For Georgy King

The faint scent of turpentine and piss clings to Savoir Faire’s mattress as a flea nips her arse. She cranes her old, stiff neck around, bares her teeth but knows she can’t reach it. She gets up, does a circle and settles back on her bed. It’s 10.00am. Dinner is eight hours away and Majestic Rainbow has the TV up so loud, she can’t sleep.

Cardinal Funeral Homes grew rich by burying and cremating baby boomers at astronomical prices. The board created a new health foods division and a social cause. The Happy Bone Retirement Home for Racing Greyhounds, two kilometres out of Dapto, was born.

The greyhounds spend their twilight years in companionable serenity at ‘Happy Bone’. Their meals are cooked by a cordon bleu chef and there are guided walks around the grounds, so the website says.

The TV room windows look out over a denuded dirt landscape, with small indentations where the dogs lie. A four-metre high cyclone fence runs for 500 metres around the boundary. Majestic Rainbow is watching the tennis. His head follows the ball. With drop shots, he hurls himself in to the air and on landing, wonders where the ball went.

Savoir Faire has asked him politely many times to turn the volume down only to be told to, “stick it up your arse because even though I’m not a pedigree sprinter from the leafy Adelaide Hills, my shit smells the same as yours.”

She licks her left paw – her arthritis is playing up again – gets up and gingerly walks to the window. Ten Cent Deposit is doing speed trials anticlockwise around the boundary. He’d spent the first five years of his life racing at three meetings a week. Now he can’t stop. The doctor diagnosed Obsessive Compulsive Dog. He takes medication and has therapy once a week but bang-on 7.00am every morning, he’s charging around the fence, his tongue flying and eyes fixed. Poor Ten Cent Deposit, she thought. They’ll be no rest for you until the day you croak.

Two of Savoir’s girlfriends died last week. Rain Dancer and Princess of Barkness. Rain Dancer had beaten her by a snout at the Richmond Inter Dominion many years before but she never bragged about it. Rain had a quiet dignity while Princess made her laugh with impersonations of the other dogs. She missed them terribly. They died on the same night.

An attendant carries Ten Cent Deposit in to the room, lies him on a mat and puts a pill on the back of his tongue. His little body is covered in sweat. Majestic pulls out the TV power cord with his teeth and stares down at him.

“Just what we need. Another lunatic in the asylum,” he says. “Look at the poor bastard. The best thing for him is a shot of the green stuff. He’ll be next. Mark my fucking words.”

Majestic reckoned dogs were taken from their beds at night and euthanised, to make way for new guests.

“That’s absolute codswallop,” Savoir Faire says. “You’ve got no proof.”

“Then how come there are only 40 dogs here at any one time and we get new tenants every month?”

“Natural attrition”

“Natural attrition my dag-encrusted arse. How about those two bitches you used to hang around with? Princess Margaret and …?”

“Rain Dancer”

“Class don’t mean shit around here. When your time comes…”

Savoir puts a paw on Ten Cent’s shoulder but the tranquiliser has done its job. Apart from herself, Ten Cent was the most famous greyhound at Happy Bones. He’d won 41 out of 50 starts. Now his mind had gone. He’s skin and bone. Poor love.

She first saw him run when she was sitting in the Members’ stand at Wentworth Park with her owner. She had her new silk coat on. Ten Cent was a skinny, nervous two-year old. He’d drawn the outer gate. Almost impossible to win from there. The lure tore past and the gates flew open. Ten Cent was slow out of his block and then he was off. His head low, tongue poking out of the side of his mouth, pressing against the muzzle. His tan and brindle body was a locomotive piston pumping him past the other dogs. The race caller screaming in to the PA:

