Greyhound Racing
You wake up. You are in a dank, cold room, nothing but a bowl of water at your feet. You can’t remember how long you’ve been in there, but you think it must have been hours. Your legs are sore and bruised, and you can hear the cries of others locked in nearby rooms. You hear footsteps approaching, and you become excited, is this person going to be caring? Are they going to help you?
You are taken from this room, along more dark corridors, before you’re in the open air. But this doesn’t smell like freedom; it smells like fear. You are paraded around, a little dazzled by the lights, and then forced into another small box. The muzzle that’s been placed on your face clangs against the metal sides of the box.
You are waiting, there is no room to move, when suddenly the door springs open and your training kicks in. You’ve been trained since you were a baby to chase a small moving object – but it doesn’t feel like a choice. You have to move. You see your friends running alongside you; they also have no choice.
As you run, the ground pushes up against your tired legs. You fear slipping or falling, but you have to keep up. Often, you collide with your friends on the bend. It’s a lottery whether you will survive. You’ve seen your friends break their legs, and then never seen them again.
You sprint towards the finish line thinking, is this what I was made for? If I just try a bit harder, will everything be okay? You’ve heard people talking about money and ‘bets’ and you wonder what that even means.  You wonder – when will I be free?
The race ends. You have one more injury, and one less friend. You are put into another small box in the back of a vehicle. It’s a long drive back, and not a comfy one. When you’re locked back in your small room, ears splitting from the sound of howls around you, you curl up in the corner and try to sleep. Your bones ache, your muscles are sore and you crave play, comfort, love. You go to sleep wishing that tomorrow will be different.