We’re a motley crew, my pig dogs and I, as we set out in pursuit of a porker. I’m an older woman sporting two limps, one for each leg and my dogs, their torsos show evidence of excessive kidney fat, and their tongues are lolling in the unseasonal heat.
April, and calendars don’t lie but summer has proven to be an overstayer with autumn still playing hide ’n’ seek. Still, there’s a new hunting permit in my ute glove box so I’m here to party – slowly, and with three overweight and under-conditioned dogs as besties.
Of pigs there is no sign. There is nothing for them here. The creeks are dry, the grasses are shrivelled, and the soil is dust. If we could find a pig, we’d most certainly catch it as it would surely be emaciated and weak. But no, there is no pig to be found, despite our best efforts.
Oh, the dogs do find canine treasures, but I’m anything other than impressed. First Chop finds the litter-tray of a feral cat; he celebrates by dropping his shoulder into it and wriggling with glee – whoopee. Later, Gin, not to be outdone, is on her back and with all fours in the air as she wallows on a maggoty possum carcass.
Nugget remains hard working and conscientious, that’s my boy! But, yeah nah, eventually he returns from a sortie with sloppy black pig shit smeared from his ears to his elbows – talk about party-pooper.
The common denominator, in all three cases, are the smears of stink and the location of the smears of stink. Whether its foul-smelling decomposition, tacky black excrement or soft, sloppy pig pooh, each dog has managed to get maximum coverage of their tracking collar, and more particularly, of the buckles of their collars.
You know who’s going to take those collars off ? It’s me.
Despite how carefully I try to avoid contamination from buckles caked in gag-inducing matter, I’m going to get it on my hands. I do. Three times.
The dogs, in all their perfumed glory, rest in the dog box, while I decide to go walkabout without them. I shoulder my rifle and limp away with a scowl and my nose turned up. I’d like to wash my hands or even wipe them, but the creek is dry, and the grass all shrivelled.
Stealthily I ascend a rock-strewn creek bed, a ribbon of open ground between walls of forest. As I climb it gets steeper and wider. A light rain becomes steadier and the temperature plummets. Perhaps, finally, autumn is making its presence felt.
Higher still and the face opposite is now all open ground, while I am well hidden in the sea of pine-tree-green and there, feeding on lichen and titbits of woody scrub, is a fallow doe and her fawn.
I settle on the wet pine needles, grateful to take the weight off my damaged legs, and then I wait. Sure enough, a second doe joins the first and she too has a fawn for company. I’m certain if I am patient I will be rewarded with a buck.
As the wee deer forage, they pause often to look and scent. They regularly glance over their shoulders at a clump of scrub, so I’m not surprised to see their suitor steal from cover when he’s certain the coast is clear. He is young and thin and certainly no trophy buck.
Disappointed, I set my rifle aside. Instead, I swing my camera bag into my lap and ever-so-slowly unzip it. Damn, the camera is twice-wrapped in a bread bag, poor-man’s waterproofing on this damp day. Double-damn, the plastic bag makes a hell of a racket as I ever-so-slowly unfurl it and free my camera from its clutches. Luckily the hyper-alert wee deer feed on, still unaware of my existence.
Moisture drips from above and absorbs from below but I continue to sit tight, camera in-hand. There is no hurry. The does daintily skitch about on the rock outcrops, and the buck pushes into heavily browsed coprosmas, using his weight to reach green treats. The sun pokes shafts of light through the clouds and the fawns play and frisk.
If it weren’t for the stench on my hands as they held the camera to my face this would be bliss.
A gentle warmth wins over the dismal damp and tendrils of thermals rise towards the sky. The tiniest of air movements begin, washing like an incoming tide over the folds and crevices of the land.
The lead doe pauses, raises her nose high, nostrils wide and draws in various scents. I see her body language change. The other doe also observes the change and watches her friend for a cue. They move closer together and appear to confer – “what’s that smell?”
A fawn joins them, then three fine-featured faces raise noses high.
Drawing in breath the first doe says to the second, “is that cat shit or pig shit I can smell?”
Nervous now, they change their stance and lift their tails.
They sniff and sniff again – “no, its not just shit, it’s something else, something dead.”
I’m sprung – the little group of fallows, so close across the way, inhale deeply for a third and final time before concluding that they can smell all the above – cat excrement, pig excrement and something dead – but they can also smell something most definitely alive and that smell is worse than all the rest, it’s a human.
Single file they trot for cover, their beau ghosting behind. He is not remotely chivalrous or protective, he’s just reluctant to leave feed for the sea of pine-tree-green. There’s no tucker there. Rut over, life’s priority for him is finding sustenance and regaining condition before winter.
Speaking of sustenance, I’m ready for lunch, but not before putting away and feeding my stinking dogs and life’s priority for me, washing my stinking hands, twice, and then maybe once more!