“Jesus on a stick, there goes Ten Cent Deposit, he’s passed Left Hand Spanner, Chilli Willy and Luck’s a Fortune. He’s coming around the outside, passing Buffalo Girl, Lunchtime Legend and Laid on Spumante. He’s 27 to one so a hundred smackers on him will make you plenty of fair-weather friends. It’s neck and neck between Ten Cent Deposit and Pull the Other One, Ten Cent, Pull the Other, Ten Cent, Pull, Ten, Pull, it’s Ten Cent Deposit by a wet nose in an Australian record…”

Later that night in the car park, as she sat on the lamb’s wool seat cover of the Mercedes, ready for the trip back to Adelaide, she saw Ten Cent looking up at her. Before she could bark, his owner picked him up and hurled him in to a small fibre glass cabin on the back of an old rusty ute, for the long trip back to Rockhampton. She could never imagine that one day, he’d be lying zonked at her paws in the Happy Bone Retirement Home for Racing Greyhounds.

Most of the dogs stayed in their rooms and passed their days in their baskets. Boredom ground down their spirits. Some had gone off their food. White clouds passed in the shape of rabbits and hares and they thought nothing of it. They lay in the exercise yard and twitched, dreaming of sinews stretching against bone, as they flew around the track, only to wake with a crick in their neck.

Majestic was uncouth but he had spirit. On the first day he arrived, he walked in to the reception where the vet nurses drank coffee and played cards. No one paid him attention so he lifted his leg on the electronic weigh scale and took a dump in the corridor. Then they paid him attention. They tried to give him a kerosene bath and he sunk his teeth deep in to the arm of the attendant. They left him alone after that.

Majestic knew his euthanasia theory was dodgy. He could only count to 12 but he wasn’t going to tell Savoir that. He’d spent most of his life charging around a dirt track chasing an undigestible lure and trying to root stray females. Numeracy wasn’t a valued competency.

He didn’t much like White Cliffs of Dover but he was down to earth. White Cliffs was a Queenslander who lived with his owner in a boarding house in Fortitude Valley, until the health inspectors found them living chest-deep in garbage. In the Valley, White Cliffs taught himself to read by staring at old copies of the Courier Mail. He could count too. He worked out place getters based on previous form and track conditions.

“White Cliffs. You got a minute?” Majestic says with a come ‘ere nod of his head.

“Eh, Majestic, how’re they hangin?”

“By a thread. Come with me while we do a head count.”

“You need me to count after 12 don’t ya? After 12, you’re all foggy doggy. What’s in it for me?”

“There’s a chop bone buried in the Memorial Garden of Champions. It’s yours.”

They trotted around the corridors, stuck their heads in to rooms, to be met with the sad and bored faces of the old timers and the puppy-dog keenness of the newbies.

“How many you reckon?” Majestic says impatiently.

“There’s 40 dogs, I reckon. I’ll take that bone now,” White Cliffs says.

“Doesn’t it strike you as odd that there are always 40 dogs here?”

White Cliffs dropped his bony bum and stared at Majestic.

“Eh? Now that you mention it, yeah. You know about the food truck that comes every Sunday night?

“What?”

“Yep, a food truck. It’s got Cardinal Foods written on it,” White Cliffs says while licking his genitals. “And here’s the thing. They don’t unload food. They stack it with hessian bags out of the kitchen freezer.”

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The following Sunday was visitor’s day but the hounds called it ‘No Visitors Day’. Savoir Faire’s owner had died in a car crash. Ten Cent Deposit had three owners. He never got visits. Majestic Rainbow was found wandering the streets of Merrylands and placed in Happy Bone by a dog rescue charity. Sunday was the longest day of the week.

Savoir, Majestic and White Cliffs snuck out of their rooms just before midnight and hid by the rubbish bins near the kitchen. A white truck pulled in. Two men with beer guts and bulldog faces opened the back doors, walked inside and threw the hessian bags in to the truck. The last hessian bag hit the tail gate, split open and the frozen and skinned body of Princess of Barkness fell to the ground. Savoir took a step back and looked away.

“Jesus F Christ,” Majestic growls. “They’re killing us for pet food.”

