There's a favourite cartoon of mine about dogs, poignant as well as funny, which I still remember from more than a decade ago when I saw it in an Australian newspaper. It features a scene from a garden party. The host is serving hors d'oeuvres to his elegant guests when he is suddenly interrupted by the family mutt, in a state of high excitement over a pile of bones he's just dug up under everyone's nose. The caption to which reads: "Awful aspects of summer: the new dog digs up the old dog."
You had to be there, obviously. But I was thinking about the cartoon on Monday night at Harolds Cross, when the greyhound syndicate's new dog returned to the venue where the old dog made his debut in 1998. The stadium has just been completely renovated, but memories lingered everywhere.
The old dog passed on earlier this year. I use that phrase in affectionate tribute because, God knows, he rarely passed anything when he was alive. But he suffered a serious injury in training a few months ago and had to be put down by the vet.
It was a sad end, and maybe also a mercy. In the ever-more desperate attempt to discover his particular talent, there had been talk about trying him over hurdles. This seemed to me a worrying prospect: he usually found getting around a flat track eventful enough, without having to negotiate jumps as well. So at least he was spared that. And while his life may have been short, I like to think it was happy. He was always well fed (perhaps too well fed for a greyhound) and cared for; and along with a number of bookmakers for whom he may have been secretly working, he benefitted from his owners' naive faith in his ability, despite mounting evidence that he had none.
I'm sure he'd also be happy to know that his life's work is continuing through the new greyhound thanks to whose performances at Shelbourne Park, the name of the syndicate is now so feared by the on-course bookies that they had no hesitation on Monday night in installing our dog as the rank outsider of six.
Hesitation is, of course, relative. The average bookie is not an impulsive creature and, indeed, would hesitate before putting a fire in his underpants out. Odds of any kind are offered only after extensive soundings, and the first offers are about as conservative as the Sunday Telegraph. The real business is done in a short frenzied period before the off; and by that time on Monday, our dog was an embarrassing 5-1.
He was running in the semi-final of a £500 stakes, which is not to imply that he had won through an earlier round, or anything. The whole programme was sponsored to mark the reopening of the stadium, and the syndicate had qualified for the semi-final chiefly through payment of an entry fee.
The prize-money apart, you couldn't help being struck by how unrecognisable Harold's Cross was from its old self. The new facilities are such that the only thing missing is a sign inside the entrance pointing "fools" and "their money" in opposite directions; although even unassisted, we managed to lose plenty. The other startling thing was that the predominant language at the trackside was Spanish.
Even given the pace of change in Ireland, this was a shock. It emerged that every Spanish student in Dublin had descended on the stadium for the evening, making it too noisy to think (which, luckily, is optional). It was so noisy you couldn't shout tactical advice to your greyhound during the race either. And this is the only possible explanation for why ours finished second, sensationally qualifying for Friday night's final.
Even upon viewing the replay a number of times, it's not quite clear how he achieved this. He certainly wasn't trying. The opening of the traps seemed to take him by surprise, as usual, and after a typically late decision to join the escape party, he sauntered to the first bend a comfortable last and still apparently unconvinced by the rumour that there was a hare up ahead. Fortunately for us, the race favourite made a bad mistake at the bend. With all the noise from the Spanish students, he may have missed his owner's shouted directions to: "Turn left! Turn left!"; but in any event he went straight on, and by a happy coincidence collided with the second favourite, who was taking the bend expertly.
Still in no particular hurry, our dog sailed through the resultant gap. Then, apparently excited at finding himself fourth, he turned in the finest performance of his life for 75 yards down the back straight, before becoming discouraged again by the sight of yet another bend, and giving up.
That's how it looked from where I was watching, anyway. And so sure was I that he would finish fourth (only the first three qualified), I watched the winner up the home straight instead; until, almost unnoticed, our four-legged hero trotted home after him.
We studied the replays on the monitor again and again and we can still only explain the performance of the third and fourth dogs over the last 100 yards in terms of air turbulence. Nevertheless, the result meant we were in Friday night's final, with at least a theoretical chance of winning £500 and a trophy. And success of that magnitude was so unprecedented we decided to spend the money in advance on drink.
Sadly, the result of the final was not available at time of going to press. Yes, the race itself will be over by now. But our dog is probably still running.
Frank McNally is at fmcnally@irish-times.ie