The Sanford Orlando Kennel Club was once part of a long history of greyhound racing in Florida. The sport of queens.
Spectators paid 25 cents to pack the pastel blue bleachers of the grandstand. Thousands of locals, tourists and celebrities, dressed in their finest, came to the track in Longwood to watch the dogs run. Among the 2,000 guests on opening night in 1935 was Amelia Earhart. The Orlando Sentinel reported the famed aviator was unfazed by a flight across the Atlantic but thrilled at the sight of the speedy dogs. Rumor has it that even Elvis visited the track; he liked to sit in Box 1, in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that afforded him the fullest views of the majestic hounds.
The track was a place for dreaming. Dog racing was a different kind of gamble. Out on the track, it was just the dogs and the lure. There was no jockey to force a last-minute victory. Anyone could place a bet, and anyone could get lucky and leave with a fatter wallet.
Now, its end has begun.
The greyhounds still sprint around the track twice as fast as Usain Bolt. They make money for owners, gamblers and track employees for whom dog racing is a way of life. But decades after Earhart and Elvis came and watched, the sport is fading.
Though dog racing brought endless joy to some, it meant grave discomfort for others who saw it as antiquated, an addiction and animal cruelty. Its novelty dulled with the proliferation of tracks and the advent of online gambling.
The death knell came in November 2018, when Floridians overwhelmingly voted to end greyhound racing. Amendment 13 not only banned the sport, but made it constitutionally illegal. That meant all 11 of the Sunshine State’s greyhound tracks would have to close their doors by the end of this year. Both racing fanatics and animal rights activists say the greyhounds will find safe homes after they leave the tracks. Adoption groups say the waiting lists for dogs are long.
The ban is sure to snuff out the livelihoods of thousands of Floridians who depend on some aspect or another of dog racing. Greyhound trainers are independent contractors; they will not get retirement or severance pay. For many, it’s a family business that has been their lifeblood for generations. Most of them don’t have college degrees – they never even thought about doing anything else. The employees at the Longwood track are losing their harbor.
And soon.
Already, six tracks have called it quits. The other five are trudging towards the end as the Dec. 31 deadline looms. The Sanford Orlando Kennel Club plans to stay open until June, but the crowds are long gone. The track, just 15 miles north of downtown Orlando, draws on average about 40 people; maybe 300 on a good day.
The now-shuttered grandstand has windows bearing gaping holes and bleachers blanketed by dust and chunks of decaying ceiling. The only people in the betting room are gamblers with silver hair and hearing aids. The bar has a few patrons watching the races on television screens while sipping on beers or co*kes that they swear are sweeter here. They seem oblivious to the crumbling grandstand above them.
Labors of love
The chaos of a fall morning is overwhelming at Celtic Hounds, one of seven kennels across the street from the track. Stacks of crates – 80 in all — line every wall, packed in and connected like LEGOs. There are dogs everywhere. They dart in and out of the crates and a sand pen outside where they can run around. They go inside, outside, then back inside again.
Arthur “Art” Marcoux, the trainer, has been here since before sunrise, managing the canine circus. He’s busy in the kitchen, throwing meat and kibble together. The food has to be weighed to a science and the bedding has to be cleaned every morning – some shaken out, some washed.
He administers medication to some of the dogs and treat their cuts or broken nails.
Marcoux is gruff and leathery from the Florida sun, with laughter lines and warm blue eyes. He tore all the tendons in his right ankle after he fell off a 10-foot ladder and now limps from crate to crate as he cares for the dogs.
They are his babies. It’s his responsibility to listen to them, to notice if they’re sick or hurt. He sees greyhound trainers as the barrier between hounds and the hands of time – as long as greyhounds can run, they won’t go extinct.
Bordeaux whines until Marcoux throws her a hash brown from his own breakfast. Chi Scarlet needs a banana on racing days or she’ll get cramps. Rollin’ goes crazy if Marcoux plays the Limp Bizkit song by the same name, leaping and twisting in the air.
At 46, Marcoux has never known a life without greyhounds. They’ve been his paycheck for more than three decades. They’re his pride.
He was 7 when his father first took him to a track. He was awed by their speed and beauty. When Marcoux was a lanky, blond 14-year-old, he acquired a part-time job at a New Hampshire track. He took the dogs from the clubhouse to the starting gate for the races every afternoon. Later, he became a trainer and began working at the Longwood track four years ago. He teaches his dogs many things, but out on the field, a greyhound tells its own story.
One, Tony Altomare, was 5 and nearing retirement when he was thrown into a marathon race. But he pulled out with a huge lead and won.
“He showed us [that] he loved what he did, and he gave it all, one last time,” Marcoux says. “The road to one’s success is paved through the labors of love these dogs give to us. It’s important not to forget that.”
But now, with the demise of the sport, Marcoux faces an uncertain future.
He once tried the 9-5 office routine, when he was taking care of his ailing parents. He tried to work in the tech world and even fixed computers for Apple. Motherboards, however, weren’t his thing; he needed to hear a dog’s heartbeat.
He may be forced to consider a similar job. He and his daughter, Brittany Benoit, who works at the kennel with him, are the sole earners for a family that has swollen to include his wife’s parents and his two grandchildren. In all, Marcoux takes care of seven people, one adopted greyhound and two cats.
Outside the kennel, far from earshot of Marcoux, owner A.J. Grant admits it won’t be easy for Marcoux and his family once the track closes.
“I worry about Brittany,” Grant says. “She has two kids, you know? After this, she might have to go on food stamps.”
