irish-times.ie

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