Red deer. Five of them, way out in the middle of the block. It’s the middle of the day too. Regardless of the hour, it must be deer o’clock ‘cos they’re making like a Hunting & Fishing advert and they’re “out there, doing it”.
Only days ago, a diligent team of silviculture workers had traversed the same hillside, four metres apart and stopping every few strides – then they carefully planted a little pine tree – each one vertical, roots down, buried past the collar, firmed and farewelled. Row upon contoured row of dark green morsels – Chupa Chups for deer, goats and possums.
I back pedal and get gone, out of sight and out of mind if you happen to be a tree munching red hind.
Then it’s a wide cast in the Hilux – going the extra mile and doing it in style.
Then, on foot, I’m like a well-trained huntaway dog. I ‘getaway back’, and then I ‘get in behind’ – super stealth – wind in my favour, sun at my back. Soon enough I furtively peek over the ridge where the deer had stood, I glance left and right, and centre. The deer are gone. Their droppings, still warm, are a hint of what these crafty cervines think of me and my tactics.
If I were to make like an African tracker I reckon there’d be a whiff of pine needle in those droppings. There’s Chupa Chup wrappers strewn about too – the good bits chewed down to the stick.
The walk back to the Hilux is long, I fall over my bottom lip often. Kip the Kelpie is in the dog box, I hear her whining above the ‘dammits’ and ‘feckits’ rattling around in my head.
Much later I have goats focused in my binoculars. They are feeding midway down a vee shaped clearing. My sea-loving father would have likened the clearing to the hull of an ocean-going yacht – deep vee and long keel.
The last of the day’s sun warms the area before winter’s chill plunges temperatures back below zero. This is my chance to get Kip amongst it – to see if she has finally learned to find and bail my idea of target species.
We scurry up through the trees below the clearing, breeze descending, sun departing, dew already beginning to settle. Kip’s nose is full of scents, but I manage to keep her at heel.
When the grass is near, and we can see ahead, there is another creature at the bottom of the vee and my heart sinks.
Grazing with his pale tail patch directly towards me is a red stag. I don’t want a stag. I want a goat. I want Kip to see a goat, chase it, turn it, then stand off and bail. For months now I have been working towards this goal. We’re nearly there, but not quite, I don’t have a goat dog yet. Yet!
I slump into a clump of coarse grass, flummoxed
Kip will chase anything – if it is a fly, or it flies, runs or drives, she’ll chase it – she is certainly not species specific. In hot pursuit she will trail bark, her high-pitched coyote cackle cranking up the volume through ‘yippee and yahoo’ till peaking at ‘goodnight and goodbye’.
And then the majestic Red will be forever gone. Higher above, the goats will be gone too. As will the training opportunity.
The stag grazes with intent. His antlers, what I can see of them, are impressive. They are wider than his shoulders and he is a big fella. As I sit, quiet and still, my little red dog leans against my shoulder, fixing her gaze where I fix mine. She drops into a cat-like crawl when she sees what I see. I catch her and hold her tight before firmly placing her behind me.
Still unawares, the feeding deer raises his tail and drops a soft green turd. There is a theme going on here!
I eventually lose my composure and the will to refrain. That antler spread! Those multi-tined tops!
When the big fella eventually gives me a quartering-away shot, I take it. He crashes over backwards but quickly attempts to regain his feet. Normally a second shot would ensure a quick hoorah, but something prevents that option today.
That something resembles a canine shaped missile. It is trail barking at full noise, one screeching yap melding seamlessly with the next and the next. It rushes upon the stag, encouraging him to rise and flee. He rises. He flees. Gone.
I could cry.
When Kip comes back, happy and proud, I make like Zoe Hobbs and sprint up to mid-vee in the clearing. The super-fresh goat sign is there, prints, billy goat stench, soft black pelletised faeces. My future goat dog does a couple of half-hearted laps then comes back.
I do cry.
I owe it to the stag to go back and find him now – I start from scratch and I track him one step at a time – slowly – painstakingly. There’s no blood trail, just big prints which eventually peter out. Yup, gone.
The walk of shame back towards the truck, head low, shoulders drooped. But then the quiet of dusk is full of trail barking and echoes of trail barking.
Then a bail. A full-blown aggressive bail. Kip has found the wounded stag. Finally, I can put an end to all this nonsense.
Just weeks later, another winter’s evening at home, Kip sneaks away in pursuit of another of her highly preferred quarry – them of the wheeled variety. Did she do the canine missile and throw herself upon it? Did she try to stop it and bail it? Or did she coyote cackle with increasing volume urging it to flee – ‘yahoo and yippee’.
I know not how, or who, or why, but whatever happened, Kip won’t do it again. This time her quarry struck back, and Kip’s life journey ended with ‘goodnight and goodbye’.
