Mac and the NASCAR Racing Circuit

All things are possible for dogs that dream. I should know. I am a dog, and my name is Mac.

I know, low probability that a dog could become a sanctioned stock car racing contender. But stranger things have happened in the life of an intrepid West Highland Terrier, that’s me, bred from the finest Scottish heritage. If we can dig rodents, chase foxes and an occasional raccoon or cat, driving a race car should be a no-brainer. Our brains are hardwired to think this way.

The idea came to me one day as I surveyed my domain from atop the highest table in the living room. Do you suppose I could actually drive a race car, I wondered? I quickly consulted my live-in mate, Sophie, and about all I got was a summary shrug and stupid look, which I immediately took as a “Yes.” Girls, ugh!

Where do I start, I wondered? Why, a race track, that’s where. But how do I wrangle an invitation to the track with my “boss-man,” (I allow him to think this, seeing as it is gastronomically rewarding)? No problem. I’ve learned he’s a sucker for me. He thinks it’s because I’m his best friend, but actually I’m a master manipulator.

Envisioning the goal is the first step in realizing it. So I dreamed racing, night and day. Soon, with the approach of the Daytona 500, racing fever ran high at the local Speedway. As it would happen my “boss-man” and I hopped into the pickup and headed out there on a Friday night to catch the action.

We entered what’s called the “pit” area, where the cars and drivers congregate. “Grease monkeys,” that’s what they call mechanics, work endlessly, tweaking the souped-up chariots while the drivers swap stories filled with hyperbole and exaggeration about narrow escapes from death. And Wow, look at the girls!

The very first car I saw had emblazoned on the rear bumper, “Kiss This,” and I knew this was my kind of place. I got a lot of offers to sit in the race cars, all of which I accepted. I must have been a magnet for the girls. They just couldn’t keep their hands off of me, which seemed to give them great pleasure. I wanted to ignore them, taking my cue from the drivers who just brushed off their silly flirting. But deep down….Oh well, that’s another story. Back to racing.

Finally Frankie, a wiry specimen of race car driver (perhaps a terrier in another life) said, “Hey, Mac, you wanna ride with me in the first heat?” Casting discretion to the dusty wind, I barked enthusiastically, so he put me into the right seat and off we roared round and round that half-mile oval dirt track. Digging rodents will never have the same thrill!

I didn’t know it at the time, not that it would have made any difference, but I later learned that Frankie has only one “good” eye. A one-eyed race car driver…imagine the irony. Some say he’s hell-on-wheels and has defied death so many times that fear itself is afraid of him. These stories are not myths, but legend…I can affirm it! And more—he has no rear view mirror in his machine. Now that says a lot about the lifestyle of these speed demons. They put everything on the line, every time, all night long. Nobody’s looking back! It made bush-wetting and dog-sniffing downright mundane and boring.

Frankie winked at me with the “working eye” and said, “Say Mac, you want to sit over here in my lap and drive this rocket in the main event?” I couldn’t believe my ears. Soon we were suitably strapped into the seat, nestled in between steel roll bars. Frankie even had the pit boys duct tape a T-bone steak bone to the hood of the car to keep my attention focused forward. I hate to admit it, but food is also a weakness of mine, among other distracting proclivities, and in our car we now had three “good” eyes. How could we lose this race? We didn’t.

As we wheeled into the pit area, having taken the checkered flag and the night’s $200 purse, the crowd cheered wildly and mobbed our car. They hoisted me up on their shoulders and paraded me among the adoring fans. Never before had a Westie succeeded as a race car driver, so they said. This was one for the Guinness book!

Very few humans, and no dogs, get the opportunity to “drive” a 500 horsepower, 112 octane-powered scream machine, zooming down the back stretch at 125 mph. The crowd loved it. They cheered our every pass down the home stretch. Dog-gone heaven on earth, I thought.

I knew the “boss” would lecture me on the way home about the dangers of such folly, but I’m an expert in dealing with him. Besides, I needed a nap. I curled up on my side of the truck, coddling the remnants of the T-bone Frankie gave me as my trophy and share of the night’s loot.

It’s always late when adventurous males arrive home. Sophie greeted me at the door with her indignant expression, sniffing the lingering scent of strange perfume from female hands. I knew what she was thinking, but I kept my mouth shut, a trick all males learn sooner or later. As I headed for my own bed, I knew I’d dream of Frankie, his one eye and my time behind the wheel of a demon-spirited racing machine. And I did.

Dreams flooded my mind, dreams of bigger quests on the NASCAR racing circuit ~ Daytona 500, Charlotte, Talladega, Atlanta, maybe Indy, who knows? Stranger things have happened. But for now, it had been a good night, and my T-bone made a great bed-mate!

In the morning I was back on my perch, eyeballing the lizards lying on the window sill. But all the time I was thinking, “Is it possible I could race Daytona?” Like I said, if you can dream it and believe it, you can achieve it.

All things are possible for dogs that dream. I should know. I am a dog, and my name is Mac.