Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, July 18, 1993 TAG: 9307180224
SECTION: HORIZON PAGE: C-1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: By NANCY SHULINS THE ASSOCIATED PRESS
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
Treva Slote has seen more than her share of cruelty in 30 years of animal welfare work. Nonetheless, when police summoned her to a trash bin in Phoenix, Ariz., she prepared for the worst. And found it.
Buried amid the garbage were two female greyhounds, their bodies emaciated and covered with ticks. One was barely conscious, her skull bashed in with a hammer. The other, a breathing skeleton, cried softly. Humans had done this to them. Yet when she saw the face of her rescuer, one of the dying dogs wagged her tail.
Three years later, Slote, executive director of the Arizona Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, is still haunted by the dog in the trash bin, whose spirit survived what her body could not.
It is the nature of greyhounds, the oldest known breed of dog, to endure overwhelming abuse without any lasting effect on their personalities, to trust abidingly in their human companions.
It is a trust that is often betrayed.
Each year, thousands of greyhounds - as many as 50,000 by some estimates - are killed because they can no longer compete on America's dogtracks. Some are euthanized by veterinarians. Not all die so painlessly.
Some are shot in the head and dumped in landfills, abandoned in the desert or along the highway, or sold to laboratories and medical schools, sometimes legally, sometimes not.
Others starve in their cages, or asphyxiate in poorly ventilated trucks en route to yet another dogtrack. Some die of racing injuries, or of neglect in the aftermath of accidents.
And some are done in by their dinner - often the raw, ground flesh of dead, dying or diseased cattle, a "pathogenic smorgasbord," says Iowa veterinarian Arthur Strohbehn.
For two years, Strohbehn was track veterinarian at Bluffs Run in Council Bluffs, Iowa. Now, he's part of a nationwide network of advocates, tireless soldiers in the war against greyhound abuse.
They include Sally Allen of Indianapolis, who tells of finding old, toothless females chained to concrete blocks in a filthy Illinois basement, still having puppies at age 9; Judith Donaldson of Chicago, who rescued three greyhounds that had been tied with clothesline and abandoned in a gas station restroom; and Susan Netboy of Woodside, Calif., who has saved dozens of ex-racers illegally sold for research, including 20 bound for bone-breaking experiments at Letterman Army Institute of Research in San Francisco.
They and others scramble to find homes for the dogs. Each year, adoptive owners sensitive to the special needs of adult greyhounds that have never climbed stairs or heard a phone ring, patiently help some 9,000 dogs make the transition from racers to pets.
On the track, muzzled and barking and kicking up dirt as they chase mechanical lures at 40 mph, the sleek, muscular dogs are the picture of naked aggression. But up close, they are soft, nuzzling creatures of exquisite gentleness that thrive on human affection, elegant couch potatoes that quickly adapt to new surroundings.
When Dr. John Stramaglia, a Norwalk, Conn., veterinarian, brought his newly adopted greyhound, Faustus, over to meet his mother, "he walked on her coffee table. He'd never seen furniture."
That was in November. Today, Faustus is happily living the good life on his L.L. Bean dog bed, snacking on marshmallows and surrounded by toys. "I've never owned a dog this well-behaved," Stramaglia says. "He's totally captured my heart."
Donaldson, a top breeder of show greyhounds, says such adjustments would be impossible if not for the dogs' loving nature.
But Gary Guccione, spokesman for the National Greyhound Association, says their success as pets belies claims by Donaldson and others that greyhounds are routinely mistreated.
"Greyhounds are not raised or raced in terror. They're given very good care, good nutrition and attention throughout the time they're raised," says Guccione, secretary-treasurer of the Abilene, Kan.-based NGA, made up of more than 6,000 owners and breeders.
Even dog racing's most fervent opponents acknowledge that some breeders and trainers love their dogs. "They have to, to be willing to provide the care and do the dirty work the business entails," says Ken Johnson, an investigator for the Humane Society of the United States.
Johnson tells of one Florida breeder who, facing foreclosure, found homes for all 75 of his dogs rather than destroy them. "His animals didn't starve, even though he himself went without eating.
"But there are others who can't afford to stay in the business and can't afford to get out. They're barely making enough to feed themselves, and their animals end up mistreated as a result."
Guccione concedes that abuse is a problem. "There are those - as with any business - who shouldn't be in it. The industry is consciously trying to weed them out, get rid of them, throw them out for life, to bar anybody from doing business with them."
In 1987, he says, the industry began a program of random, unannounced inspections of farms where greyhounds are raised. Since then, about two dozen people have been expelled from racing - not enough to satisfy activists.
"The industry continues to try to counter our claims by coming up with slicker promotion ideas and programs, such as greyhound adoption," says Johnson, who investigates cruelty in Florida, home to more greyhound breeding operations and pari-mutuel tracks than any other state.
"As the investigative world continues to reveal abuses, we find these situations, these practices we're opposed to, going further and further underground."
In February, humane society officials in Phoenix were tipped off to an abandoned, chain-linked padlocked kennel in a field behind a dead-end street. They found 10 dehydrated, starving dogs, including one that could barely stand. The dog weighed 33 pounds. He should have weighed 70.
In January 1992, workers clearing an abandoned citrus grove in Chandler Heights, Ariz., found the bodies of 124 greyhounds strewn over 300 acres, their tattooed left ears hacked off to prevent identification. A few severed ears were recovered and traced to Glen McGaughey.
McGaughey was convicted of criminal littering and banned from racing. The previous year, he had been the winningest breeder at Phoenix Greyhound Park.
