Thursday, July 28, 2011

Greyhounds sufferings


Racing days are over
Thought the pain would go away
But soon I learned a different fate
Was headed straight my way
He reached his hands into my cage
And pushed me out once more
I glanced at all my weary friends
As he led me out the door
It hurts to walk; it hurts to stand
Been through all I could endure
But all my pains are nothing that
Somebody's love could not cure
I'm pushed against a concrete wall
And know I've failed the test
He said I wasn't fast enough
And reached into his vest
I close my eyes and cower
As I shake, my senses dull
Then I feel the barrel of a gun
Against my skull
Isn't there a better way
To entertain a crowd?
But my thoughts are interrupted
By a noise so hard and loud
I'm just another failure
Racing to my final day
And sometimes all the winners
Will lose a race someday
They call it an "exciting sport"
They say that it's humane
But a sport that always ends in death
To me, is not a game

Copyright 2001 Lynn Kargol

BLOOD SPORT (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."

Copyright 2002 Juliet Law Packer

Taken from

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