Chihuahua racing: sport of kings

First of all, this is not a joke, and it's not fiction. Sparky and I really went to the dog track and witnessed the noble pastime of Chihuahua racing, a tradition that stretches back at least 2 years, possibly even 3. Official records have been lost to the vagaries of time.

Through amazing persuasive efforts on my part, we arrive at the track on time, but the line stretches out the building and through the parking lot. Non-racing spectator Chihuahuas are everywhere: curled up in the arms of huge, thuggish men, decked out in leopard-print jackets to match their owners' stiletto heels, straining their leashes as little kids reeled them in. over the loudspeaker, the announcer introduces the racers in the first heat. "Number 1, Pico, loves to eat. Number 2, Paco, thinks he's a cat. Number 3, Chiquita, likes to chase cats. That should be interesting combination, folks. Number 4, Pepe, is shy. We won't expect much from him tonight." He speaks in irony-tinged deadpan, well aware of the ridiculousness of the event, amused despite himself. "Let’s put these puppies in the box and see what they can do!"

"We’re going to miss everything," I muttered as the line creeps closer to the building.

Just then, an extremely sketchy little man approaches us with the manner of a ticket scalper: shoulders hunched, head inclined forward, chin down. "Don’t say anything," he says in a low voice, and presses bright pink general admission tickets into our hands before disappearing.

Yes. We were miracled into the dog track (price of admission: $1.25). However, this gets us inside ahead of the line, and we catch the second heat from the clubhouse.

To avoid even the slightest confusion, it should be noted that these are not professional racing dogs. These are tiny little yark-yark rat-puppies in knitted sweaters with shivering, pointy tails. Contestants are selected by randomly drawing names from a hat. The racecourse is about 100 feet long. Dogs require two handlers: one (usually a woman) at the finish line to call her baby, the second (often a man or little kid) to carry the dog to the start line and deposit it in the box.

And they're off! The box opens. For a moment, nothing happens. Nothing happens for a short while. Then a few bewildered dogs step out, blinking into the air as if opening their eyes for the first time. Their bodies twitch. Most notice their owners standing behind the box and dash back around to the other side. Wiggling dogs are in constant motion, jogging the wrong way, nudging the dogs beside them, sniffing the side of the track. It’s time to play!

Eventually, one dog hears his mommy calling from the finish line. He turns and prances leisurely down the track. The audience cheers, howls with laughter. He tosses his head, proud with the attention. The announcer says, "And it's the three, the three with a clear lead," calling the race as if an actual race were happening. Just as it appears this lone dog will finally cross the finish line, a tinier dog hears its mommy calling. It dashes out from the little knot of dogs still milling around the box as their owners try to push them in the right direction, and jets down the track, coming up on the oblivious number three. The latecomer passes the lead dog just before the finish line and the crowd screams with delight. An upset! "And it's the one! The one by a nose!" the announcer tells us. But the one is on a roll. He dodges the humans' legs at the finish line and takes off past the boundaries of the event. His handler goes after him; the one doubles back and slips in between a crack in the barrier that divides the lanes from the center of the track.

All the while, I am laughing literally until tears stream down my face and Sparky is actually holding me up. We slip down to the track and watch the third heat from the rail (not a great view) and then get into the bleachers.

The fourth heat starts like the others, but just as I whisper to Sparky, "you'd think one of these dogs would start humping another," little number seven tries to jump up on big(ger) number six. All the other dogs have run behind the box or started sniffing the starting gate. Number six hears her mommy and starts to strut down the track, with number seven dancing around her, leaping over her. "And it's the six! No, the seven! No, the six! The seven!" when they approach the finish line, they swing around like figure skaters and dance back in the opposite direction. Their owners shoo them around and they repeat the steps as if the dance has been professionally choreographed. "It’s the six! No, the seven! No, the six! No, the seven! I think these dogs are going to get married after the race!" this goes on for a while, the two dogs sashaying back and forth in flirtatious fun. Finally the announcer decides Chihuahua racing needs a new rule: time limits. He instructs the owners to hold their dogs aloft and lets the audience decide the winner: spunky little number seven.

"Who thinks we should do this event twice a year?" the announcers ask. The audience cheers. "Who thinks we should have more than four heats?" the audience screams. "Who thinks we should increase the prize from one hundred to two hundred dollars?" the audience goes wild. "We’re going to do that in June, ok?" Delirious mayhem ensues. The final race, featuring the winners of each heat, will not be held until later, after the real (greyhound) races. But that is all we need to see.

"Was it as good as you thought it would be?" Sparky asks.

Still wiping tears from my eyes and hanging on Sparky to keep myself upright, I answered, "it was so much better than I imagined." we agree to return in June, with his daughter.

All that remains is to report that, in the bleachers, we met the cousin of that dog that repeatedly won the ugliest dog in the world contest. This baby, his owner informed us, was half Chihuahua, half Chinese crested. He essentially looked like a miniature goat with a feather coming out of his head.

Anyway, Chihuahua racing. It speaks for itself.