Brighteyes had run on for a few paces when it happened. But then, as he found himself suddenly alone, he slowed, stopped and looked about him. He saw Alfie standing there alone on the track and came running back towards him. The two famous champions stood side by side on the track, bewildered and alarmed, but still together. By the time Becky had vaulted over the barrier fence on to the track and was running over to them, the whole crowd had fallen silent in the stands. They knew, as Becky did, that they were witnessing the end of a greyhound racing legend, that they had just seen the great Alfie run his last race.

The vet confirmed what everyone already suspected, that a bone in one of Alfie’s hocks had broken. There was nothing that could be done. He might be able to run but he would never race again.

No one spoke in the van on the way home that night. Becky sat in the back with the dogs as usual, with Alfie’s head on her lap. She waited until they got back later that night, until they were having a cup of tea in the kitchen, before she said anything. Still no one spoke. She’d been thinking about it all the way home. She had made up her mind to swallow her pride and beg.

“I’ve never asked you for anything before, have I, Craig?” she began. Craig didn’t say anything. He just sat there stirring his tea and gazing into it morosely. “It’s about Alfie. I’d really like to keep him. I mean, he’s won you all that money, all those cups. He’s run his heart out for you every time he’s raced, hasn’t he? And Brighteyes… if Alfie goes, it’ll break his heart, and if he’s unhappy then he’ll never run his best, will he? I know him. Please Craig, I’ll look after him. I promise I will.”

The look on Craig’s face was as scathing as the tone of his voice. “So now it’s ‘please Craig’ all of a sudden, is it? That makes a change, I suppose. Well let me tell you something for nothing: a racing dog is only worth keeping as long as he can win. You heard what that vet said. Alfie’s not even going to be able to race again, let alone win. So he goes, just like the others. He’s no different. I run a racing kennels here, right? I don’t run a dog’s rest home for lame greyhounds. So stop your whinging. He goes. Tomorrow. And there’s an end to it.”

“He’ll go to a good home, Becky. It’s all right,” her mother said. “They all go to good homes, don’t they, Craig?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Craig muttered. He took a sip of his tea, then banged the mug down on the table. “There’s no sugar in this,” he shouted. “You know I always have sugar.” Becky’s mother, now clearly upset, pushed the sugar bowl towards him. He spooned the sugar in and stirred it. When he looked up, he saw both of them looking back at him waiting for a proper answer. “Of course they do,” he snapped. “Good homes, all of them. I’ve told you, haven’t I?”