This is Lola. She is a three-year-old greyhound. Earlier this year she ran four races in Victoria. She didn’t place. Four races was enough for her trainer to decide she was no longer required for racing purposes.
Luckily for her, the universe threw her a bone (pardon the pun), and she was placed into the admirable care of Greyhound Safety Net. After a few months of living with a number of generous foster carers, she found her forever home with me and my husband.
Thankfully, she wasn’t one of the 3,012 retired greyhounds who were put to death in Victoria in the past year (that’s eight per week for those playing at home). Instead, she now enjoys a leisurely life like a normal dog. She is lazy, but loves going for walks. Sardines, raw eggs (and the occasional stolen wheel of brie cheese) are her cuisines of choice. She enjoys spooning. She is still learning the difference between ugg boots and plush toys. She is a gentle, affectionate soul.
To think she could have missed out on a great life because of the actions of selfish humans breaks my heart.
Lola is the face of hope, fate and sheer luck. I would prefer it if she was the face of ‘being a normal dog’. I would prefer it if the term greyhound did not go hand-in-hand with the term ‘death’ or ‘injury’. I would prefer not having to write this post at all.
I’m not sure how to fix this problem. I can only hope common sense prevails.
Greyhound racing must end.