I know they come and go. They know I come and go too. They feed on acorns just a hundred metres from our dog kennels, teasing then leaving.
I put game cameras out to establish their routes, routines and population dynamics. They showed random swine visiting at random times – sometimes coming and sometimes going – never using the same route twice.
It was the ‘going’ snaps which depicted how cagey our four-legged trespassers were. Pigs departing in various states of flight. Bodies long and low, snouts and tails outstretched. Some were no more than a partial blur – they obviously bolted at any hint of danger.
Releasing the kennel-bound-hounds would seem an obvious response, but we have neighbours nearby, a busy backcountry road on one boundary, and the river with its precipitous bluffs on the other boundary.
Usually, I’d not risk endangering my canine companions, but one night my resolve weakened. I crept quietly into the dark and slipped Nugget onto a leash. With a tracking collar on him and a receiver on me, we ghosted downwind of the oaks and snuck along the road verge to a beaten pig track.
At the same instant I unclipped Nugget’s leash I heard the distinctive clicketty-clack of pig hooves on tar-seal. Dammit, we’d been sprung already.
Worse, Nugget’s toenails audibly clicking in pursuit were followed by a second pair, smaller and lighter. Boston, the Jack Russel terrier, had stealthily followed me, out of sight and mind till the moment Nugget set sail. Boston had his big boy pants on, and he was determined to join the big boy fun.
The elusive porker rapidly accrued a sizable lead before a sharp left-hand turn; here it entered a neighbour’s property and led a merry chase.
Thankfully Nugget quickly realised he’d been well beaten and quit – the tiny flashing light on his collar getting ever closer as he trotted back down the centre of the road.
Moments later an almighty bail sounded above us. Tiny Boston, knee high to a grasshopper, had just bested the big pig dog. Or had he?
Suspicious, I quickly slipped Nugget back on lead.
The bail stopped.
Conscious that it was midnight and that Boston was trespassing, I called him back as quietly as I could. He did not come.
Every time I spoke the wee dog responded with a flurry of his biggest baddest barks. He did not move one jot.
Other dogs residing at various homes nearby, added their support, barking up a storm. Oh, bloody yay, now everyone in the neighbourhood would be on poacher alert.
Embarrassed, I quickly hurried homewards. Here I hushed our pig dogs, kennelled Nugget and put away my redundant rifle.
Up on the hill Boston sensed Nugget and I had deserted him. He began howling mournfully.
At home I’d grabbed the spotlight before jogging back down the road. When I was directly below Boston’s remarkably loud howls I shone the light’s beam towards the source. There. Dog eyes reflecting!
The bright beam revealed more, too. Gorse, blackberry, hawthorn and broom all entwined in old man’s beard vines. A gigantic patch of impenetrable shite with a tiny white dog hunkered down, unwilling to navigate his own way out.
After the initial surge of adrenalin, when he’d remained hot on Nugget’s heels, Boston now realised he was alone – and lost – and that it was dark.
He sensed that there were big scary creatures roaming in the dark. One of those big scary creatures was me. Not surprisingly, my language was no longer friendly and encouraging.
If I called. Boston barked loudly.
If I went silent. Boston howled loudly.
I relented, eventually. On hands and knees, I tunnelled under the shite, forcing my way upwards through the thorny vegetation. It was not the happiest of reunions, no hugs or high-fives.
An hour after setting out I returned to my bed – angry, bleeding and with prickles in my hands and scalp. The elusive anonymous pig won that round.
Two years later, Dearly Beloved popped out after breakfast to run his dogs around our multi-hectare yard. My dogs, still kennelled, were unusually verbal about being left behind. I ignored them only as long as I could tolerate the din.
Opening the back door to utter empty threats, my puppy, let’s call him Future, bolted inside and hid.
Somewhere behind the kennels there were unusual noises that I could not quite hear. What was going on out there?
Aaah, there we go. When my barking dogs were quietened, I heard Dearly Beloved shouting ‘bring a knife’, along with sounds I associate with a pig being held tight.
I scurried indoors to find a sharp knife – the pup hovering about my heels, trying in vain to hide in the folds of my night gown. He had been with Dearest’s dogs when they caught the unfortunate pig but then made record time back across the paddock, tail between his legs, coming home to Mama.
Well, well, my Future doesn’t have much piggin’ potential!
Dearly Beloved was next to arrive – his tail too short to hold between his legs – galloping like a gum booted Clydesdale. He thundered across the porch, grabbed the proffered knife and wheeled off without a backwards glance.
My dogs were beside themselves; they desperately wanted to join the pig stretching party. A whistle and “wayleggo” didn’t cut through their dawn chorus.
I went to the kennels to quieten the mayhem in person. Nugget and Pip were break dancing. Fat old Pearl stood atop her kennel. Her bark had petered out; she was hoarse and whispering ‘whuffs’ while wagging her tail.
And Chop?
Dear old Chop, the most amazing dog I’ve had the pleasure of hunting with his eyes now clouded blue and his hearing dulled – he could not hear the pig’s squeal.
The wimpy pup may be my uncertain Future, but Chop, dear Chop stands looking in the wrong direction – his past, and therefore mine, is now behind him.