The men shut the truck back doors and drove away. On the back of the truck was a large stencilled ad:

POSH PATE FOR DISCERNING PALATES

“Not for pet food, mate,” White Cliffs says. “For toffs in Vaucluse and South Yarra.”

Savoir walks back slowly to her room. A new dog is crying in its room. Night time was always the hardest. The time when good memories returned; when love and food and pats by kind owners were remembered. She walks past Princess of Barkness’ old room. She circles her mattress, drops down with a groan and licks her paws.

The next morning after a breakfast of dry kibble – the food never changed – White Cliffs trots in to the TV room, where Savoir and Majestic were watching old 1960s replays of ‘Skippy’, the bush kangaroo. Skippy is flying a Sarkozy helicopter. His 12-year old friend Sonny, is telling him on the two-way radio that a young American family lost in Waratah National Park, are being attacked by vicious emus, who, oddly, wear the black pyjamas of the Viet Cong.

“Quick, Skippy, turn starboard 47 degrees”

The camera focuses on Skippy’s little paw as the helicopter banks starboard and comes in low over the Eucalypts. He has a frosty, determined look in his marsupial eyes. No emus are going to hurt those innocent Americans. Not while Skippy is around.

Ten Cent Deposit had run 27 laps of the compound and lies panting on his basket. He sees White Cliffs trot in. He likes him. They’re both Queenslanders.

“Eh, Ten Cent, you’re lookin’ good,” White Cliffs laughs. “Ready for the big Inter Dominion meet next Saturday at Dapto? I’ve got the house on you”

Ten Cent didn’t get humour but he smiled at White Cliffs anyway.

The TV’s so loud White Cliffs can’t hear himself think. He walks over to the TV plug and pulls it out with his teeth.

“Hey, I was watching that!” Majestic says.

“Yeah, Mastermind was on next,” Savoir laughs. “Your favourite show”

“I want a yak with you’se,” White Cliffs says. “Secret squirrel stuff. I’ve got an idea. This includes you Ten Cent, me old mate.”

He pulls a copy of the Illawarra Mercury off the piss-stained two-dog couch and points his snout at a small advertisement in the classifieds.

“Old Kiama lady wants to love and care for four grey hounds. Must be house trained. I have a big property by the beach. Room enough for all.”

“There’s the address. All we have to do is get there,” White Cliffs says. “Let’s put our heads together and come up with a plan.”

Neither Majestic or Savoir could read but they trusted White Cliffs. He was straight up and down like six o’clock. Ten Cent could read but he never told anyone. His last owner put newspaper on the bottom of his kennel to soak up his piss. In the off season, he’d spend weeks in his kennel, with head on paws, staring at the print.

He looks at the classified ad. The lady didn’t want four dogs. She wanted three.

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The following Sunday night, the four greyhounds snuck out through reception and scurried to the northern cyclone fence. Majestic and White Cliffs had spent the last three nights digging a hole under it. It was a beautiful, clear evening with the Southern Cross high in the sky. All was going to plan until Savoir got stuck. Her hips locked with arthritis. Ten Cent wraps his teeth around her collar and pulls her through, just as the ‘missing dog’ alarm pierces the night.

The plan was to make their way to the Dapto Premier Line bus station, hide until morning and then crawl in to the baggage hold of the Kiama bound bus. Many years ago, White Cliffs had his picture taken for the local newspaper at the Kiama Lighthouse with his owner, after he’d won the New South Wales 500 metre sprint at Dapto. He knew where the old lady lived.

The old greyhounds trot towards the town, keeping off the highway. They were about to walk past the Dapto Greyhound Racing Club, when Majestic sees the truck with the two bulldog-faced men, come barrelling at them.

White Cliffs and Majestic run as fast as they could. Savoir was flagging.

“Come on old girl,” barks Majestic. “Think of the full bowls of fresh meat and swimming at the beach.”

