Eight leashed dogs are lead past a nearly empty stadium with borrowed coats on their backs. The first dog in the line, number one, is huge. Seventy pounds of waist high muscle contracts making his slow stroll seem purely athletic. But as he bends to sniff the grass at the edge of the track and then crouches to let off a bit of piss, he seems more like a family pet than a prize winner. All the numbered greyhounds here at the Flagler Dog Track in Florida are indifferent until the race begins, but as the mechanical rabbit slides quickly by on a rail in front of them, the front gates are lifted and the race has begun. Instinct causes an explosion onto the track. Kicking up sand behind them, the dogs stretch their sinewy bodies trying for an unreachable target. Pulling every bit of speed out of a four legged body built for it, the greyhounds frantically fly after the rabbit. But the excitement of the track is not transferred into the stands. Sprinting dogs are not urged on by screaming voices. Instead, the old spanish men, a majority here, are instinctually calm. Sipping espresso out of small plastic cups, and ashing their cigarettes over the stadium railing. They spend the day analyzing the records of a few fast dogs and making two dollar bets, and as each race finishes the men’s sun worn faces draw only slightly up or down to reveal the success of their wagers.

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