Wiener Dog Races

So Savannah and I left an inspirational church service where nineteen people were baptized to go to the track. I felt like a character in a low-brow movie as I sat in the dingy seats while people around me clutched their racing forms, flinging losing tickets to the ground in disgust and despair. Obviously, we were out of our element. "What does win, place or show mean," Savannah asked as we watched the returns show up on the infield illuminated board. "I don't know," I muttered, mafia-style, from the corner of my mouth, eavesdropping as Pop-Pop crunched the numbers and bought tickets for his rambunctious four-year-old grandson behind us. Everyone has their own style of picking a winner. Pop-Pop played the odds. Savannah seemed to favor horses assigned with low prime numbers. Superficial by nature, I liked the pretty ones. "What time do the wiener dog races start," I wondered, too afraid to wager on the ponies. What if the other gamblers laughed at me?

Wiener dog racing day featured dollar hot dogs and drinks. Dehydrated from watching the horses (it was a dirt track), Savannah and I headed over to concessions to be confronted with a quarter-mile long line. "For goodness sake," Savannah grumbled, "that line is half the size of the actual track." I congratulated her surprisingly optimistic nature and nudged her toward the dollar snow-cone line. We waited patiently among the six and seven-year-olds for an agonizing twenty minutes before receiving our brightly colored ice treat. I watched Savannah nibble at the filled cone like a horse nibbles an offered apple. It looked much cuter than it sounds.

Speaking of cute, we were lucky enough to stumble on the wiener dog registration; another long line that we actually benefited from because we were able to watch the contestants prior to the race. As we had never attended a wiener dog race before, my overly-cautious husband, fearful for Chlo's safety and self-esteem, scratched her from the race. Savannah and I were there to scout out the competition and get a lay on the land for a potential run in 2014. We spent a lot of time saying, "Ohhhhhhhh." There were minie doxies and standard-sized, smooth coated, long and wire-haired varieties, black, brown, liver, dappled, and piebald. A minor windstorm swept through from all the tails furiously wagging. We were in hound heaven.

The races were spectacular. I have been to concerts, comedy shows, sporting events, and circuses but they have paled in comparison to the level of entertainment and excitement provided by watching those stubby little legs gain ground toward owners squeaking toys and holding tempting treats. The rules were simple: Do not throw the dogs. This was confusing until I saw some owners utilize a subtle underhand lob to give their little racer a bit of a head start (snout start). The first race was a mouth-watering run pitting Snickers and Skittles against Duncan Donut. The crowd favorite was Frank-n-beans. Little Booger lost by a nose. There were a few enthusiastic false starts from some eager participants that humorously delayed scheduled race times as owners and staff chased wayward racers around the infield. Little Daisy led her humans on a fifteen-minute high-spirited pursuit that had the audience cheering for this dachshund deviation. Experience and an intense love of dog treats won out over youth as Gordon, now a three-time grand champion, was the winner of this run for the roses...or rather, this run for the rawhide. Don't get too comfortable there, Gord-o, 2014 is right around the corner. (Cue up: Eye of the Tiger) Chloe's collar is officially in the ring (until we take her for a walk later tonight).