Going to the Dogs

There were eight races and this was the last. Things were getting desperate. It wasn't the money lost but the whole sense of defeat that irked, that obliterated everything, that made the next race and the possibility of winning, of picking the right dog and betting at the right time more important than anything. In my jacket there was a £10 note that was burning to get out. It would be a risk but it would make up for everything. Somewhere among these six dogs was the one who was going to win. There should be some way of knowing which it was.

Compared with this, the previous night at Shelbourne Park had been calm. Money had been lost but not too much. The antics of the bookies and their cohorts were, for a while anyway, more intriguing than the dogs. They stood along by the track with their names clearly visible on a piece of board and a doctor's black bag, again with their names on it, where they kept their money: If a large bet was placed and they couldn't afford to risk it, they signalled a man who made peculiar motions 'with his hand to some other bookie. In general, bets were placed in the two minutes before the race began. By that stage the favourite had become clear and if one picked the moment when the odds were more than even, money would be made. If the dog won, that is. But if one waited too long none of the bookies would accept a bet on a favourite. The "Tote" was not for gamblers.

On the sixth race tonight in Harold's Cross I had waited too long to put money on the dog Oakport, my bet had been refused and Oakport had won. Damn Oakport. Now what was to be done? Over the opposite stadium a full , moon appeared and in the middle of all the excitement and desperation it seemed a very odd object, not an omen or anything like that, but a function of the place as if the numbers for the Tote or some other information might appear on it at any moment. The bookies had Catunda Boy at six to four. A few people went in to put money on him, but not many. Suddenly, informers ran up and down and all the bookies changed the odds to two to one. This was where I rushed in. Just afterwards the odds changed to five to four. In the thirty seconds before the race began no bookie would take bets on him. It was clear that Catunda Boy was going to win.

The leads were taken off the dogs and each was put into its cage. The electric hare started around the track. Everyone ran up the steps of the stadium to get a better view. Those in the bar came to the window. Everywhere cigarettes were being lit. The crowd caught its breath. Out of the cages sprang the dogs. Catunda Boy, the favourite, came out last but as they turned the corner and reached the opposite stretch it caught up a bit and seemed to be in with a chance of winning. There were moments of complete exhilaration. It was impossible to think of anything else. Was there a chance he could do it? But no, there was another accursed greyhound, a big ugly greyhound called Kilbelin Magpie, that nobody had bet on, that beat him to it.

I stood on the top of the steps and thought to myself. I had a tenner left and a bit of change. There would be a lady down the town expecting, with good reason, to have her dinner bought for her. Money would have to be made and the ten pounds left wasn't worth holding onto. Each race was so short. It made the sense of disappointment, of having been cheated, much greater. The tenner would have to go. That was all there was about it. I noticed one man running over to another who was nearby. They began to talk excitedly. As I moved closer to them they were joined by another man. The words I overheard were "Pamper Me". They proceeded down to the bookies followed by me and sure enough, it was the favourite. Everyone was putting money on it. The odds were four to six which was bad but at least winning would be a thrill, a boost for the morale, so I handed the money to the bookie and told him the name of the dog. The man beside him wrote it down. Another man came up and handed the bookies two twenty pound notes. The odds changed four to seven. Even as the dogs sprang out of their cages the bookies were accepting bets. Pamper Me, may two such words never be uttered again, started last, continued last, and arrived last at the finish.

It was all over and it was only then that one began to notice pieces of torn up paper everywhere, the cigarette smoke and the general lack of the female sex. There was a bus stop just outside the stadium. I felt that I wanted to bet more, to win my money back, but just then there was another worry. Did I have enough money for a bus into town? I searched my pockets and I did, just about. And I knew that if there had been another race I would probably have gambled my bus fare too. A security van moved in front of the stadium to guard the evening's takings. I was still covered in sweat.