Dog Trick
Today's piece is about dogs and underdogs.
First up, dogs. Dogs can be expensive; that's when they're in perfect health.
You can't go half-hog on a dog when it comes to its well being. You can't love a dog until it gets old or lame. True, it's just a creature. But after five or so years, that just does not apply. After a while, we're all special creatures. After a while, here's what you must do for your good dog: exactly what you can.
I have English springer spaniels, two of them, black and whites, a male and a female.
Why?
Who wants a dog that looks like a trend. English springer spaniels have long noses and floppy ears and big feet and expressive eyes and look like dogs should. Not party favors. Not landscaping. Dogs.
My first English springer spaniel was a male who had a total hip replacement that added six years to his life; he had his spleen removed; he had a knee surgically repaired. Plus the usual: He ate a dozen barbecue ribs, bones and all, in a single pilfering.
My current female springer is 12 years of age. And we have come full circle, Dottie and I, Dottie (Dorothy), because she's from Kansas and we're no longer there. As a puppy, late at night I would leash and lead her around the front yard to teach toilet training. Now, a dozen years later, the circles we walk out front at midnight are somewhat smaller because of fat cataracts in both of her eyes.
If you are thinking of a career, or a career change, you might consider looking at diseases of the animal eye. In the city where I live, Tulsa, there are no animal-eye surgeons. In the whole state, there appears to be one animal-eye surgeon charging almost $3,000 for the removal of one cataract, more than four for the pair, with appointments booked weeks in advance.
My male English springer spaniel is named Willy.
Cut to Oaklawn Park, March 14, 2009, the Rebel Stakes, an important Kentucky Derby prep race. And across the real dirt they came, the favorite, a 2-5 mini-shot named Old Fashioned on cruise-control to Churchill, a chalk-player's delight, a brainless easy win. Wow, aren't you smart, 2-5, where'd you find him anyway, out behind one of the barns? You overhear somebody whispering? Nice going. Need any help carrying your quarter-dollars back to your seat? You what? You wheeled him on top of all the Exactas? Of course you did. Maybe you can get lucky and hit a 20-1 shot second; some handicapper you are. Jump and scream for your 2-5 shot, see if I care.
How's it feel, having invested in something unbeatable?
Only wait.
What's that back there, moving as though through the Matrix? What's that back there, flying fast-forward with everybody else seeming to be in suspended animation? Who's that trying to dust the chalk?
You're not going to believe it. It's the one named the same as my dog. It's Willy, it's the 56-1 shot, Win Willy to be precise. Did you hear my English springer spaniel howling at home, soul brother-types on the pedigree? I did. I think.
How many racing lines, like Win Willy's, do you see drawn from Canterbury through Remington Park to Oaklawn to the Kentucky Derby?
The snob factor in thoroughbred racing piles dollars onto prices like dollar pancakes onto plates at the IHOP. Penn National? Canterbury? Mountaineer? Hooterville Downs? You must be kidding. Five hundred more on the chalk from the big time please.
At the wire, there's one big Whoosh, and it's Win Willy at 56-1 over Old Fashioned at nothing to one, because he got second.
The Exacta was not what it should have been because of all you big-leaguers who back-wheeled the favorite and cashed in on the good animal name of Willy.
The dogs and I dined on the finest of human foods that night, no questions asked.
Superior handicapping technique is what you use to find the 20-1 horse.
You want a $110 horse, get a dog.
