Drought-stressed grasslands have cured to fields of crisps. Forest trees have shed needles and cones in a desperate attempt to retain moisture.
Their roots thrust ever deeper in search of subterranean springs, but these are now dry. Creeks, seeps and swamps have evaporated – the land is parched and devoid of green. Little mammals, unable to travel as far as the distant river, have died of thirst. Their carcasses so dehydrated they provided a mere jerky-style snack for scavengers. Not even maggots will find a feast here. Land-locked eels writhe in tiny, diminished pools flushed green with algae and devoid of oxygen. They bake alive in the noon day sun, oozing slime and ever hopeful of relief from above. Alas it is not welcome rain which drops in, but harrier hawks.
More mobile freerange animals have migrated toward permanent ponds and dwindling rivers. There is life-giving water here but minimal feed. Concentrated at these sites they are vulnerable too. Vulnerable to the predation of opportunists like me and my kind.
Autumn will be upon us soon, don’t despair, we’re nearly there. Darkness settles earlier now, and dawn arrives later, and cooler too. It’s these cool mornings which draw me out. They are the amber light, which is the signal to get ready to start another season of dogging hogs.
Time now to cautiously prod summer in the arse and bid her ‘bon voyage.’ Time to take the canines on carefully managed micro-hunts. To gradually improve their fitness, whilst taking great care to dodge the dreaded heat. Knowing, all the while, it will be these early hunts most likely to result in over-zealous dogs getting hurt or killed. It happens.
There is a newcomer to my boy brigade. A whiskery wee lad, just a novice, new to all things hunting. He who struts with whitetipped tail held high and investigates every scent. He who tastetests every variety of animal faeces and bird droppings. Boston (not Austin) Powers – all 20 centimetres high x 40 centimetres long of him.
Dawn is easing into a bright and still day when Boston joins the real dogs and I on our Big Day Out. He instinctively follows their lead, part of the tiny pack, which consists of just two pig dogs and their human. This morning every one of his senses are activated – everything is an adventure – everything is a joy to be savoured – especially those faeces.
Before the lateFebruary sun rises above the forest shadows Chop and Nugget work off their pre-season enthusiasm. They progress from willnilly to sense and sensibility. Then settle comfortably to working sign and following leads till, eventually, they’re rewarded by finding the hot trail of a boar. He has recently taken a last drink before venturing back towards his daytime bed.
While Nugget streaks off at warp speed, Chop keeps his nose to every cloven-hoofed footfall on the trail; including the deviation where the boar had heard his pursuers and sidestepped. Chop sidesteps too. He turns left, nose down, eyes up, 100 metres ahead his quarry stands quietly, readying for a showdown.
From below I see glimpses through the mature trees. Nugget streaking up hill. Chop, slower, deviating then accelerating. Chop’s howdy-do sounds impressive, so impressive, Nugget is at his side within seconds and then the showdown begins. It is now I fear for my dogs’ safety.
He’s small, is Boris, but for all he lacks in size he more than compensates for with ferocity. His tusks are long and sharp – his entire frame is long and sharp – he is an ugly European-type boar with attitude issues, and much to my surprise and relief, both dogs treat him with respect.
All the while Boston has listened to proceedings with great interest, and now his big buddies are bailing, he’s keen to investigate. He goes ahead, confidently at first, up through the blackberry tangles via a network of possum runs. As we get into the zone and the action is punctuated with the boar scoffing and spinning on attack, the wee dog hesitates. From a safe distance he watches the big dogs duck and dive, keeping their quarry contained, and then he readies for action. With a look over his shoulder Boston, middle name Danger, leads me in. Every hair on his body and tail stands on end till he resembles a bottlebrush on 10-centimetre legs. From deep down in his tiny little chest a growl rattles, he sounds fearsome, but I know otherwise.
In real close, the 7mm-08 offers up its voice and at once Nugget and Chop secure the boar. Boston does no such thing. Unperturbed by the roar of the rifle discharge, he stands stock still, still in bottlebrush mode. He observes the tangled trio but is not tempted to join in. Not this time. Afterwards, when the boar lies still and the big dogs get pats and praise, Boston carefully sniffs the site and the carcass. He is cautious, but not afraid. Chop and Nugget have proved to be cautious too, the first hazard of the new season now safely behind them.
We’ll be ready when the amber light turns green. Roll on autumn, and yet another season of dogging hogs. Roll on the initiation of Boston Powers too – he and I together – more adventures and joys and savouring of all things, except faeces!
