It would be easy to stay here in bed snuggled beside the one I love. I linger longer and luxuriate in his body heat, all too aware the temperature outdoors will be sub-zero.
Outdoors I’ve a job to do, a pasture rooter to locate and to remove by means fair or foul. Locating said rooter will be easier with fresh scent and fresh dogs, a dawn raid necessarily precluded by a stealthy approach and an honest effort.
Sub-zero is a miserly description of the morning. This is more than a mere temperature, it is literally breath taking – converting invisible inhalation to steaming white exhalation.
In common terms a morning such as this is known as a ‘ball shrinker’ but, truth be told, my anatomy doesn’t allow for a genuine appreciation of the sensation of receding testicles.
My feminine self does however recognise the beauty as I drive southwards in the pre-dawn gloom.
The road afore me is a pale ribbon laced with a billion diamantes. Headlights reflect in a wave of dazzling sparkles marred only by the occasional pothole. Reflectors on bridge buttresses and cattle-stop posts throw in flashes of gold. Late-feeding possum’s eyes shine a pretty pink.
Further south yet and the bitumen cedes to gravel. The roadside gates now festooned with chains and padlocks. As I gain altitude, the temperature plummets. Now the route is pocked with bigger potholes and dotted too, with the frozen dung from cattle. Puddles and fords are crusted with sheet ice and the vegetation is as white as snow.
It would be easy to stay in the ute, with the heater going and my canines snug in their box, but the high-country hills are calling my name. Somewhere out there is a pig with fresh dirt on its snout and a trail of wrecked winter pasture in its wake.
Besides, I need to get out to pee. If I could avoid this most necessary activity I most certainly would. A down-trou in these temperatures will be extremely unpleasant. If there’s one thing men do better than us women it’s piddling with pants on – no semi-naked exposure, no two moons, no flash of mottled blue skin, dimples and goosebumps – men just unzip and let rip.
Shiver. Swipe. Sigh.
Three dogs collared. One rifle shouldered. Two hands shoved deep into pockets. We continue south on foot, noses into the downdraft, ears pricked, eyes watering in the bone chilling cold. All is still, all living things waiting for the sun’s warmth.
Apparently, the sun doesn’t want to get out of bed this morning either. He’s slow to rise, a smile yet to warm his pale features.
Later, once we’ve all emptied our bladders and oxygenated our bloodstreams with some brisk walking, Nugget and Pip accelerate with intent. Their body language indicates this is more than a run for fun. Their questing noses have intercepted the tiniest of flows of scent and they follow it hurriedly towards its source.
At 600 plus metres their tracker signals go from straight line to baubles of solid colour. One red, one purple.
The baubles remain stationary for minutes before breaking into individual lines once more. Then, as old Chop and I sorta hobble-run towards them, they tangle into a single entity and my receiver tells me ‘Nugget Treed.’
Bah, bullshit. Nugget doesn’t do treed. Yelling “come hither” is as alien to him as green men from Mars are to me.
I wade the creek, hobble-run up the frozen flats, mouth-breathing audibly – old Chop pauses, cocks his head this way and that, then bolts away. I consult the tracker again, a pathetic cover for catching my breath. ‘Nugget Treed.’ ‘Pip Treed.’
Moments later the blue line, which indicates Chop’s progress stops and joins the others, then his symbol flashes up ‘Chop Treed.’
On one hand I’m excited, their quarry must be an adult boar. On the other hand, it means I must go faster, further – chaps rustling, boots thudding, breath rasping, baggage, boobs and belly rolls bouncing about in an uncoordinated flurry.
There!
There in an environment of drab hues faded grey and silver by winter cruelty, is a dash of bright white, of pale gold and of blood red. The three dogs are harrying a good boar and yes, Nugget is yelling “come hither.”
The boar’s lop ear and Nugget’s multitude of fresh wounds are a sign they had exchanged unpleasantries earlier. It is an impressive scene, and, with hackles high and mouth agape the boar looks as aggressive as they come.
There’ll be no arm wrestling today. No heart stick after gaining the upper hand. This is a job for the battered Remington. No mucking about, no camera shoot or voice mail – just a tactical approach and a trigger pull.
The boar is short in the wheelbase and wide through the chest. His coat is long and dense, his tail hairs frozen into a clump after running through ice-laden vegetation and he’s fat. It is both rare and surprising to see a winter boar so well-conditioned.
I briefly attempt to capture our good deed to film, and all the while the dogs shiver and Nugget bleeds. Attention turns to preparing the boar for extrication, the old guts out and nuts out routine.
But hang on, here is evidence to prove this morning’s bitterly cold frost is indeed a ‘ball shrinker.’ The boar’s scrotum is smooth, not the typical tough and wrinkled sac. When I slice and dice, I find just one testicle – one very small testicle, retracted so deep it’s up behind the boar’s Adam’s Apple.
But wait, there’s more.
Later, when I come back to the scene of the crime to carry my trophy away, the boar has shrunk. I swear he was impressive when I left. Now he’s, well damn it, he’s lighter and not just one stone lighter – now he’s looking pretty blimmin’ average. Ball shrinkage and ground shrinkage – both are real!
