Actually, it's sort of maddening to try to figure out Cornett or Regan's strategy. Cornett says that he likes dogs that get out of the box fast, but then he also likes the closers. Then there's the position of the dog. If the dog takes to the rail, he says, he's got a shorter track to run, but there's the risk that he'll get caught up in a pack. If the dog prefers the outside, there's more room to move, but more track to cover. Cornett is constantly changing his mind on his favorite. He also complicates matters by placing "exotic bets" (bets that involve more than a simple win, place or show) on one winner and a group of others he thinks might place or show. If he wins one combination, he can cash in on a quinella.
In the fifth race, the strategy pays off and Cornett wins a quinella on a "wheel bet." It doesn't pay much — $15 for a $2 bet — but he's happy to end his dry streak for the night. "I'm not a big-time gambler, but I win," he says.
Photo by Daniel Kramer
Tuddy Dietz has two full-time employees and a granddaughter, Ashlee, to help him raise greyhounds.
Photo by Daniel Kramer
Breeders look for a straight gait and the right head movement in their dogs.
Related Content
More About
On the first turn of the race, one dog wipes out, and the crowd, including Cornett, groans. The dog's spinout looks like something you might see on NASCAR. But then, unbelievably, the dog jumps up and runs the rest of the race. He finishes only a few seconds behind the pack, still sprinting despite a noticeable limp.
It's hard to find out what, exactly, happened to the dog. Neither the Texas Racing Commission nor the track publishes statistics detailing the names of dogs and the nature of their injuries. Gulf veterinarian Vance Murphy deals with injured dogs, but can only give a rough estimate of how many injuries happen in a year (about 60 is his best guess).
"Most of them happen on the first turn," he says. Dog injuries are a side of racing that no one at the track likes to talk about. The most serious accidents end in euthanasia at the track, although Ebbs insists that is rare. Under Texas law, however, animals are considered property and animal rights advocates say there's nothing to prevent dog owners from putting down unwanted dogs.
Like Ferd West, Tuddy Dietz has raised greyhounds his whole life. Unlike West, though, Dietz is determined to keep on breeding and racing dogs. Dietz runs a greyhound farm outside of Seguin, where he employs two full-time workers to handle his dogs. It's a rough life for Dietz and his employees — mountains of dog poop, ticks and heartworm are just some of the things they have to contend with.
Still, there's money to be made in the greyhound business. Statistics from the Keep Texas Running Commission show that dog racing generates $130 million a year in the state. Gulf runs a $30,000 stakes race each year, and other states, like West Virginia and Florida, pay out much more than Texas tracks. In a good year, a dog breeder might make $100,000. And the overhead is relatively low. "For about $1,500, you can have a decent dog," West says.
So despite all the bad news, Dietz shows up at West's schooling track with dozens of dogs ready to be put to the test on a muggy morning in late July. Clarence West, Ferd's brother, gets into an old truck in the middle of the track and tests out the mechanical lure. A fluffy string of white whirls around the track a few times and Dietz is ready to load his dogs into the box. This proves to be a struggle for some of the greyhounds, who are ready to spring into action before their time. The dogs all have ripples of muscles down their hind legs like Olympic sprinters.
For the first race, Dietz's men have to shove the dogs into the box. They yelp and squirm as they go in, but when the mechanical lure comes around and the door to the box opens, they fly out in a straight line, hell-bound for the white lure.
There are four dogs, but one — a long, muscular brindle dog — leaves the others in the dust. At the end of the race, the other three dogs catch up with the lure and jump on top of one another, trying to latch onto it. Dietz, a soft-spoken man in thick glasses and a cowboy hat, takes notes. Unlike most dogs, greyhounds hunt by sight.
The retired trainer, McKeon, says that "greyhounds can tell the difference between a cat and a rabbit at 150 yards at dusk. They chase after anything. You could put out a bottle of Budweiser and they'd go for it. They were trained to kill fast vermin and they've preserved that natural instinct."
The keenest observer of this schooling race is probably Dietz's seven-year-old granddaughter, Ashlee. She's excited about a dog named Addrick. Dietz agrees with her, saying Addrick has all the right qualities: a straight gait, the right head movement and a lot of heart. "You can tell by the head. If he's got heart, you'll see the head really pumping," Dietz says. He tries to get kids — especially girls — involved in the training of his greyhounds.