An ancient breed
Animal rights groups and the racing community have battled for years on whether greyhounds at racing tracks are ill-treated. Activists argue the hounds are susceptible to horrific injuries and then tossed like garbage or worse, euthanized, when they can no longer run. Some are drugged and mistreated.
The track workers don’t deny that these things happen. But they think it’s unfair to blame everyone in the racing industry for what they say are a few bad incidents.
The Last Race from WUFT News on Vimeo.
In a few hours, Marcoux will be taking his dogs to the track for the 15 races scheduled in the afternoon. That’s the part that everyone who voted to ban the sport has seen: muzzled hounds chasing a mechanical lure around a dirt track.
Soon the dogs will stop running. Marcoux dreads the day when the kennels will become another artifact, collecting dust just like the old clubhouse.
On a damp November afternoon, Marcoux loads four to eight dogs at a time onto his old green Ford F-250 with kennels and air conditioning in the back.
It’s a bumpy ride on Dog Track Road as they circle Lyman High School, where greyhounds serve as proud mascots. Then they park and the dogs jump out of the truck and drag Marcoux with them toward the clubhouse.
Grant greets Marcoux at the door. He and his girlfriend, Kathi Lacasse, have worked with Marcoux for years. The three take their dogs inside and get them weighed. Then, the dogs wait for their turn to race.
Once the races begin, Marcoux heads to the lobby. He trades dog stories with Grant and Lacasse. The couple have two tripods, dogs who needed a leg amputation after racing injuries. Marcoux likes to talk about how his greyhound, Teddy, fiercely protects his granddaughter Ophelia.
What Marcoux never discusses with his friends is the finality of it all. It’s the elephant in the room. Except maybe in a joke or two, aired to relieve the tension.
“Maybe we can go to Disney in June,” Grant laughs. “We’ll all be unemployed anyway.”
Born to run
In the 10th race of the day, Marcoux will be rooting for his dog, H.L.’s Honey. At the start of her career, Honey could run a pretty good race. She was fast and consistent. At 4, age has slowed her down, and she hasn’t won in two months.
Marcoux has watched Honey’s stats decline and thought about retiring her. On this dreary day, he stands beside a chain-link fence to keep a close eye on her.
Marcoux watches as a pack of dogs are led into their starting boxes. Honey is Number 4. The announcer yells his signature, “Here comes swifty!” and the gates fly open, releasing six barreling hounds.
The dogs hit the ground low and hard, kicking up clouds of sand. They can run up to 45 mph, slower than a cheetah but faster than a thoroughbred. They are clueless to the stakes. Greyhounds are just born to run.
At first, Honey’s got her eye on the lure, stuck in a tight pack of four. One starts to pull ahead, and the line of dogs becomes more linear, with Honey’s blurry form in fourth or fifth place. She still has a chance.
The dogs are so fast that each race only lasts 33 seconds. Look away and you’ll miss the thrill. Marcoux watches the hounds speed around the turn, and then, suddenly, Honey drops back.
Marcoux’s heart sinks. He already knows what Lacasse voices.
“That’s a broken hind leg.”
Where careers end
Marcoux knows what this means for Honey.
He won’t ever be leading her to the track again. No more walking her through the cooling pool. No more sips of cold water from old cans that once held syrupy peaches.
Marcoux says that injuries are common, just as in any other sport. Like football stars and Olympic gymnasts, dogs either bounce back or retire.
The lead-out picks Honey up when the limping dog finally crosses the finish line. Marcoux rushes towards her. He takes her into his own arms as though she were a newborn.
“She’ll be all right,” he says, carrying her to the track’s veterinarian, Jerry Schrader.
“Broken leg?” Schrader asks, opening the door to his on-site office, a stark room with an examination table in the middle. A box brims with miniature casts; hindleg injuries are common.
Marcoux has lost count of how many dogs he’s taken under his care over the course of his career. But he remembers how each dog’s story began. He’s the first person to touch them. He watches them turn from cuteness to stealthy athletes. As they age, he looks for signs they are ready to stop running. And when they retire, he’s the one who loads them onto the truck and says goodbye.
He’s seen Honey since she was 16 months old, a black and white ball of fur, when she was clumsy and skittish.
Now, in the vet’s office, he wishes he had retired her sooner.
Honey is shaking, whimpering softly and trying to evade the vet. He pets her flank and finally, she relaxes.
“It’s all right, baby, it’s all right,” he tells her again and again.
Schrader sets Honey’s leg. Marcoux leans over and kisses her forehead.
He carries her back to his truck and lifts her gently into her crate. Then he gets on the phone to call the woman who arranges adoptions for Celtic Hounds. When Honey leaves, he’ll pull her tag off her crate and stick it on a kennel wall that bears the names of all those who have gone before her.
Goodbyes are a part of the racing culture. Dogs come and go. Marcoux can’t keep them all, no matter how attached he gets. He’s learned to be stoic. He grabs his program and walks back to the track. There are still five races left.
Marcoux wonders which dog will be the very last he loads onto his truck. He won’t know that until the final race, but a date has not even been announced yet.
Greyhound careers lasts five years at most. Some, like Honey’s, get cut short by forces beyond their control. Marcoux, even with his faulty ankle, has been going strong for years. He, like his dogs, would keep going if he could.
But when that last day comes, no one will be here, at this fabled Florida track, to save him.
This story was produced by Fresh Take Florida, a news service of the University of Florida College of Journalism and Communications.
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