It was a fenced-in high school ball field. The gate swung open and I went in, closing the gate behind me and the dog. From the pitcher’s mound, I gave the fence lines a quick inspection without seeing any dog-size breaks or open gates, then I unsnapped the lead from Mac’s collar. This was a new experience for us both. He just stood there and looked up at me with big, brown, confused eyes.

Mac was a greyhound who had just spent his first week in a real house. He was 7 years old at the time and a powerful dog with bulging muscles on his shoulders and hindquarters. A month earlier he was racing, running after that dang furry thing that triggered his instinct to chase. The chase was the best thing in his life and he was good at it. Fast, healthy and strong at 75 pounds, he still made money for his owner well past the age at which most racing greyhounds are retired. But it had been a while since he had run, really run, fast enough to feel the wind rush by those tucked-in ears and the turf give way under his feet.

But here we were, the two of us just standing on the pitcher’s mound waiting to see what would happen next. He looked at me. No muzzle, no funny jacket with a number on it, no starting gate, no crowd noise — nothing at all familiar. We stood there for a few minutes. I muttered encouraging words that he could never understand and we just stared at each other. Then he turned and slowly walked to the first base dugout.

He was down and out of sight for a moment and I went to see what had captured his attention. It was simply a spot where a dog could have a little privacy while doing what dogs do and this dog was a prodigious doer. Well beyond pooper-scooper level, he was at least Backhoe level bucking for Strip Mine Bulldozer status. What used to be Purina had become a mountain of disgusting putrescence. A piece of heavy cardboard and a smallish snow shovel from the trunk of my car provided the tools for cleanup. I left both in a waste drum beside the dugout.

As I walked back to the pitcher’s mound, Mac started to trot out to right field along the fence. Obviously feeling lighter and sleeker, he picked up speed and began to run, slowly at first, then faster as he hung a left at the fence and then accelerated toward center field. As I whistled and clapped my hands, he went faster and faster. When he made the turn at the left field corner, he was flying! Dirt and dead grass formed a kind of rooster tail behind him and he steered straight for the pitcher’s mound. He cut inside third base and headed directly for me. I could feel the ground pounding under his feet as he blew past me and turned for another lap.

That was a 75-pound, 40-mph missile. If ever I have seen a happy dog, and I have seen many, this guy was a picture of joy. He was bred to run, and run he would when given the chance. We made many trips to the ball field and he never failed to put on a speed display.

House manners were another story. After spending his entire life in a crate, let out for feeding and running only, he was taken to a mysterious place where nothing made sense. Stairs, mirrors, new humans — it was all confusing at first.  But he quickly came to be my friend, despite a few mishaps. Like the time I came home after a quick errand. I had placed a frozen, uncooked roasting chicken in a large pot of water on the kitchen counter to thaw. When I arrived back home, the pot and water were all over the floor and the frozen chicken was not to be found. No evidence of that bird anywhere — no bones, no pope’s nose, nothing.

But the dog had a different physique, now more like an anaconda that had just swallowed a pig. The next few days were unpleasant to say the least. I think if he were still competitive, he’d have been a runaway favorite for his Strip Mine Bulldozer badge.

Mac lives large in my memories of best friends past. A docile, stupid, loving couch potato who finally got his best life, he lives on along with Hotei, Black Butch, Fritzi (Velvet Mimi of Silver Spring), Rumpus, Toby, Ginger, Taffy, Mixie, Noir, Amber, Roxie and Zena.

Life is good. Life is better with dogs, but it’s hell for a while when you lose them.

Thanks, Mac.

Butch Lawson is an observer of life. He lives on Bailey Island.