The track. July, 1993

It's 5:30 a.m. Suddenly, bright white light floods the kennel area and the sound of cage doors clanging open fills the air. My kennel mates rise up off the hard concrete surface, yawning, shuffling back and forth. Trainers walk the length of hall selecting this one and that one, buckles jingle, nails click across the floor. I stand trembling, eager, ready to be released. My trainer opens the kennel gate and places a muzzle on my face, hooks a leash to my collar and leads me through the door.

The outside air holds a chill. Darkness surrounds the gleaming oval track. Nothing is visible but the hard packed dirt in front of me. Loaded into the gate with leash unsnapped, I'm ready! This is what I live for...Wait! something is wrong. Dots of light dance before my eyes, then everything fades in and out. I cannot see anything except what's directly in front of me! I sense other dogs to the right and left but I CAN'T SEE THEM!

Okay, calm down. You've done this hundreds of times, you know what to do, just go straight, run straight, out of the gate and follow the lure. Nothing to it. RING RING! There's the bell! The gate clashes open. GO! RUN! Fast as I can! Fast as I can! Find the lure! RUN! There's reward at the end. Just RUN! Fast as I can, fast as I can. Bodies surge on either side as I gather myself and lunge forward. Nothing in front but the lure, fast as I can. Wait! Something on my right side, can't see it! Something on my left side, can't see it! Lights fade in and out. Where's the lure? Got to run, got to run, GOT TO RUN!

I'm lost. Can't focus, can't...oops, sorry. Didn't mean to lean that way, run, run, run. Bumping into bodies on both sides now. Can't see the lure. Can't see much at all. Trainer's voice shouts, "Hey! Cuckoo Clark! Watch where you're going! You're all over the track!" Can't see trainer, can't see, run, run, run, fast as I can. Got to win! No lure in front, vague shapes moving ahead of me, all surging forward across the finish line. It's done. I wasn't first. No reward today.

On the way back to the cell, Trainer's talking to someone, about me? "Something's wrong with him. Dog can't see or something. Anyway, can't run him anymore, too dangerous for the others. Tell boss this one's moved to the shoot list."

Back inside my kennel, it's really over. I ease myself down onto the hard concrete, my bones aching and my flesh raw from kennel sores, I try to rest. I didn't get there first. There won't be any food today. What does the 'shoot list' mean? Is that where others have gone that didn't come back? I hope it's a place I can run, run, run. I hope it's a place I can win. If you don't win, you don't eat. Got to run. Got to win.

My living room. July, 1993

I couldn't believe what I was seeing on the TV screen. Beautiful, wonderful dogs being kept in tiny, cramped concrete floored pens. Not allowed to eat unless they won their race. Not given treatment by vets for ailments. Beautiful, wonderful dogs being shot when they could no longer race. These dogs were literally "Running For Their Lives". I had to do something. I had to know that at least one of these dogs would be safe. One would know kindness, love. I flicked off the screen and cried myself to sleep. Tomorrow I'd do some research, I'd find out how to save just one...

I have always been for animal rights, in the early 80's I really started changing my lifestyle to become more "Animal Friendly". I became a vegetarian, stopped wearing animal- derived clothing and shoes, and stopped buying products tested on animals. I've done the research, I've come across things that would make your hair stand on end. If people only knew...well, maybe some day. I did the reseach on greyhounds too. I read just about every book I could find on them. I found out they were gentle, loving dogs that worked well in homes with children and other animals. I run a daycare in my home, so this was very important. I have always been somewhat of a "cat person" too. At the time we had 5 or 6 cats, but the number changed all of the time because I have always done rescues and adoptions. I needed a dog that would accept and enjoy living with cats. A greyhound sounded like he/she would fit perfectly into my life. I contacted a greyhound rescue group and the process of getting one of these wonderful dogs began.

BOOFMAN CLAUD, formerly known as Cuckoo Clark, is an 8 year old retired racer and he is blind. We adopted Boof on September 27th, 1993 from the rescue group "MAKE PEACE WITH ANIMALS"

Arriving home, I was a bit nervous, about introducing Boof to the 'family', even though this was specified when I filled out papers for a greyhound. There are never any guarantees. I put Boof's muzzle on and opened the door.

There, as always, were my furbabies to greet me. Well, they took one look at this huge beast coming through the door and they scattered, except for Spanky. This tiny, shy kitten sat back on her haunches and swatted boof's muzzle (no claws) and has loved him since.

After a day, the other cats could not resist checking Boof out, and we realized that this was going to be fine. Not only was Boof not aggressive to the cats, he loves them. Boof has become my biggest assistant, especially with bottle-fed and tiny kittens. Since he cannot see, he walks very carefully through the house when he knows we've got babies about. He also lets them sleep nestled against his belly (if you have never cuddled with a greyhound, and I highly recommend it, they are very warm and soft especially their belly) and he puts his arms around them if they cry.

Boofman and Ghost

Boofman in 1993, almost completely blind.

Boof through the years...