Thursday, May 17, 2007

  
__________________________________________________
I have an obbsession with greyhounds now. Um...I won't be on here until sunday evening. I'm going to North Carolina, this whole weekend.
__________________________________________________


__________________________________________________

Some people want to make him race round an oval track with sharp corners at up to 45 miles per hour. The possibility that he will break his leg is very real. If he does he may or may not get veterinary treatment.
IS THAT OK WITH YOU?

Some people want to keep him in a kennel at the track with just two hours out to stretch his legs each day and with no company except his Greyhound friends who are in the same position that he is.
IS THAT OK WITH YOU?

When he is three or four years old he will be considered too old to race because he will not be able to compete with the younger dogs so his “owner” may shoot him, or cut off his ears so that he can’t be traced from the ear tattoos and let him bleed to death on the moors, or dispose of him in some other horrendous way.
IS THAT OK WITH YOU?

Each year about 30,000 Greyhounds like him will be bred in Ireland and the UK to produce the relatively small number required to replace the ones leaving the tracks. The rest who don’t make the grade will be “disposed of”.
IS THAT OK WITH YOU?


__________________________________________________

This is all true. Here is a poem written by my friend:

A Greyhound's last words.

I lie on my side. I am dying.
A female blue-brindle Greyhound,
Living to run.
Speed was my gift from the gods.
The gift, a headlong dash to death.
Once I dreamed of running in an open field.
No muzzle, no pain, running freely.
I am in a field now.
Eighteen acres of death.
The bullet was meant for my brain.
To be a quick death. Painless.
The bullet entered my neck.
The pain rages...when will it end?
Will there be another bullet to speed my death?
No. Bullets are not to be wasted on dogs.
We were dollar signs.
Hurtling down the track.
Together a flash of colors:
Brindle, blue, black, red, white, fawn.
I was too slow to last.
Too slow to make it to age two.
A throw-away life.
When death comes I will not be alone.
There are scores of us. Thousands.
Brindle, blue, black, red, white, fawn.
We, who never knew an open field,
Have found our own field.
It is soaked with our blood.
Once I dreamed of being held in someone's arms.
Caressed, petted, loved.
All dreams are ended now in this field.
The darkness is taking me over.
Lime is thrown on my defeated, discarded body
My heart howls out ...
Let my dying matter,
Let my dying be the last.
The light dims out.
Remember, remember, remember.

by Juliet Law Packer.

In 2002 the bodies of over 2000 Greyhounds were found in shallow graves on a farm in Alabama.


With this I leave you.~a sad,depressed Ne-ne

Comments (3)