It’s some tosser, dare I say it, over the loudspeaker, and he’s rattling off the names of the dogs so fast I can barely understand him. There’s Chewy on a Boot, Dictionary, No Loot, Vicious, and Generic Hound, and they’re all in front of You Bastard, who scampers around the back like a rodent with a mousetrap stuck to his arse.

The crowd rises.

They shout.

The female cop looks great.

People scream.

‘Go Pictionary! Go Pictionary!’

People correct. ‘It’s Dictionary!’

‘What?’

‘Dictionary!’

‘Oh … Go Pictionary!’

‘Ah, forget it!’

People clap and shout.

Great, I tell you. Great, she looks. Brunette.

Then, finally, the rat gets rid of the mousetrap and makes some ground.

Rube and the cop get happy.

They scream, almost sing with joy. ‘Go You Bastard! Go You Bastard!’

All of the dogs chase the ludicrous rabbit around the track and the crowd is like an escaped convict.

Running.

Hoping.

Knowing that the world is catching up.

Hanging.

Hanging on for dear life to this moment of liberation that is so sad that it can only lurk. It’s the deception of something real inside something so obviously empty.

Screaming.

‘Go Vicious!’

‘Go No Loot!’

Rube and the cop: ‘Go You Bastard! Go You Bastard!’

We’re all watching, as the rat comes flying around the outside of the track, clipping first place and losing balance to fall back into fourth.

‘Oh, you bastard!’ Rube winces, and he isn’t calling the dog by its name, as he pedals like hell to make it back.

He does.

He runs well, our bastard.

Runs into second, which makes Rube look at our ticket and ask the cop a question. He says, ‘Did you bet each way or on the nose?’

By the look on his face, we can tell that the cop has bet on the nose. All or nothing.

‘Well you’re a bit useless then, aren’t y’ mate?’ Rube laughs, and he slaps the cop on the back.

‘Yep,’ the cop says. He isn’t a tosser any more. He’s just a guy who forgot about the world for a few moments when some dogs sprinted around a track. His name is Gary — a bit of a Nancy-boy name, but who cares?

We say our goodbyes and I dream one last time about Cassy the cop and compare her to other imagined women in the lecherous soul that is my youth.

I think about her all the way home, where the usual Saturday night awaits us:

Our sister going out. Our brother staying in, staying quiet. Dad reading the paper. Mrs Wolfe, our mother, going to bed early. Rube and me talking briefly across the room before sleep.

‘I liked her,’ I say on our front porch.

‘I know.’ Rube smiles and he opens the door.

‘Hey Rube, are you awake?’

‘Whatta y’ reckon? I’ve only been in here two lousy minutes.’

‘It’s been longer than that.’