The Greyhound problem

I was woken early one morning by a polite knocking on my back door.

 

I quickly dressed and rushed downstairs – a polite knock is usually a sign of bad news.

 

I opened the door to a smartly dressed man, complete with suit, tie and bowler hat, with a greyhound on a lead.

 

“Can I help you?” I asked, trying to be helpful.

 

“Could you direct me to the greyhound stadium, please?” he asked, “Tony here’s in a race.”

 

“I’m sorry,” I said, “there’s no Greyhound Stadium here, we’re just an island of total population 0,000,002 people, we don’t get much call for greyhound races.”

 

The man took a piece of paper from his pocket and studied it carefully. “But the boatman said this was Happy Island.”

 

“It is,” I said.

 

“Well, I’m looking for the Happy Island Greyhound Stadium, scene of the Happy Island Greyhound Race.”

 

“Are you?” I said.  “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of any greyhound race, and I’ve lived on this island all my life.”

 

“But it says here that this is a traditional greyhound race dating back 117 years.”

“Does it?” I said, realising who must be behind the mysterious greyhound race. Alun, though a lifelong resident of the island, is also an Open University Professor of Mischiefology, and this had all the hallmarks of Alun’s mischief.

 

“Well, in that case I can show you and Tony to the stadium, if you’ll just wait for me to get dressed.”

 

“I thought you said you didn’t know where the stadium was?”

 

“No, but I can manage a pretty good guess.” The empty house, though a simple, common or garden empty house, happens to have a greyhound track in the rear of the property, although, there being no greyhounds on the island, it had never been used.

 

We walked down to the empty house, where sure enough the stadium had been set up for a race, with bookies setting up their stalls and punters already beginning to mill round, searching for the best odds, a hot tip and a sausage in a bun.

 

“Are you ready for the races, Jed?” Alun said when he saw me.

 

“What is all this, the ‘traditional’ Happy Island Greyhound Race?”

 

“We’re a rural community Jed, we can do something for the first time and call it a tradition, no-one will be any the wiser.”

 

“But why a greyhound race? I thought you didn’t like mainlanders coming here.”

 

“It’s just for the day, Jed, and it’s a nice little earner for the island community. Why I’m already a hundred mainland pounds up on my sausage in a bun stand, and it’s not even time for elevensies yet.”

 

“Even so, there’s so much to organise.”

 

“Nonsense Jed, these things organise themselves. People love coming to dog races, I’ve not even had to advertise it, and the dog owners are desperate to be the first to win a hundred and seventeen year old trophy.”

 

“What, they know it’s a new race?”

 

“Of course Jed, they’re not stupid, they recognise a bit of PR puff when they see it.”

 

By this time the other dogs and their owners had arrived, and a big cheer heralded the official opening of the beer tent, it had all the hallmarks of a successful day.

 

Except …

 

“You realise the track’s never been used,” I said to Alun.

 

“No, but it’s just a gravel greyhound track, what could possibly be wrong with that?”

 

Unfortunately Tony’s owner overheard Alun’s comment. “What’s that?” he said. “A gravel greyhound track!”

 

“Oh yes,” Alun said, “They knew how to build greyhound tracks, did Mad Jed and Mad Alun (our distant ancestors who built both the empty house and the surrounding greyhound track and elephant hiding hut).

 

“I’m not letting Tony race on gravel, his poor little paws are delicate.”

 

“And I’m not letting Speedy race on gravel either,” said a fat man with a whippet. “His paws are littler and delicater than Tony’s.”

 

“And Sir Wolston isn’t treading on any track that isn’t the perfect blend of sand, silt, clay and water,” said a woman in an extravagant, feather-based hat. “He’s a professional racer, that track could end his career.”

 

News of the gravel track spread quickly and within minutes every owner of every dog had announced that they wouldn’t be taking part.

 

“We can’t cancel the race,” Alun said, looking round at the expectant crowd, “people have paid money, drunk beer, stood around in the hot sun, they’ll be angry.”

 

“Not my problem,” said Tony’s owner. The other dog owners agreed. 

 

“But the trophy,” Alun said.

 

“Ah, yes, the trophy, and the Prize Money,” Tony’s owner said, “Five hundred pounds I think you said.”

 

“No, just a hundred pounds,” Alun said, then realised what Tony’s owner was proposing. “Ah, yes, five hundred pounds, and the winner’s name on the trophy.”

 

“Still, I’m not letting Sir Wolston run on this, he’ll damage his feet and be out for the rest of the season.”

 

“And I’m not letting Tony race on it either.”

 

“So nobody will win the trophy,” I said, “nor the money.”

 

“I didn’t say he wouldn’t do the race, I just said I wouldn’t let him run on the track.”

 

“So, er, so what are you proposing exactly?”

 

“I’ll carry him round.”

 

“Yes, I’ll do the same,” said the fat man with the whippet. The other dog owners quickly agreed to the challenge.

 

Though this wasn’t quite the race that had been advertised, it was too late to quibble. Alun took to the microphone and announced that the “First ever traditional dog-carrying race would begin in five minutes,”

 

There was a rush of last minute betting, with the whippet backers hastily making counter-bets, and in no time at all they were off.

 

The race proved more of a challenge than we had anticipated, with the dogs unused to being carried and struggling to escape. In the opening stretch no fewer than two of the dogs had wriggled their way free and were disqualified, leaving just four dogs in the race: Tony’s owner, the woman with the feather hat, the fat man with the whippet and a character I hadn’t got round to introducing.

 

Tony’s owner was in the lead until the last straight, but the heavy greyhound proved too much too him and he began to slow on the last turn. Against all expectation, the fat man with the whipped surged into the lead and waddled over the line in first place.

 

“That was the most fun I’ve had in years,” he said, as he pocketed the handsome cheque, “I’ll see you in 2016.”

 

“I so love tradition,” said the woman with the feather hat, “I can’t wait ‘til next year.”

 

Even with the £500 prize, we still made a substantial profit on the hotdog and beer concessions.

 

Which is why at the same time every year, we hold our annual dog-carrying race. It’s the highlight of our year. Come along, if you relish the sight of fat men carrying whippets over a gravel track. There’s hotdogs, beer, gambling, and best of all, it’s traditional.