Bobby D. Lux - Dog Duty

by Bobby D. Lux

  Fortunes were won and lost, mostly lost, by daily betting on the cats at Arthur High School. The three of us entered the school through a vent in the old music building. We passed by the trophy display case, which now charted the history of the cat races at Arthur High Racetrack. The first official race was held four years ago (though dogs have organized underground races across the city for decades), and was won by Minty Fresh, a three-year old American Shorthair.

  At one time, Cat Racing was the largest sport in the canine world, having topped even ball-chasing and wrestling. Some races, such as the Annual Labor Day Stakes, drew thousands of dogs who’d escape for a day to toss their bones to Lady Luck at the track. Prior to going with Nipper and Ernie, my only time at the track was on a day off I had from work. I was able to sneak out to make it over to catch the inaugural Four Tails Cup to see what the big deal was. Maybe it was because I didn’t bet, but I failed to comprehend how these hounds could get so riled up over something so trivial. Then again, I ran races where first prize determined who went to jail.

  The trophy case was lined with photos of purebred cats with wreaths around their necks. There were clods of dirt from famous races and other various race-related trinkets scattered about. Ernie stopped to examine every item along the cat racing history timeline.

  “Whoa, Nipper! Did you know that the record time for the mile has dropped more than twenty seconds over the past two years? Before that, it took twenty years for the record time to drop even four seconds. Man, these cats are getting faster and faster. You think you could beat them? I mean, I think I could. Oh man, check this out. The actual claw clipper used by Snarlgauge the night he won the Triple Claw.” Nipper didn’t stop to look. “Aw, come on, doesn’t this stuff interest you? It’s history.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Nipper said. “There’s no way to prove that’s the actual nail clip or that they didn’t just get dirt from outside and say it was from the finish line of some race. You know, guys like your friends back at that club used to run this place. Probably still do.”

  “Well, I don’t care what you guys think,” Ernie said. “I think it’s cool.”

  At the end of the music building there was a double doorway that took you outside to a patio area at the edge of the football stadium. From there, you went around the corner to the main ticket booth. There were a few dogs, all non-ticket holders, who hung around outside the entrance to the stadium, trying to hit dogs up for spare bones as they left the stadium. A collection of permanent down on your luck types who’d just as soon rob you than see if they could talk you out of a few bones.

  “How are we going to get in?” Nipper said. “None of us have any bones.”

  “I got this,” Ernie said. “Watch and learn, old pal.” He approached the ticket booth and stuck his nose under the glass, looking up at the ticket seller, an older Mastiff, who stood up and stretched her back. “Long day? How are we doing so far?”

  “How can I help you sir?” she said.

  “Oh, I don’t need any help,” Ernie said. “Just stopping by to see if we’re on track to top last month’s figures. Last month was a strong month for us. You look tired in there. You need a break?”

  “No sir,” she said, suddenly straightening up. “I’m sorry-”

  “It’s okay. Are you new here? I’ve never seen you before.”

  “I… Well, I’ve been here a few months now,” she said. “I’m sorry. I don’t think we-”

  “I’m Ernie. Remember? We met three weeks ago. Normally, I run the museum up front. I’m a walking encyclopedia on the history of the races. I still remember when Fly Swatter made that epic comeback in the third all those years ago. What a race. Anyway, the boys upstairs liked me so much, they’ve got me overseeing the ticket booth now, so I just wanted to stop by and check in. Crowd looks really good today.”

  “Oh, I think I remember now. Okay. Yeah. It’s been a good day so far.”

  “Very good,” Ernie said. “Keep up the good work. Who’s your supervisor now? Is it still Elmore?”

  “It’s Maxy.”

  “That’s right. Maxy. I’m gonna put in a good word to Maxy for you. See if maybe I can swing you a raise down here. I can tell you’re working hard. Can I get you anything? You need water, some snacks, anything?”

  “Wow,” she said. “Thank you, Ernie. And no, I’m doing good in here.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Ernie said, as started to walk away, but stopped and turned back to her. “Oh, hey, one last thing before I forget. I got a couple of boys here with me. They’re from out of town and they’re, ahem, connected with the fellas upstairs, if you know what I mean. How about we take care of their tickets for them, on the house, if you catch my drift? By the looks of it in there, we’re having a good day in there, so don’t worry, I’ll smooth it out on our end with Maxy.”