Ten Cent runs back, pushes the three dogs in to a culvert and sprints to the Dapto Dogs racing track with the truck in close pursuit. He jumps the turnstile and makes his way to the starter’s barrier. The truck smashes through the front gate and the safety barrier, which short-circuits a small transformer. The track is lit in a brilliant sodium glow.

Ten Cent Deposit was home. He’d had famous victories at Wentworth Park, Richmond and Sandown but Dapto was special. He was a Dapto Dog. Although the place was deserted, he could still smell the cigarette smoke, the hot chips and pies. The grand stand reverberated with the sound of punters, yelling their dogs on. ‘C’mon Ten Cent! Go, Go, Go you good thing!’ Standing by the starters box with the lights beating down on the track, his muscles flexing over his hips and shoulders, there was nowhere in the world he’d rather be.

The truck revved its motor and made its way towards him. The two fat men are smiling. ‘Easy’ they think. Knock off this mutt and then hunt the others down. Ten Cent waits until the truck is 40 metres behind him, changing up through the gears, then he drops his head and takes off. He moves quickly to the inside barrier and the dog-faced men watch in amazement as he laps them and draws in behind the truck. The crowd is roaring is his head, he can see kids jumping up and down waving to him, as he flies past the truck.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, are you seeing what I’m seeing? That’s Ten Cent Deposit, a 12-year old sprinter put out to pasture years ago and he’s overtaking a refrigerated truck travelling at 60 miles an hour! He’s passing it and it looks like he’s laughing. Jesus, Mother of Christ, yes, he’s laughing. The truck has stopped and the drivers don’t know what to do. Their scratching their heads. They’re cactus. Ten Cent has stopped 200 metres ahead. He’s wandered over to the finish line camera post and cocked his leg. He’s got balls bigger than Hercules!”

The truck starts moving again, swerving all over the track. Ten Cent turns to face it. He thinks of White Cliffs of Dover, of Majestic Rainbow and Savoir Faire, making their way to the Dapto Bus station. Savoir always treated him like a little brother. She gave him little treats and rubbed her face against his. It’d been so long since he’d had a friend. The truck changed up to fourth gear.

Ten Cent Deposit drops his hip, curls his lip and charges the truck, his eyes fixed on the driver. The truck driver’s jowls wobble and he screams as Ten Cent Deposit leaps and hurls himself side-on through the driver’s windscreen, forcing the truck off the track and bringing down one of the light towers, killing the men. Ten Cent lies dead in the cabin.

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The three dogs fall out of the baggage hold, stretch their legs, ignore the bus driver’s ‘what the fuck?’ and make their way up Shoalhaven Street. They stop at every house while White Cliffs looks up at the number.

“Eh, Majestic, what’s that number say?” White Cliffs says.

“Fuck off, Cliffs.”

Another 50 metres and they come to a large Queenslander house, with a wrap-around veranda and a Jacaranda tree. Majestic pushes the gate open and they trot up the steps. A woman with steel grey hair and a round, smiling face, opens the fly screen door.

“My goodness gracious me, what do we have here?”

The three dogs follow her down a large corridor to a light filled kitchen. She places three bowls of water on the floor and feeds them slices of roast lamb.

The following night they watch the TV news as the woman brushes their coats. Savior relishes the attention. It had been so long since a human had treated her with kindness. The pictures show the truck at the Dapto race course. Ten Cent’s little body lies under a blanket. The police raided the Cardinal Funeral Homes and arrested the directors.

The three dogs bowed their heads.

“That’s terrible. What is the world coming to?” the woman says. ‘Who’s for ice cream?”

White Cliffs gets to his feet and walks over to the open window. The scent of the sea hangs heavy on the evening breeze. He stands on his hind legs with his paws on the window sill and barks loudly into the night. Savior and Majestic join him.

“All hail Ten Cent Deposit, the greatest greyhound ever!”

Dogs far and near fill the night with howls.