The trouble started the day she was born. Before that, really—as soon as the sonogram showed up. She was a she, and he couldn’t register that. He was proof that even some of the smartest gator-poaching hicks remained fluent only in the language of macho: talk of bullets, ballistics, and blood. He wasted no time turning her into a boy. His fatherhood depended on it.
She was his little killer by age seven. A whitetail deer. Pretty early in a girl’s development to lose that much innocence. It became the lynchpin of her brainwashing. A kind of parental Stockholm syndrome emerged. She was a hostage from then on, with no choice but to trust him implicitly. Maybe somewhere below detection she knew that if she ever detached from him, she’d have to confront that she had done something she would’ve never consented to if left to her own sentiments—something heinous and sickening that she’d never undo. Seven is such a tender age to start condemning yourself.
The truth was that she adored animals. It was their innocence that she loved. Creatures just went about the business of survival unburdened by right and wrong, virtue and sin, or any of that. They may act in ways she felt were brutal, but in the end, they were nature’s machines. A kind of children for humanity. She was tender toward them the way a mother is with her children. Maybe she’d become a veterinarian.
Yet she learned to squash all this beneath the need for his approval. There’d be no relationship with him without engaging his obsession with hunting. She set up barriers in her mind between the animals she loved and the ones she shot, taking comfort in old standby arguments like the one that said culling the herd prevents starvation. There was a distinction to make somewhere—some way to balance affinity for wildlife with obedience to him—she just didn’t know what it was. She didn’t want to know. Just as long as she believed it was there.
As she grew, she only strayed from his thinking enough to try on identities the way a girl plays dress-up. He couldn’t see it that way, of course. He was patient with her growing interest in debate because he fielded her challenges like they were the final thrashings of a game animal he knew he’d already bested. He was proud that she tried to challenge him. It was cute. Futile, but cute.
It wasn’t until he took her to the dog track when she was fourteen that she would spot a weakness. A chance to step out on her own. Was she ready? What would it mean? Would she be the same person on the other side, or would she have to reinvent herself?
He’d been so puffed up to be her master in that maiden encounter with gambling, showing her the betting windows, explaining the odds, and describing how the dogs would run.
As they sat on the hard seats that connected to a table, she said, “Daddy, why’re there only greyhounds?”
“They’re the best runners.”
“How do we know that?”
“They just have that reputation.”
“So we just trust it? Hasn’t anyone raced different breeds to find out which is fastest?”
“I don’ know. Maybe somebody did.”
“But you didn’t. And I bet no one else here did. So no one really knows for sure that these greyhounds are the best.”
“I guess not, but how else would they’ve earned their reputation?”
“Maybe some rich and powerful person from another century who worshipped ’em convinced a bunch of snotty snobs that they were best, and no one questioned it.”
“What’s botherin you s’much?”
“It’s just that we’re here to measure speed, but we don’t even know if the dogs we’re seein are the fastest. For all we know, there could be three other breeds that can outrun these dogs.”
“Doubt it.”
“What makes you so skeptical?” She’d been meaning to drop that word into a conversation for some time.
“I just think someone woulda noticed by now.”
“How? The track rules only allow greyhounds, right? How would another kinda dog ever get ’n opportunity?”
He shrugged and lifted his upper lip. “Could be an individual dog or two out there from a different pedigree—freaks of nature—that could beat a greyhound, sure, but I think those dogs are rare. Greyhounds race for a reason.”
She sighed. “If that’s really true, why do they need a rule to protect ’em? Why not let other dogs embarrass themselves by tryin? Wouldn’t that be more interestin?”
He shook his head. “It would ruin the betting. The competition wouldn’t be as tight. Is there another kinda dog you like better?”
Her eyes went wide. “Sure! I like all kindsa dogs.”
“What kind you wanna see on the track?”
A crackly voice over the loudspeaker announced the opening of the first race’s betting.
“I don’ know. Maybe a Dalmatian or somethin.”
“A Dalmatian! They can’t beat greyhounds.”
“There you go again! What makes you so sure? Are you sayin there’s not a single Dalmatian on Earth that can’t outrun even the slowest greyhound?”
“Sure there is, but it’s not likely that you’d see the slowest greyhound on a track at all. You’re mixin up yer thinkin between breeds and individuals. I’m sure there are some atypical individual dogs out there that can run faster than a greyhound runt or somethin, but that’s not what we’re talkin ’bout. We’re discussin the merits of a whole breed compared to another breed. I’m tryin to teach you that greyhounds—as a breed—are the best runners. Individual abilities vary, sure, but the average greyhound is a better runner than the average dog of any other breed. The dogs we’re watchin race because they’ve earned their place as a breed.”