  “Of course,” she said. “How many do we need?”

  “I think we can manage with three,” Ernie said, as she gave him the three passes. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “How did you do that?” Nipper said, clearly impressed and a little spooked by how well Ernie, who rejoined us, pulled that off. “What if you get caught?”

  “Getting caught? What are you talking about?” Ernie said, looking back and winking at her. “Obviously, I work here. Just ask her. Come on, let’s go.”

  “I have to admit,” I said, as we gave our tickets to the attendant and were officially at the races. “That was good, Ernie. That was solid, professional undercover work.”

  “And here they come speeding around the third and final turn,” the Public Address Announcer said, through speakers with far too much squeak to them. “It looks like a swirling tornado of feline fury folks as they come down to the wire where it’s King’s Surprise out in front. Oh! Now it’s Turnip’s Treat ahead by a whisker. No, it’s Catman making a late run trying to pull everything he can out of his utility belt of tricks. It’s a three cat race as they approach the finish line. It looks like it’s going to be a photo finish. Here they come. At the finish, it’s… It’s… It’s… Hold on to your tickets folks… By Joe, it’s Turnip’s Treat by a whisker, followed by Catman and King’s Surprise. Whew! What an exciting race, ladies and mutts. Win pays two-and-a-half-to-one, the trifecta pays thirty-two-to-one. The tenth race is up next in ten minutes. The ten in ten. Place your bets.”

  A typical losing dog’s post-race reaction flowed in the following manner: they cried primal screams of dejection as the unthinkable happened yet again. The screams subsided and ended in an extended sigh, punctuated by a series of deep breaths and exhales as their head and shoulders dropped to the ground. But then, just as all hope was nearly lost for good, a renewed sense of determination fell before their eyes because there was still another race to be run. A chance to win it all back and then some with a bigger bet that would make up for the loss. All they needed was a moment of clarity to turn that daily race program to right page and pick the cat destined to win the very next race. They slapped their paw on the winner’s name and floated to nearest pay window to lay a fresh bet. Got ‘um this time, they thought.

  “I love it!” Ernie said. “Can’t you just feel the excitement? It just reaches in and grabs you as you watch those little cats run. You want to chase them, you want to bite ‘em, but most of all, you want your cat to win. Then you just want to hug it. Where do you get all this emotion in one shot?”

  “We’re here to work,” I said. “Keep your eyes open.”

  “How will we know when we see him?” Nipper said.

  “Big, black, mean, ugly, and with a sidekick,” I said. “You see that, you give me a holler.”

  “Hey partner,” Ernie said, to a Bassett Hound with bloodshot eyes and his nose deep into a hooch-stained program, “who do you like in the tenth?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve been cold all day. I’m down three hundred and fifty bones. My wife is gonna kill me.”

  “I hate those days,” Ernie said.
“But hey, all you need is one winner, right?”

  “That’s what I keep telling myself.”

  “Hey, this Willow cat looks good,” Ernie said, to the hound. “Year-and-a-half Tabby. Good odds and is on a streak. What do you think?”

  “Looks okay. Besides, my name is Winston and I share the first two letters of my name with this Willow, so yeah, it’s makes as much sense as any other bet I’ve made so far. Thanks, buddy.”

  “Ernie,” Nipper said.

  “What?” Ernie said. “Me and my buddy here are looking at the tenth. He needs an extra eye on the lineup. That’s the race we’re supposed to care about, right?” Nipper went over to the two of them and yanked Ernie by the collar away from Winston and the program. Ernie pulled back and showed his teeth for a split second and didn’t retreat. “Back off, Nipper. I love you like a brother, but don’t you ever put your teeth on me again. What’s your problem?”

  “I’m sorry,” Nipper said. “I’m not comfortable here. I don’t like this place and I don’t like why we’re here.”

  “Nipper,” Ernie said. “Look around you. There’s tons of dogs here. No one cares about us here because no one knows we’re here except us, so relax.”

  “The sooner we get done,” Nipper said, “the sooner we can go home is all I mean.”

