Manfred

“Manfred!” the announcement rang from the ancient P.A. system, just barely audible over the din of the anxious crowd. “Would the owner of Manfred please come to the boxes within the next minute, this is your final call”.
I cuss silently to myself, I need to hurry. I weave my way through the crowd as best I can, Manfred the greyhound at my heels. Finally I can see the starting boxes, not 100 metres away, salvation! I rush my way through the impatient crowd, finally reaching the boxes. A gruff looking man confronts me; the only accurate way to describe him is aggressive. He must be the starter.
         “Colin Smith?” the brute asks gruffly, his immense shadow falling across me. He reminds me of what I imagine a Hell’s Angel biker to be; just minus the hog and stylish leather jacket.
         “Yes, representing Mr. Kingston”, I reply sheepishly, my barely-broken adolescent voice insignificant compared to his booming baritone. “Well what the hell are you waiting for?” he growls, “Get him in”.
All I can manage is a pathetic ‘Yes sir’. I give Manfred a final good luck ruffle before leading him gently into the box. I retreat quickly to the stands; this is it. I lean over the rusty rail, nervous as all heck. A wave of panic washes over me as I realise they’ve put him  in one of the middle boxes where dangerous collisions occur most, but I brush the sick feeling off as pre-race nerves.
         I think back to all the days spent training in preparation for today, my memories as dreamily hypnotic as a lava lamp. I also remember Mr. Kingston’s words from a month ago, my skin shivering at the thought.
“This will be Manfred’s final race son”, the cold emphasis he put on ‘final’ nearly had me in tears. But I assured myself it would never happen.  I wouldn’t let it.
He didn’t say it, but if Manfred could start winning some races Mr. Kingston would have no choice but to keep him. 
         The blare of the siren travels through the stadium and the dogs are off. They blur into action, whirlwinds of motion propelled along by sheer leg power. The race is tight, a heavy looking black hound muscling to the lead, contested on his left by a cream coated bitch, just keeping pace. Manfred is keeping stride on his right. The race is almost half over, time to make a move. In an instant the black hound drops off, overtaken by the cream. Then it happens. Just as if Manfred knows what the stakes are he surges, blitzing the competition. One metre, two metres, three metres, the gap between first and second expanding at an incredible rate. The race seems all but won, only a hundred metres to go. Then the black dog re-emerges, catching his second wind, blasting ahead after Manfred, thick powerful legs pounding the dirt rhythmically. The gap closes almost as quickly as it had opened. This would be a photo finish if there ever was one.
         Everyone in the crowd springs to their feet simultaneously, the air choking with tension. In a second both dogs cross the finish line, Manfred barely in front by the tiniest observable margin. The exultation of victory sweeps over me but is halted all too soon. A tremendous snap pierces the air, the atmosphere. I don’t need to look to know what happened. The two dogs had crashed just after passing the finish line... and crashed bad.
The black dog limps away on three legs; my heart almost jumps right out of my throat. Manfred lies motionless on the track. I jump the fence instinctively, sprinting towards the prone dog, towards my friend.
‘Please just be knocked out; please just be knocked out...’ I repeat to myself over and over in my head, my own private mantra. I drop to the ground next to him, my heart drops with me. It doesn’t look good. He just lies on his side, tongue lolling, unable to do anything else, least of all move. Tears suddenly well up in my eyes, the inevitable stream waterfalling down to the cold dirt track. He whimpers, like he always does when I cry, more worried about me than himself- it only serves to bring on more tears. I pat his head gently, trying to comfort him. I try not to think about what will happen to him now.
The only thing more expendable than a loser greyhound is an injured one.
         He stares at me, his eyes a mixture of pain and knowing. I want to look away so much, but at the same time I’m transfixed by his eyes. Before I begin to think rationally a vet leans down to him.
“Broken left hind leg, broken ribs on the left side...”, their heartless diagnosis leaves me empty. All I can do is follow them in to the emergency room, covering up my tears as best as I can. They continued to fall regardless. Only one thing is clear to me, I would fight for him. He was my friend, my companion, even more than that.
I was one in a line of many, including Mr. Kingston, the emergency medical team and the chief Veterinarian. I can’t help but feel like I’m part of a funeral procession. I feel claustrophobic, walking through the cramped halls of the emergency medical entrance. A musty smell lingers in the air, I try not to compare it to the smell of death. My mind is numb; all I can see is Manfred, his eyes. I can’t let them do this to him, a creature so innocent and selfless. I won’t. The double doors to the room loom ahead, our peculiar party rushing through, I see Manfred’s eyes one last time before he’s whisked away into the emergency room. I try to follow but vice-like arms wrap around me, I thrash around but in vain. Then the doors close forever.