On Nov. 20, 1991, an anonymous tip led John Clark, a breeder and NGA board member, to a farm in Summerfield, Fla., where nearly 200 greyhounds were starving to death. The dogs, packed two, three and four to a cage, were covered with open sores, and eating their own feces to survive.
In July 1990, more than 100 greyhounds were seized from a Tucson, Ariz., kennel, half of them too sick to save.
In August 1989, 83 starving, diseased greyhounds discovered at a Suwannee County, Fla., kennel were euthanized by the Humane Society. Bags of dog food were found at the kennel, but the dogs went unfed because of a dispute between a breeder and a caretaker.
For every atrocity that's uncovered, activists say, others undoubtedly go undetected.
Guccione points to a 14 percent drop in the number of greyhounds bred so far this year, down from the usual 48,000 or so. But pro- and anti-racing factions agree that overbreeding - and the slaughter that results - remains the industry's No. 1 problem.
The annual death toll, however, is one of several hotly contested points. Guccione places it at 23,000 - less than half the number most activists give.
Not all victims are retired racers. Greyhounds that fail to measure up during preliminary training are culled before they ever reach a track. Guccione disputes claims that only 30 percent of dogs bred to race ever race, or that just one in eight lives to the age of 4, one-third a greyhound's normal lifespan. Donaldson, who heads the anti-racing lobbying group Run or Die, says the average age of America's greyhounds is 8 months.
Roger Caras, president of the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, has been criticized by humane groups for joining forces with the industry to promote greyhound adoption. The ASPCA administers a fund established with grants from the American Greyhound Council.
Caras defends the partnership as a means of saving at least some of the dogs. Says Caras, "If I had a button on my desk that I could push to do away with racing, I'd push it hard. There's a great deal of demonstrable cruelty. You can see it. We're not pro-greyhound racing. We make no apologies for the abuses. We just acknowledge that greyhound racing is here to stay."
Not everyone agrees.
Greyhound racing draws 30 million people to 56 tracks in 18 states, betting $3.4 billion a year. Of that, $230 million winds up in state coffers.
Still, aggressive campaigns by anti-racing activists have kept dog racing out of New York, California, Illinois and elsewhere. And other forms of legalized gambling are starting to compete. Last year's betting was down 10 percent to 12 percent, and in the past couple years, a few racetracks have closed.
"It's a dying industry," says John Clark, the NGA board member and breeder. "Dog people are bailing out by the droves."
Growing awareness of greyhound abuse also has hurt racing. Within animal welfare circles, "the issue has become fashionable," says activist Netboy. "As far as the industry is concerned, the pressure is only going to build."
Netboy is among many who want racing abolished, on the grounds that the sport is inherently cruel.
Typically, greyhounds are raced every four days, sometimes in extreme heat or cold. Poor track conditions lead to injuries. Tick and flea infestations are common. Protective vaccinations are not.
Except for races and brief "turnouts" - usually four 15-minute sessions per day - greyhounds spend their lives in metal crates. Retired racers sometimes arrive at adoption centers with open sores and bald spots from rubbing against their cages.
The fastest dogs run in grade-A races with higher purses at better tracks. It's all downhill from there, says Don Papin, a retired breeder. "Grade A dogs are treated well. If the dogs are running at all, they're treated fair to middling. If they run off the track and can't requalify, they're stuck out back and you're lucky if they're fed."
The typical diet consists largely of raw, unsterilized meat that can carry lockjaw, botulism, tuberculosis and salmonella, along with massive amounts of the drugs used to treat them.
The state and federal regulations governing sale of this potentially diseased meat are vague and conflicting. The Food and Drug Administration says the meat poses a health hazard to the animals and their handlers, but that it's a low priority.
As a track veterinarian, Strohbehn saw frequent outbreaks of food poisoning. He says he complained to the USDA, the racing commission, the governor and others about this and other violations - daily use of anabolic steroids, questionable drug-testing, lack of quarantine pens. No action was ever taken, he says. Strohbehn's contract was not renewed.
Now he tries to save greyhounds. So do Helen Banks of Bonita Springs, Fla., a fixture at the Naples-Fort Myers track, where she rescues 550 discarded racers a year; Allen, who holds walkathons, solicits donations and mans booths at county fairs; Netboy, who is a clearinghouse for greyhound rescue information; and Cynthia Branigan of New Hope, Pa., who has found homes for 600 ex-racers and written two books on the subject since adopting her first greyhound, King, six years ago.
A former grade-A racer, King ended his career at a Mexican track at age 5. He was headed for a well-earned retirement when a driver abandoned a truck carrying him and four others in the desert. Days passed before the starving, dehydrated dogs were found. King alone survived. It took him six months to recover.
Next came a series of unsuccessful adoptions. He had been bounced out of three homes when Branigan rescued him in 1987. He was 9 years old and living in a windowless basement. She found him on a dirty blanket in the dark, next to a bowl of uneaten food.
"By the time he got to me, he had given up entirely,"she says. "He had no trust. He'd just lie on his dog bed and stare. He never wagged his tail. I'd try to pet him and he'd just stiffen up.
"I used to look at him and think maybe it would have been a kindness if I'd had him put to sleep. But I couldn't do it."
Three months passed. Then, one evening as Branigan sat on the couch, King suddenly jumped up beside her. "He began inching over. I didn't dare breathe. He kept coming, inch by inch. Finally, after what seemed like hours, he rested his head in my lap."
From that moment on, she says, King was as happy as any dog she had ever known, right up until he died in her arms at 13 1/2.
Today, Branigan carries on her work in memory of King, a champion not only at racing but at surviving, who did something very few greyhounds ever do:
He died old.
by CNB