Dog days at the Romford races
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Zinedine Zedog stood poised at the edge of the greyhound track, 23kg of muscle and nerves. Her narrow black chest rose and fell. Zedog was built for speed – ears pinned back, eyes forward, tail low. A cluster of Frenchmen pressed against the rail of the Romford race track, fists clenched. “Come on, Zizou!” one shouted, voice cracking. “Allez Zedog!” another roared.
The gates clanged open and the pack burst forward in a blur of canine and sand. For a second, it looked like chaos – legs tanglin
The gates clanged open and the pack burst forward in a blur of canine and sand. For a second, it looked like chaos – legs tanglin
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