The boar travelled to the farm under cover of darkness, the three-quarter moon shadowing him as he went. A spur-winged plover tried to draw him away from its mate, which lay low and silent over a nest of eggs, but he was not so easily fooled.
The nocturnal omnivore’s snout led him to the shallow nest and speckled eggs – an easy entrée – which he would follow with a main course of unearthed worms and a dessert of cropped clover.
Stomach tight, the boar began the journey home to his bed high upon the hill. Along the way he detoured, picking over an old deer carcass for a maggot or two, nosing amongst the radiata roots then sucking his fill of creek water. Then, as the moon dropped towards the West, he jogged home, eager to be bedded well before dawn.
He was not an old boar. Nor was he a big boar. The product of a blue boar over a blue sow, at first glance he appeared pure white, but he was a silvery shade of grey.
Hunters had killed his mother and then whittled away his litter mates one by one. For two years he had learned from every encounter, surviving into maturity with nothing more than a split ear, a scarred scrotum and a cunning beyond his years.
Every morning, he travelled home via a different and meandering route. He slept with one eye open, and his running shoes laced tight. Up here he could hear every vehicle approach, those which stopped and clanged the gate made him sit up. Those which opened noisy alloy dog box doors made him begin to hyperventilate. One whiff of canine urine or human breath made him start jogging towards safer territory.
Her – she’d travelled from down the road, aware the three-quarter moon would’ve enabled the porcine marauder to roam and feast far afield – at the farmer’s request, she’d come seeking him, a pasture rooter.
The product of a hunter father over a hunter mother, at first glance her hair appeared pure white, but it was a distinguished shade of grey. She was an old hunter. She was not a big hunter, though, like the boar, her stomach was tight after many a dessert and snack foraged whilst meandering from pantry to parlour.
She too had taken learnings from every hunting encounter, decade upon decade of boar encounters alongside her canine buddies. Hence, she was careful not to clang the forest gate and she did not bang the dog box door. Like her quarry she ghosted silently and with all senses on alert.
Pearl was one of the hunter’s canine buddies. An elderly bitch well past her prime – she had become grizzled with age, she looked pure white, but her face was a subtle shade of grey. Scarred after many a boar battle and with more than a decade of experience, she had earned the right to ghost along behind, leaving the speed work to her son.
Pearl’s son Nugget caught a whiff of pork upon a southerly swirl. Honest and hardworking he covered a lot of ground, but he did not find the source of the scent. Later, when he persisted, he found a ground scent, which he tracked at speed, but in his haste, he lost the lead amongst the boar’s zigs and zags.
Once again it appeared the boar’s instinctive ability to mislead any who attempted to follow him home may have saved his bacon.
She of the grey hair and she of the grey muzzle had quietly observed Nugget’s comings and goings and eventually, when all had seemed lost, old Pearl seemed to say to her son – “boy, follow me and I’ll show you how it’s done.”
Pearl tracked carefully, climbing ever higher, zigging and zagging with Nugget patiently tagging along. The tracker in my hand relayed their story, every contour line accrued, every tangle of scent trails unravelled – her collar relaying a pink trail, his a red one.
Then, with them so high, and me so low, there began long fast sidling runs with random halts – here the pink line and the red line intertwined before balling tight.
Up there, the sound blown away by the southerly wind, mother and son struggled to gain ascendency over the silvery boar. They were cautious of his wicked sharp tusks, and time and again he broke their grip. He fought hard then ran hard, knowing his life depended upon his speed and the intimate knowledge of his forest territory.
Though the boar was supremely fit, Pearl persisted doggedly and never let him slip away. He could outrun her, but he could not outsmart her. With her son in support, they bested him at every turn, until, eventually, he made a critical mistake.
When the tracker indicated a solid catch, I hurried towards the holding dogs, knowing full well the pair would be exhausted and prone to injury.
I ran awkwardly, limping and stumbling and panting. On arrival I crawled on hands and knees along the newly formed blackberry tunnel – smears of blood and tufts of hair adorned the blackberry barbs – pig, dog and human hair all now represented.
Reunited at last, we wrestled as one being – getting battered amongst the rocks, gouges and bruises befalling us all.
Eventually the strenuous wrestle ceased, and we all lay side by side in yon shaded glen. When the adrenalin ebbed, and the pain and fatigue kicked in, two of us were reminded we were well past our best years. To both sport our shades of grey, yet still win at this most physical of games, how blessed are we.