“But that means that the fastest dog in the werld might be out there somewhere, but we’ll never see it run ’less it happens to be a greyhound!”
The girl’s father noticed a man at the adjacent table shamelessly staring at them with an amused grin. Turning back to his daughter, he said, “Yes, but that’s what I’m sayin: chances are, the fastest dog in the werld is a greyhound!”
“But there’s no way to know that for sure! Like you said, there might be some mutant Labrador or somethin out there, but he’ll—or she’ll—never race because of the stupid rule.”
“Ah…so it’s the rule that gets yer goat.”
“Yeah. I don’ like it. It’s narrow-minded.”
“So ya think the races should be open to all dog types to allow for the possibility that some unbelievable runner is out there that’s not a greyhound.”
“Yes!”
“I can go along with that. That’s a good point.”
That startled her—the degree of elation that welled from the victory of an idea she’d championed on her own. Triumph. A small one, but she’d take it. She smiled and nodded. She was powerful now. A stirring metamorphosis had taken place. Gazing at the starting gate, she inhaled a quick burst of air to handle the epiphany that girlhood had just slipped off her like an old skin. There at the dog track, of all places, in the least ceremonial way, she’d become a woman. Her own woman.
She couldn’t help it. She had to keep at it. “In fact, I think there should be a rule that different breeds must be represented in every race.”
“Now that’s where I disagree with ya.”
The fledgling maturity wavered. She’d been a fool to think he’d let her keep it. That self-assured retort had come so quickly that it could only mean she was back in the crosshairs. Had her win been a fluke? Maybe she should let it go. Minimize the damage. His comment didn’t require a reply, but giving up felt like defeat. This was her best chance. She summoned her courage and said, “How come?”
“’Cause designatin slots for certain breeds would limit opportunities and penalize some excellent dogs. Dogs that are born runners would be kept out in favor of ones that aren’t just ’cause someone isn’t happy with Mother Nature’s unequal allotment of ability. You wouldn’t be testin runnin ability anymore; you’d be hostin some kinda charity event that’s loosely based on runnin. That’s not rewarding the best racers; it’s tryin to make the dogs more equal.”
“So? What’s wrong with that?”
“What’s wrong is that they’re not equal. Look at ’em, baby. Are you tellin me a dog with tiny, barely functional legs—like a Dachshund or a basset hound—has any business racin alongside a greyhound?”
“Maybe! How d’ya know unless ya try? They gotta have a chance! How do we know the glorious greyhound’s advantage doesn’t just come down to trainin? Greyhound owners train their dogs, so of course they’re the best. What if other dogs were given the same treatment? Maybe they’d do just as well. Or better!”
He scooted on his seat. “Hon, you gotta attack that disparity by trainin other dogs, then. Give ’em their best chance. That starts with owners when the dogs are pups. You can’t go relaxin the rules to do it, though, and that’s what you’d hafta do to make sure other dogs get in. Doin’ that means fallin into the fallacy of false opposites.”
Dropping a bomb like that probably meant the contest was over, yet somehow she stuck with it. “The what?”
“The fallacy of false opposites. It’s what I call it when people think they can fix a problem by doin’ the opposite of what they mistakenly think is the cause.”
“Huh?”
The nosy man beside them continued his stare, so the girl’s father turned toward her and lowered his voice. “Remember how you resented the uniforms when you started prep school?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s like that. What bothered you so much about ’em?”
“All they do is make me look the way someone else wants me to.”
“Right. And when you confronted the dean about it, he justified it, sayin that if everyone wears the same clothes, it takes away the ability to discriminate. Kids who can afford designer outfits can’t look down on kids who wear bargain brands. Kids with cheap clothing don’t feel inferior. It promotes equality.”
“Yeah? So? I don’t get what that has to do with dogs.”
“You’re usin the same bad thinkin as yer dean. I don’ think you realized it, but you knew deep down that the way to teach kids that character is more important than appearance isn’t with a policy that emphasizes how people look. Uniforms only reinforce the kinda thinkin yer dean claimed he was tryin to eliminate. They worsen the problem. Forcin kids into a particular outfit teaches ’em that clothing does matter. You’re not teachin anybody to look at the inner person that way. Any message ’bout prejudice is lost. The opposite of prejudice ain’t havin everyone look the same; it’s a change of mental habits, which is a hell of a lot harder to bring about. People pretend uniforms eliminate prejudice and claim they’ve solved a problem whose cause they haven’t even identified. That’s what yer dog plan does. You’re fixin to solve natural inequality by applyin manmade equality, but it doesn’t work like that.”
