Give me a dog’s life any day

I FELL in love with the National Coursing Meeting in Clonmel yesterday at around the time I stumbled across a video in one of the stalls called Ferrets At Work.

As an example of focusing on your niche market, this particular series also featuring Whippets At Work showed the kind of business acumen even Donald Trump can only aspire to.

It confirmed that for the coursing novice, yesterday in Clonmel was a feast for all the senses.

Except maybe common sense. It was all too easy to get caught up in the atmosphere and find yourself laying out money on the likely outcome of a contest involving two dogs you'd never heard of chasing something you'd never seen. Then again, coursing is like that. It hooks you quietly.

The sense of occasion built steadily throughout the day, from a relatively polite reception for the early courses to an increasingly appreciative audience for the later clashes. By the time the semi-finals had rolled around, even the casual fan had shed his impartiality. Along with a few bob.

The crowd weren't overt, fervent missionaries, eager to spread the coursing gospel.

The fans' behaviour was an odd mixture of appraisal and enthusiasm, most of them squinting down coldly at the slipper, away to the right of the big stand, and pursing their lips even as the two greyhounds hurtled up the slight slope, right to left, after the hare.

To the ignorant, the nip and tuck of the two dogs meant little, but occasionally a dog lunged or twisted, and the crowd roared in unison, like they'd all discovered a secret at the same time.

There were occasional lone shouts "Go on, Flashy!" "He's up Droopys up!" and every now and then a few dozen spectators ebbed and flowed around the bookies, but for the most part the crowd studied the dogs quietly, frowning as they noted winners and scratches.

In fact, many seemed to pay more attention to the dogs as they were walked back after the courses ended; the shortest route to the owners and trainers' car park ran through the bookies, and a few of the cognoscenti studied the hounds closely as they returned, as if trying to gauge fatigue from the dogs' bearing.

Still, that same crowd was merciful to the ignorant. In the throng pressed up against the fences there wasn't much privacy, and the elderly gent in the waxed jacket and flat cap coughed quietly before redirecting this innocent's pen towards the winner's name.

And much thanks also to the nice English lady who nudged our elbow when we were staring down the course at the slipper, instead of focusing on the two hounds racing past in the opposite direction. That was the race the 20 went on, by the way.

During the interval, it was time to browse among stalls selling a bewildering variety of products.

The customer hierarchy was illustrated vividly and simply: the dog-related merchandise was on show in a spacious, floored tent, well-sheltered from the elements; the products on offer to their owners were on open stalls, exposed to the breeze.

From the greyhound magnetic wrist supports (49 the pair) to the creatine paste and black powder, the array of merchandise on offer to the diligent dog-owner was astounding jacuzzis, automatic walkers, life-size replicas of famed hounds of old.

Even the poster-seller had his marketing hat on, keeping framed canine scenes at the front and Frank Sinatra and Orlando Bloom hidden at the back.

Getting away from the stalls proved a challenge unto itself. Even the new Mahon Point centre in Cork probably can't boast hand-stitched greyhound leashes, hunting binoculars and suspiciously current movies on DVD all from one shop.

Further on, the owners' car-park was packed, but again the emphasis was on the dogs. Those which had finished courses had their paws soaking; those yet to go were being rubbed with embrocation, giving the car park the air of an enormous dressing-room.

Everywhere the animals were being fussed over, owners looking on worriedly as their dogs nodded along with the trainers' massaging hands.

It was the dusty white van festooned with muzzles and dog blankets that summed the day up the rickety seats made a fair contrast to the top-of-the-range canine comforts visible in the back. Coursing is about the animal, not the image. The fans don't preach because they don't feel the need to convert.

Make your plans for next year. And reserve your copy of Ferrets At Work now.