"..... on my old Kentucky home...."
They still sang the song, even though Kentucky had ceased to exist, along with all the other States, over five hundred years before. They still gathered at the same ancient, oval track, to watch the best horses in the land race, every first Saturday in May. Nearly every other game that had been played in Ancient America had long ago been forgotten, but in the New America, the America after the War of Wars, a fast horse was a highly valuable commodity, and people appreciated the value of breeding, keeping, and racing the animals.
No-one remembered when the hounds had been added to the race.
It had likely been soon after the Great Plague had swept the planet like wildfire, nearly four hundred years earlier. The human population had been severely reduced, and in the new, nearly lawless world, a well-trained hunting hound was as valuable as a swift horse.
The hounds were stationed in packs of four each, at four points around the infield of the track. Great, hulking brutes, they snarled and danced in anticipation.
The twelve colts entered in the race pranced out onto the track, in front of the throng of spectators. Highly bred, sleek, and well-trained as the hounds, they too were keen with anticipation. They lined up at the rope, and at the drop of a flag, tore away down the track, a galloping frenzy of hooves, gleaming hides, and whips.
The first pack of hounds was released just as the horses came into the first turn. At once, the beautifully galloping animals turned into a churning, confused heap of screaming, kicking horses, snarling, snatching jaws, ripping flesh, snapping bones...three colts were dragged down by the pack, and brutally ripped apart. Their jockeys, with nothing but racing whips for defense, were soon torn apart as well.
The rest of the field continued the race. They had been trained to run or jump over the hounds, rather than swerve away, and met the next pack with the same bold gallop. Two more colts and jockeys went down, then another three at the top of the stretch.
The remaining horses thundered down the stretch, the crowd roaring encouragement. The last hounds surged onto the track just an eighth of a mile before the wire, and the jockeys, frantic to finish the race, rained blows down on horses and hounds alike. One colt tripped, and two others, tiring, lagged, and both were gone in a heaving mass of fur and fangs.
The crowd drowned out the rider's cry of joy and relief, as the one colt flew under the finish wire, alone and victorious.
They still, all those centuries later, led the lathered, prancing winner into a winner's circle, and covered him in a blanket of roses. He would be led back to his stall, and tended carefully, like the champion he was.
After all, there were two more Triple Crown races coming up....