BLOOD SPORT
TRUSTING EYES
FREE AT LAST
EVER FAITHFUL SERVANTm
PLIGHT OF THE GREYHOUND
M
M
PLIGHT OF THE
GREYHOUND
Let's hear it for the Greyhound
Ancient breed of canine friend.
Immured inside each dog track,
Running for your life around each
bend.
Confined in cages, when you're not
running;
Always giving us your all.
Without a touch of human kindness,
With no love for you at all.
.
Hairpin turns and cold steel cages,
Concealing well your rightful rages.
Pain and exploitation, coming from
the greed of Man.
Running always running, to stay alive
if you can.
'Twas ever thus, my sweet companion
Ever since the game began.
No wasted food, if you should slow
down,
Starvation being your award.
Living is only for the winner
Death, if you should lose is your
reward.
.
I rescued you from dying
To show the world that you have worth.
I am honored by your friendship,
You fill my life with silent mirth.
A breed of dog, so very gentle
With noble bearing and quiet grace.
Every day, I'm glad I know you,
I see God's image in your face.
Copyright 2002 Benita LoCastro Smith
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TRUSTING EYES
I'm paralyzed
my soul frozen in an Eternal Instant
In a vision I cannot get out of my
mind
I must ease its hold by sharing its
demand
This vision demands to be acknowledged
to be screamed out
It is the vision of a dog's Trusting
Eyes,
while a shell of a man finishes his
life.
Those trusting eyes are, somehow, now
looking at me,
they plead..................please,
do something
Copyright 2002 Rebeca
Dugan
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BLOOD SPORT
(A greyhound's last words)
by Juliet Law Packer
"I lie on my side. I am dying.
A female blue-brindle greyhound,
Living to run.
Speed was my gift from the gods.
The gift, a headlong dash to death.
Once I dreamed of running in an open
field.
No muzzle, no pain, running freely.
I am in a field now.
Eighteen acres of death.
The bullet was meant for my brain.
To be a quick death. Painless.
The bullet entered my neck.
The pain rages… when will it end?
Will there be another bullet to speed
my death?
No. Bullets are not to be wasted on
dogs.
We were dollar signs
Hurtling down the track.
Together a flash of colors:
Brindle, blue, black, red, white, fawn.
I was too slow to last.
Too slow to make it to age two.
A throw-away life.
When death comes I will not be alone.
There are scores of us. Thousands.
Brindle, blue, black, red, white, fawn.
We, who never knew an open field,
Have found our own field.
It is soaked with our blood.
Once I dreamed of being held in someone's
arms.
Caressed, petted, loved.
All dreams are ended now in this field.
The darkness is taking me over.
Lime is thrown on my defeated, discarded
body.
My heart howls out ...
Let my dying matter,
Let my dying be the last.
The light dims out.
Remember, remember, remember."
Copyright 2002 Juliet
Law Packer
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FREE AT LAST
By Lynn Kargol
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Racing days are over
Thought the pain would go away
But soon I learned a different fate
Was headed straight my way
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He reached his hands into my cage
And pushed me out once more
I glanced at all my weary friends
As he lead me out the door
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It hurts to walk; it hurts to stand
Been through all I could endure
But all my pains are nothing that
Somebody's love could not cure
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I'm pushed against a concrete wall
And know I've failed the test
He said I wasn't fast enough
And reached into his vest
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I close my eyes and cower
As I shake, my senses dull
Then I feel the barrel of a gun
Against my skull
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Isn't there a better way
to entertain a crowd?
But my thoughts are interrupted
By a noise so hard and loud
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I'm just another failure
Racing to my final day
And sometimes all the winners
Will lose a race someday
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They call it an "exciting sport"
They say that it's humane
But a sport that always ends in death
To me, is not a game
Copyright 2001 Lynn Kargol
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EVER FAITHFUL SERVANT
by Lynn Kargol
The footsteps walking down the hall
My heart does pound I feel so small
He's coming near
My cage I fear
And nowhere for me to hide at all
It seems so long for him to be
Standing finally over me
His downward gaze
His eyes ablaze
Be this the final sight I see?
His foot now wrenched into my side
I cannot move; it hurts to cry
His griping hands
My pulsing glands
Hope of tomorrow be denied
Out of here and in the truck
I'm quickly running out of luck
The bumpy ride
It's hot inside
Because I couldn't make a buck
Who knows what will become of me
But the business cannot run for free
A faster pace
To take my place
Race me till I die for thee
Just another scratch upon the list
Of greys who've gave their lives for this
Replaced with haste
It seems a waste
My life for your eternal bliss
Copyright 2001 Lynn Kargol
If you would like to submit your own poetry
or fictional short story about greyhounds, please let
us know.
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