  “I know,” Ernie said. “That’s why I was trying to have just a little bit of fun first. I’m not stupid. I know this probably my last time ever coming here, so I’m not in a huge hurry to leave.”

  There was no sign of Clay by the betting windows. If what we were told was true and Clay only bet the tenth, then he must have already made his bet and was off watching the events unfold somewhere else.

  “Guys,” I said. “That’s enough. Follow me. I want to see something.”

  The pre-staging area was thirty yards from the betting windows. All the cats were in individual pens and were in the open so that the gamblers could get a closer look at who was racing and what their demeanor was like a few minutes prior to race time. A particularly well-groomed Collie was interviewing Willow, the front-runner in the tenth, from the first pen.

  “Sadie-Jane here with KCFG news,” she said, into a microphone tucked neatly into her collar, “and I’m standing here with Willow, perhaps the biggest name in all of cat racing at the moment, a Tabby who has rattled off seven straight wins and is everyone’s favorite to take home the Triple Claw this year. Willow, what are your thoughts heading into this next race?”

  “Complete and utter domination,” Willow said, like it was a chore. “When I race, it’s as if there are no other cats on the track. A lot of cats will hiss and raise their tails to try and intimidate me, but when you have the tools that I have there’s nothing they can do to take me off my game.”

  “Sounds like winning has given you an expanded ego. How do you keep up your training if you-”

  “Let me stop you right there,” Willow said. “Here’s the thing. You say it’s ego, but it’s just confidence. I know I can run faster than any other cat they put up next to me in that starting gate.”

  “There’s been a new, and some say unorthodox, cat who has created a reputation for himself at the track in recent weeks and has fared especially well in the tenth. Any thoughts on this Clay’s Pigeon?”

  Ernie nudged me. “Hey Fritz, you need to see this cat over here.”

  “Ernie, if you can’t control yourself here,” I said, “maybe you should wait outside.”

  “You need to back off, man,” Ernie said. “Would you just listen and follow me. Nipper found something.”

  “There you have it,” Sadie said, in the background. “A confident and ready Willow eager to get her paws on the track once more regardless of her competition. This has been Sadie-Jane, live from the races.”

  Ernie led me down the row of racers who were all stretching and limbering up for the race. Nipper waited for us down the row; he stopped me a few feet away from the end cat, out of its eye sight.

  “Take a peek,” Nipper said. “Don’t let him see you.”

  “Oh my,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Nipper said, “if anyone knows a lousy costume, it’s me.”

  The cat at the end was larger than the others and kept its face hidden under a book. Its ears were too long to begin with and were pinned up straight. I saw the zipper to its fully encompassing cat fur coat end below its chin.

  “It’s his sidekick,” I said.

  “Who? Clay’s?” Nipper said. I nodded. “So that’s how he wins. He cheats.”

  “We have to do something to stop him, don’t we?” Ernie said.

  I looked up to the clock above the pens; there were only a few minutes left until the start of the race. I had an idea. It made as much sense then as it does now. I gestured for Nipper and Ernie to come close.

  “Nipper, you see that closet over there?” I said. “I want you and Ernie to get in there. You have two minutes to get Ernie looking like cat. Whatever you can find, make it work.”

  “Umm, and then what?” Ernie said.

  “Isn’t it clear?” Nipper said, with a tinge of glee. “You’re racing those cats over there.”

  “I can’t do that,” Ernie said.

  “Relax,” I said. “You’re not racing to win. I just need you to stay close to Scamper. You can do that, can’t you?”

  “He’s a Jack Russell, isn’t he?” Ernie said. “They haven’t made one of those yet I can’t chase down.”

  “How is he getting into the race?” Nipper said.

  “Leave that to me,” I said. “You guys better hurry. Get going.”

  The two of them split towards the service closet. I went to sit behind a rusted rack of old race forms near the bathroom. Sadie-Jane was on the other side of the rack. She couldn’t see me from her side.

  “Excuse me,” I said, over her shoulder. I lowered down and deepened my voice to a whisper. “Don’t look back at me. You’ve heard about all the performance enhancers that are being thrown around this track, haven’t you?”

  “No,” she said. She started to turn around.

