RESCUING GREYHOUNDS LEADS TO NEW LIFE

She's happy, and so are her greyhounds. And that's all that really matters.

Presto is one of hundreds of volunteers nationwide who take retired racers, foster them and find them new homes. Before greyhound rescue became a national movement, the lives of most of the sweet, soft-eyed dogs ended pretty much when their racing careers did. The lucky ones were euthanized humanely; others got a bullet behind the ear, or were sold to biomedical laboratories.

Although some greyhounds still meet such fates, an increasing number end up as pets. Presto alone places 20 to 40 dogs a year through her one-person nonprofit organization, the Greyhound Gang. Every life saved confirms her belief she did the right thing -- and the clean air and handsome view outside her home don't hurt, either.

"I turned 40 in corporate America, and I didn't want to be there anymore," she says, sitting cross-legged in a plastic chair outside her home, her stylishly short-cropped hair still hinting of the jobs she once had. "I finally raised my hand and said, 'Size me down.'"

She was already involved in greyhound rescue before she left her job, and knew she wanted to do more for the dogs she'd come to love. She and an ex-racer named Slim traveled the country in a 16-foot trailer, trying places on for size, until she came to Kanab, a small town in the middle of some of the world's most spectacular scenery: the Grand Canyon, Bryce Canyon and Zion national parks.

"I just fell in love with the place," she said. She settled in and started rescuing, housing her own dogs and her fosters in her small house on a couple of acres beneath the red-rock mountains that ring the town. "I left Connecticut because I wanted freedom. Freedom and land to rescue greyhounds."

That was six years ago. She incorporated as a nonprofit four years ago, although her charity still draws $4,000 to $7,000 a year out of her own pocket. "There are many like me paying for the care of these rescued dogs," she says, with a hint of anger toward the industry that produces the dogs, "and that's money those who breed and race the dogs should be spending."

The greyhounds snooze in the sun while she talks, their calmness contrasting with her energy. There are five dogs now, up to six at any given time -- two permanent, the rest fosters. Presto gets her dogs from a group in Tucson that takes them off the track, or one in Colorado that takes the dogs who never make it that far. She has recently started to specialize in hard-to-place dogs, older dogs, or dogs who need some time to realize their potential as pets. Some of them stay for months or more.

She spends a great deal of time in Las Vegas, more than three hours away, sitting at a table in a pet store to educate people about the dogs and turn up a home or two. Add to that the seven-hour trips to pick up new dogs, and Presto seems to be spending a lot of time on the road.

It's hard work, especially when you consider she still has to make a living, which she's done in the past through part-time consulting work. But there's no turning back.

Not even for the small town of Kanab, which is preparing for Presto's May Greyhound Gathering, a celebration of the dogs that will include a parade, a 10K run and plenty of shopping. The inaugural event drew 150 people and their dogs, and Presto's expecting an even better turnout this year.

Crazy? Maybe so. But seeing how happy the dogs are, and how happy Presto is because of what she does on their behalf, makes a pretty strong argument that she's not so crazy after all.