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I'll
guess that relatively few people have seen a dog race since just a
handful of states have tracks. One of those states is
Colorado. While stationed at Fitzsimmons Army Hospital in Denver,
the Mile High Kennel Club was a favorite haunt - on payday.
Seeing a dog jump the track to head off the rabbit was a regular
occurrence, and very painful if you happened to hold that dog's chit,
because that dog was was DQ'd. Sometime the gates would fly open
and your dog was caught taking a crap. Tough luck for you.
One summer my dad had sent me $200 so I could fly home for my two-week
summer leave. My plane departed Stapleton around midnight, so I
had plenty of time to join my mates at the dogs. Things began
grandly, with me winning the Daily Double. Woot-Woo. Then,
maybe the third race, my dog jumped the track. Okay, I was
still way ahead. Going into the last race however, I was down to
about $12, and had yet to pay for my plane ticket. I envisioned
my parents, sister, and girlfriend waiting for me to deplane Saturday
morning. And waiting. And waiting. There was not a
prayer I could borrow $200 at that hour, so my goose was cooked.
The last race was a Quinella. To win, you had to pick the top two
dogs to finish; order didn't matter. In abject despair I plunked
down $10 on two dogs at random, and retired to the top row of
grandstand seats to be alone when the blade dropped. A
B&W closed circuit television monitor was my only link to the
race. I watched it without emotion because I had forgotten what
dogs I bet on. Didn't matter. You know what happened of
course. I won the freaking Quinella, and with it about
$400.
It was my best leave ever. I never bet on an animal race again until I
took Mother Superior to the trotters at Rosecroft years later. We
won, and I've never been back.
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