The new woman had shrunk already. He was back in control. How did he keep closing ground on her? She mumbled, “But you agreed that the rules should allow any kinda dog.”
“Right. They should allow other dogs, but the standard of competition has to remain the same. You can’t relax the rules to let other dogs in, and that’s what you’d hafta do to get other breeds in there. Every breed is different. There’s nothin we can do ’bout that. Some are just better runners. Ya gotta accept it. No matter how many Golden Retrievers you put beside greyhounds, you’re never gonna change it. Golden Retrievers have different advantages. They’re smarter, for one thing, so they’re better suited to be seein-eye dogs and other important things like that. They can actually help people. You don’t see people forcin greyhounds to serve the disabled for the sake of equal opportunity, do ya?”
She raked her fingers through her hair and strained to find the womanhood somewhere in her feet. “No.”
“No. It’s just not their forte. The differences between breeds may be unfair, but that’s what nature determines.”
She looked up. “All right, but tell me this: if nature gives every dog different abilities, it all just comes down to luck, then, right? The dogs that run the fastest are just the luckiest, in terms of runnin.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Well then what’s so great about bein’ the fastest? Why celebrate that? If it’s all just nature’s work anyway, then you might as well celebrate the slow dogs too. And the ugly ones. The smelly ones. What’s the point of havin a race at all?”
“Well money, of course, dear.”
“Right. I understand that that’s why we have ’em race. But if they could decide, you think they’d wanna race? What I’m gettin at is that it’s not like these dogs can do anything to change what they are. They’re stuck with what nature gave ’em, and all we’re doin’ is isolatin certain parts of nature and givin those more attention than the other parts. It’s not like the dogs that win races make some heroic decision to be great runners. Even if they work hard at it, they’re doin’ all that just ’cause that’s how they’re built. They’re just doin’ what’s in their nature to do. Every dog does that, whether it can run fast or not. Why not celebrate every dog? Why single out the fast ones?”
“’Cause racin ain’t about celebratin doghood! It’s concerned with speed!”
“That’s the problem, then, Daddy. I don’t think I believe in racin. It’s too narrow-minded. Why does everything have to be so competitive, anyway? Why can’t we just appreciate all dogs? Competition turns ’em into winners and losers. How d’ya think that makes ’em feel?”
“How do they feel? Darlin, they don’ know any better!”
“How do you know? I bet they do know! Dogs are pretty smart. I bet they know when they win or lose. I bet the slower ones think they’re not worth as much ’cause they lose. They just keep gettin reminded of how bad they are at runnin. And the faster ones prob’ly use victory as proof that they’re superior even though they’re only winners by accident. They think they somehow deserve all the praise and special treatment. I bet the winners and losers even fight about it sometimes. None of ’em understand that they’re all just vessels of the same genes, only mixed a little different. Racin makes ’em think they’re werlds apart—some better and some worse. That’s what I don’t like.”
“All right, fine. Maybe they can tell the difference between winnin and losin. But what you’re drivin at is like sayin no skill is worth appreciatin ’cause everything that happens is accidental. You know full well that nature can do some pretty amazin things, and their bein’ random doesn’t mean we shouldn’t appreciate ’em. Right? Don’t you think we should enjoy nature’s wonders? You know, value the qualities that things naturally possess?”
And there it was. He’d won, of course. Once again. There was nowhere to go from there. She had resisted valiantly, but it was time to admit defeat. He’d probably win every other debate for the rest of her life. She’d never earn his respect, and she’d be forever imprisoned in his reasoning. The best she’d do would be to someday find a partner and transfer that dependence. It was the only way her father would give her up: change the guard.
Then it struck her, gleaming from some salvific corner of her mind. Her entire tomboy childhood flashed before her. That first dead deer and everything. Could it be? Yes. She had him. She could end the whole thing—or win a different contest, at least. Put him down. He’d never see it coming. Had he really just argued that it was her duty to appreciate the true nature of things? She couldn’t suppress a smirk as she twirled a finger through her ringlets and asked, “Oh, you mean like how—fourteen years ago—you valued me?”
Photo by Klara Kulikova on Unsplash
