They're all winners

Pete was born to run. Lean and strong, he spent his younger days in the fast lane at the racetrack, running hard three nights a week winning thousands of dollars in high-stakes events.

"They really make wonderful pets," says Letter Carrier Howard Rhodes of his former racing greyhound friends. "I want them to find good homes."

Big ran like a locomotive on fire as well. He was so fast out of the block that he would get halfway around the track and stop suddenly, waiting for the others to catch up. He wanted to play. They passed him by.

Despite their differences, when their racing days were over, Pete and Big faced the same uncertain future. Where do greyhounds born and bred for the sole purpose of winning at the racetrack go after the finish line? A decade ago, most routinely were put to sleep. Today, many still are, but some are rescued from that fate.

Pete and Big got lucky. The two former speedsters, along with others like them, now spend their days stretched out on the sofa, floor or anywhere else they can find some space in the living room of Howard Rhodes' house in suburban Connecticut. These days, even a pink rabbit banging a drum rolling directly under their noses might not get them excited.

A letter carrier from Danbury, CT, the soft-spoken Rhodes greets a visitor at the door with a smile. "Want to see them?" He cautions that the seven dogs he keeps as pets will jump and lick excitedly at first but then calm down. That's exactly what they do. They jockey for attention, bumping into the visitor, the wall, themselves. A few pats and scratches later, they're back to lounging nonchalantly.

There's some howling and an occasional bark coming from elsewhere in the house. "I always have a dozen or more greyhounds waiting for new homes," explains Rhodes, who operates an adoption agency for greyhounds, Last Race Greyhounds, out of his lakefront home. He's part of a national network of rescuers of greyhounds, dogs who likely would be killed because they are no longer earning money at the racetrack.

"Not enough," responds Rhodes when asked how many dogs he has placed. "It's a passion. Somebody's got to do it."

According to Rhodes, as many as 12,000 past-their-prime greyhounds and those that never make it to the track are euthanized each year, a number that grows smaller each year because of people like Rhodes. These greyhound rescuers find homes for about 16,000 dogs a year.

Rhodes says a pet food manufacturer donates 1,500 pounds of canned food and kibble a month, depositing a pallet by forklift directly into Rhodes' garage. He gets other donated supplies like shampoo and deodorizer, and a local veterinary office gives a discount on its services. A $150 adoption fee helps keep the operation going. He also gets sporadic donations of cash, particularly after an article appears in a newspaper or he's interviewed on television.

The 54-year-old Rhodes got involved in greyhound adoption 10 years ago when one of his sons detailed what happened to greyhounds after their racing days were over. His first two greyhounds, Clancy and Ophelia, are still with him. "Things snowballed," he says.

Greyhound racing is a $3.5-billion-a-year business and is the sixth largest spectator sport in the United States. Rhodes says 26 states have greyhound racetracks. He has a network of trainers and owners from tracks across the country who send him dogs.

At the racetrack, greyhounds can reach speeds up to 55 miles per hour. At home, they turn into lovable, docile couch potatoes, debunking the notion that greyhounds are high-strung or mean. While Rhodes' seven personal pets own the house, the orphans in the kennel do not lack perks. There's artwork — mainly paintings and drawings of greyhounds on the walls above their cages.

And not just anyone can adopt a greyhound. "I ask potential owners to complete an application," Rhodes explains, "and then I determine whether their homes are suitable and whether they will be able to give the animal enough attention. Before people take a dog home, they spend an hour in a get-acquainted session. Attendance by additional pets is required. The final decision is 'strictly subjective,'" Rhodes says, adding that he discourages people from requesting a certain color of dog. There are 29 different colors.

When he's not delivering mail, Rhodes is with the dogs. He gets up at 5 a.m. to let them out for a run in the backyard. Since his home is on his route, he's back to feed and check on them during lunch. After work, it's more time with the greyhounds. He says he hasn't had a vacation since he began taking in the dogs 10 years ago. When people who have adopted a dog from him go on vacation, Rhodes will take care of the animal for them while they're gone — free of charge.

"Quite frankly," says Rhodes, "I can't imagine not waking up and greeting the dogs in the morning. Can't imagine not feeding them. Every single greyhound gets a hug and a kiss. It's an absolute passion."

He also comes to their rescue again whenever they accidentally tumble off the dock at the lake in back of his house. "They're clumsy," he says. He's had to jump in the water and help boost them back to dry land.

Rhodes was honored as a "Community Hero" just prior to the 1996 Olympic Summer Games, when he got to carry the Olympic torch for a kilometer as part of the relay leading up the Atlanta games. At the end of his run, he found 60 families who had adopted greyhounds waiting for him, along with their dogs.

"It was absolutely the most incredible thing that has ever happened to me," he beams.

Ilze Zvirgzdins, formerly a writer for the Cable News Network and United Press International, is now a freelance writer.