On Saturday, Stick and I were hanging around in that “I don’t know, what do you want to do today?” stage that really is the lamest part of couple-ness. And by hanging around, I mean he was interrupting my manicure to tell me his theories on the Little League World Series and I was interupting his game-watching to ask him what color nail polish I should use for my toes. Punctuated by debates on what would happen if we lived together and could both WarCraft simoultaneously…
“Do you want to go to the dogtrack?” Stick asked. (He really will stop at nothing to avoid watching Firefly with me.)
“Ok,” I said, vowing to reach level 20 tomorrow. I got dolled up, although not as dressed up as I would have gotten for horse races! That could also be because Stick was hanging on the bathroom door saying “Come ON, Meggie, they’re dogs! They don’t care! Yes, of course I think your eyeliner is sexy. Can we go now?”
We went for dinner in Brattleboro, which I swear is right next to Hinsdale even if it sounds like they’re in different states. I knew we were in New Hampshire by the number of firework stores.
Greyhound racing beats Nascar racing for a lot of reasons. First, puppies are cuter than cars. I’ve heard the horror stories about mistreated greyhounds but I saw lots of shiny-coated, strong, happy pups so I don’t suppose that happens anymore.
Second, they only run around the track one and a half times. Unlike Nascar, where I actually heard my hair turn grey and my face develop winkles (it was hard to hear this over my braincells dying)
Third, they chase a bunny. Not a real bunny, of course, or I would have stolen it and taken it home. (I watched this only after assurances that no harm would come to the mechanical bunny). It’s either called the kernel or the colonel, but Stick jsut laughed when I asked him so apparently everyone else in the whole world knows the answer.
So you can bet on a particular dog to win, on two dogs to place first and second in order, on three dogs to place in any order, and on bizarre combinations of winning and placing. You’re actually betting against the other people watching the race, so you’re more betting against the other gamblers than betting on a dog. (For a more detailed explanation of how this works, contact my old roommate Chris, who is once again a math major)
I won my first bet, and my third, but Stick got on my case so much about winning 90 cents total, that I put five dollars on a dog called Absentee. And won. Apparently betting based on a cool name isn’t standard practice, so I won $50. (We also bet on a dog called Pyromaniac because his race notes said “caught on fire” and Stick bet on one called Free Pizza because, well, he’s a gamer.)
Which translates to lot of cocktails, so in conclusion, I think watching greyhounds run in a circle is far superior to watching cars drive in a circle.