Two Persian Greyhounds gently scrape their paws backward along the sidewalk. One, then the other. It’s a familiar maneuver, athletic, intimidating even. These animals aren’t your average Sunday schmoozers. Oh no, these guys are winners, and boy, do they look fast just standing there. I’ve seen this kind of thing before, the slow scrape-back, while watching the Olympics on TV a few summers ago. Sprinters preparing to race, feeling the earth below, reminding themselves what their feet can do. The master of these creatures waits nearby, wearing an arrogant bright orange vest. She stands proudly, her pale knuckles tightly clenched around a pair of leashes. “I’m in charge here,” she seems to be saying. But all it would take is some yapping chihuahua in the distance or a measly dollop of spilled pizza sauce hitting the street corner, and these hounds would be gone, a trail of orange and red following closely behind. They’ve been preparing to hunt all afternoon, you see, and they’d kill to go someplace quick.
