A Night at the Dogs and the Tale of Yodelling Kerry

The greyhound game is a funny game.

It is not as funny as it once was, with its monkey jockeys and the jumps scene now nothing more than remnants of a fine and noble history. Still, a funny game and one grounded in the social scene of the working class and the bogan elite.

One need only head out to Sandown, a place as deep in the suburban decay as I ever wish to travel, to get a feeling of what the dogs are all about. I made the trip out for the Top Gun Shootout, a night that also doubled as ladies night. All girls had the $5 entry fee waived and were presented with a showbag that contained a sachet of mascara, a six-month old copy of Okay and, quite surprisingly, a man-sized can of Solo. There is no doubt that the girls dolled to the nines in the Myer Marquee on Oaks Day would have appreciated such old-fashioned generosity.

As I walked into the spiritual home of Victorian greyhound racing (well, I assume) with my old gambling pal Thomas, a woodpecker gnawing at my skull at a rate of 150 pecks per minute thanks to the bottle of Junmai Ginjo-shu sake consumed the evening before, a strange Scottish security guard with a thick Glaswegian accent befriended us. He was not the kind of man a gentleman with a woodpecker in his skull needs if he had desires of peace, quiet and thoughtlessness.

“Aye, lads, you hear for the dogs or hear for the ladies?” asked the overweight Scot, leering just like Bruce Robertson.

“Get yourself a gander at those two blondes dressed as cowgirls…aye, a man could have an old fashioned stint of depravity there, aye.”

Indeed. But it is not the kind of thing you want to hear from a sleazy Scot who you’ve known for approximately ninety seconds and at any rate, it is tough to imagine a man who waddles at about eighty metres per minute being involved in any “stint of depravity” that would involve another person.

After a few minutes of his uncomfortable, awkward, sordid, nonsensical and hard-to-decipher small talk, we managed to flee to the grandstand under the pretence of a hot tip and the need to get set.

This, of course, wasn’t entirely untrue. Your faithful writer is not one for deceitfulness, even in uncomfortable moments when a quick exit is number one on the priority list. We had received word from the kennel that Cyclone Ned was primed to win and he was due to shoot from the four-box at any minute.

We pushed our way through the matching tracksuit wearing Greeks and the brown suit wearing old-timers and the drunk middle-aged men with sun-worn faces from places like Frankston and Clayton and Mulgrave to the two bookmakers, both of whom were running boards of about 200%, win-only, of course. We were better off at the tote and we proceeded to one of the four windows and threw down our cashola.

We hit the rails and gripped our tickets firmly, hoping Cyclone Ned would scratch with anticipation. He did. The bunny was then set in motion and they were off. Cyclone Ned was the first away and he was never headed. He scooted around with tremendous speed, cornering like a speed skater and stretching out like a snow leopard on the hunt. The challengers came but they were all abated. The four went into the semaphore board and the tote price read $15.90. It was the kind of start to an evening that The Gambler dreams about and the kind of result that can place a greyhound in the darkest corner of your heart.

We celebrated in traditional dog racing fashion: an undercooked chicken parmigiana with cold chips (the most appetising meal on offer, even for a member of the working press) served from a canteen straight out of 1974 with the old girls working there an even money proposition to have been working there in 1974.

We idled the night away engaging in the conventional nuances of the track: chain-smoking cigarettes, reading over form, cheering boisterously, talking louder. All until the quadrant of canine champions paraded before an adoring crowd as the Alamo Overture filled the air. Shootout time. High noon was here. The cowgirls walked along in chaps and cowboy hats though the umbrellas did little for the imagery. A deathly hush fell over the track before the crowd, as one, dashed to get set before getting the best possible viewing position. We chose the winning post.

Queen Lauryn was the odds-on hotpot. Mantra Lad was probably the popular choice. Made To Size was fresh and had my money. One Tree Hill was the veteran and despised outsider.

As they took off from the 515 metre box, the race appeared to be in the paws of Queen Lauryn but when they hit the post the second and final time around, Mantra Lad had ducked up the inside and got the stride in. It was only a matter of minutes before Mantra Lad was adorned in a winners vest and was placed uncomfortably upon a podium while his trainer, Graeme Jose, was delivering a tear-drenched speech.

The journey out there was well worth it and was necessary, at any rate.

After the Top Gun Shootout, it was decided we would hunt down Geoff Mitchell, a professional from Keysborough and the man entrusted with the hottest and soon to be most famous greyhound on the Australian dog scene, a hot young bitch called Yodelling Kerry.

Yodelling Kerry has superstardom written all over her, a four-legged speed freak with desire in her eyes and high octane force in her paws. From the day she chased down a live rabbit when she was getting schooled at a property outside of Daylesford, her destiny seemed assured. She was a winner.

She is, of course, owned by your jovial wordsmith, along with a cohort of degenerate gamblers, hopeless optimists and old-fashioned greyhound lovers.

Yodelling Kerry was given the moniker in honour of the trainer of our only other dog, St. Beryl. St. Beryl was as slow as a tortoise and dumb as a bouncer but she never really stood a chance in the kennel of Kerry H., a fellow even those in the greyhound game would call odd. On our first visit out to see St. Beryl, we were assured her future was bright though it certainly didn’t look it as we walked into a ramshackle house where dogs and kids ran wildly in some bizarre scene where the greyhounds seemed more human than the kids and the kids seemed more dog than the greyhounds. St. Beryl went on to race thirty-six times, “retiring” a maiden with one second placed finish and five thirds.

The Dishlickers Stud were keen to see her race on but had little choice. Kerry H. was also retiring, abandoning the greyhound game for a career in country music. He had grabbed his banjo and was hitting the road, a life of professional yodelling awaiting him.

It was decided at that point that we would honour Kerry and his ways by adorning our next dog with his name. And so it has come to pass.

Let us all just hope Yodelling Kerry goes a little faster and has a little more will than old St. Beryl, who would be hundreds to even get to the bunny on that big greyhound track in the sky. And we are certainly more confident that Yodelling Kerry will be given a more professional regime than poor old St. Beryl.

The signs are there that Kerry will be a winner. She is due to race in six-to-eight weeks or as soon as her lady problems (the technical term) subside and from then on it will only be a matter of counting the wins and collecting the cash.

Well, so we are led to believe.

That’s the greyhound game in a nut, I guess. Big dreams, high hopes and the vision of a better tomorrow. Trainers talk big and owners listen starry-eyed and reality is always put to one side on the premise that you may have struck gold and deep down, you want to believe it. You can’t knock anyone who thinks like that. The greyhound business may be a little rough around the edges but it has a heart of gold and fills many with the hope of glory, riches and love. That, in itself, is a beauty to behold.