  “I said don’t move. I’m risking a lot to talk to you right now. I have it on good word that the cat in pen six is on a cycle of felineondrineoxide right now.”

  “Felineo… What?” Sadie said

  “It’s a super powerful strain that’s brand new and nearly untraceable. There’s your scoop. Make haste.” I turned the corner and vanished into the male restroom and took position. I watched from there as Sadie stormed over to pen six and tried to get everyone on the record. Of course the cat denied everything and called Sadie a liar and a hack journalist.

  One thing to note about cats, they’re as moody and emotional of a creature as any I’ve ever encountered. They’ll hold a grudge for a lifetime. Once you get on their bad side, there’s no going back. And poor Sadie, so blinded by the thrill of breaking a big story, well, the cat became so irate that he jumped the wall and went after her. It took a dozen track officials to pull the cat off and send the clawing offender back to the locker room. Don’t worry about Sadie. They were only minor scratches.

  “Did you see that?” a Dalmatian said, on his way into the bathroom.

  “You can never trust a cat, can you?” I said, as I went the out to the main stands where Nipper was already out waiting in the center of the third row.

  “So?” I said. Nipper was perfectly and unnaturally still like someone so clearly guilty.

  “It’s good,” Nipper said, opening his mouth just enough to snap out the words as quickly as he could. “I can’t help but think we just broke a lot of laws.”

  “You know why Cat Racing is so popular?” I said. “It’s because while there are rules, the thing is, no one really cares too much about them. And pretty much, this whole thing is illegal. It’s like the bone lenders. There’s no one to regulate this stuff, so of all the supposed laws you’re worried about? Basically, they don’t exist. No rules and dogs? No one bats an eye at that.”

  �
��What if they find out what we did?”

  “What if they do? What’s the worst that could happen? You think we’re the first people to exert some outside influence in a race where there’s money to be made with the gamblers? Nipper, if there was a race today where someone wasn’t trying something suspicious, well, that would be suspicious. And besides, it’s been a long time since a dog was killed for fixing a race or two.”

  “Killed?”

  “And besides all of that,” I said, concluding, “take a look around here. You have a bunch of dopes with their noses buried in racing programs who are picking ripped tickets up off the ground looking for a dropped fortune. A bunch of malnourished jerks who only bark up until the moment they start coughing up years of tobacco and hooch. I mean, do you see anyone around here who looks like they’d be able to do anything even if they thought you cost them their last bone?”

  Nipper looked around. The more he scanned the mutts walking around, the more I could see him begin to relax. And then he looked nonchalantly towards the top of the bleachers; the cheap seats. He froze.

  “Yeah,” he said. “That guy up there.”

  “What guy? Let me-” It was Clay. He sat alone in the last row at the very top of the stands like an eclipse. No one else was even close to his vicinity, and that’s saying something because the top seats at the track are among the best if you want to actually watch the race instead of yelling at the cats, which Ernie says is nearly as fun as betting on them.

  Say what you will about the decision making skills of perennial gamblers, but even they knew to keep their distance from the big guy in the good seats. He hadn’t seen us and looked as if he couldn’t be bothered by the goings on of mere track hounds. His eyes were trained on the track. No program. No snacks. No hooch.

  “Attention, patrons of Chester A. Arthur Cat Track, may I have your attention for an update regarding the tenth race?” the Public Address Announcer said, interrupting the goings on at the track with a screech in the speakers that made all of us wince, except Clay, who’s face compressed into focus at the announcement. “We have just been informed of a last-minute scratch in the tenth race. It seems that Parrot’s Foe has been indefinitely suspended by the Feline Racing Association for undisclosed actions unbecoming a racing professional. I have also just been informed that we will have a replacement in the race by the name of… Let’s see here, uh, it uh looks like, oh, here it is. Replacing Parrot’s Foe in the tenth race will be a newcomer to the track, a four-year-old male… Mutt? Wait that must be a typo, so we’ll just say he’s a four-year-old, um, they probably meant to say Manx, likely feral, who goes by the handle… Saucy’s Hero. Again, Parrot’s Foe out and Saucy’s Hero is in for the tenth race. Race starts in two minutes.”