TALE OF A DOG
The noble Canis Africanis
IN the autumn of 1981, three friends, Dave, Markie and Errol, invited me to join them on a hunt at the Lind Valley game ranch near Oribi Gorge on the Natal south coast. The farm was run on modest lines and the facilities basic. The tariffs were reasonable and the hunt was unmonitored.
We arrived on the Friday morning, duly equipped with our licences and permits, to be met by Mr Govender, a congenial gentleman who oversaw the ranch. He warmly welcomed us and showed us to our quarters – a modest old farm building, recently painted and lacking certain facilities, but good enough for our three-day stay. Mr Govender explained that he did not live on the property but would return on the Sunday afternoon when we could inform him what animal species we had shot and tally up our account. The game prices were reasonable even for those days: a nyala bull, for instance, cost R150. We could also shoot wildebeest, bushbuck, duiker, jackal and zebra. Mr Govender said the zebras were not breeding and the owner wanted these shot. He also mentioned that an elderly Zulu gentleman lived on the property – a sort of unofficial game ranger – if we needed any help, we could call on him.
After unpacking our gear, we took an exploratory drive around the property. We perceived that in certain areas the hunt would be quite challenging. This proved to be the case when Errol shot a wildebeest and we had to drive a long way round via another farm to recover it.
The Saturday dawned as a perfect Natal day. After a short walk and a good stalk, Errol shot one of the zebra. Gutting and skinning it used up most of the morning. While lunching back at camp, Dave and Errol decided they would accompany Markie to hunt a nyala. Around 2pm, I took my new CZ Brno .30-06 with a Weaver 4x scope and set off alone to look for a bushbuck close to camp.
I hadn’t gone far when I saw a bushbuck ewe feeding in a glade across a small valley, oblivious of my presence. Fortunately, I had obtained a special permit to shoot a female. Being somewhat new to hunting and eager to succeed, I did not want to risk spooking her by moving closer. I decided to take a long shot from where I was – something I wouldn’t do today.
Despite taking a dead rest on a nearby tree, I pulled the shot, which struck the bushbuck too far back and a little low. After initially going down, she rose and took off into the dense bush. I tried to track her but eventually realised I needed help. Tying my handkerchief to a branch at the place where I last saw her, I headed back to camp. I was mightily relieved to find that the guys had heard my shot as they were leaving camp, and chose to wait and see if they were needed.
We all agreed it would be prudent to elicit the help of the resident ‘game ranger’. It did not take us long to locate his small, smoke-filled shack with its cor
rugated iron roof held down by stones and bricks. As we drove up, a wizened old African whose face reflected all the trials and tribulations of Africa emerged. Using our limited Zulu and throwing in some hand gestures, we introduced ourselves to Khehla and explained our problem. He broke into a broad smile revealing a single front tooth that jutted out horizontally.
“Yebo,” he replied, “I will fetch my dog.” He entered the shack and soon reappeared holding one end of a short, plaited grass rope. On the other end was the most miserablelooking specimen of the canine species I have ever had the misfortune to behold. The dog was of a light greyish-brown colour with blotches of mange-like patches on its emaciated body. It kept its slender tail permanently curled up between its back legs. My immediate impression was that the cur should be put down, but the way Khehla puffed out his chest as he presented his prized possession made me hold my tongue.
It was with much trepidation that we set off with Khehla, who never once ceased talking to his leashed dog. On our arrival at the spot where my handkerchief fluttered in the breeze, we gathered around the faint tracks of the ewe. Khehla stooped to remove the fencewire collar from the dog’s neck then uttered some words of encouragement to urge him on his way. The dog sniffed the ground and immediately set off in a direction diametrically opposite to that which I’d seen taken by the bushbuck. I protested and Khehla promptly recalled the dog, which responded and returned immediately.
I again stressed to Khehla the direction I believed the ewe had taken. He then spoke quite severely to the dog. Glancing apprehensively at my companions, I saw their look of utter disbelief. Then, addressing further words of encouragement to the trembling cur, Khehla again released him. This time the dog set off in the right direction, yelping every so often, with the five of us in hot pursuit. After a while, the old man raised his hand, indicating that we should stop.
Standing in the cool shade of the dense undergrowth, we listened as the yelps became fewer and fewer and finally ceased. The bush went deathly quiet. Then Khehla called out, “Khuluma!” (Speak!). His call was met by a deafening silence. “Well,” I asked of the old man, “What now?” “He has caught the mbabala,” he retorted, grinning broadly. My look of disbelief clearly urged him to call out once more, only to be met with further silence. I began contemplating the prospect of a lost wounded animal, but Khehla turned to me and said, “Yes, the dog has surely got the nyamazane.” I asked, “How do you know?” “Because if he did not, he would answer; he cannot speak while he is holding it with his mouth.” With that, the old man set off along the track, the four of us trailing behind with little enthusiasm.
Khehla was like a tracker dog himself as he scanned the soil and leaves for telltale marks, calling out to the dog every now and again. We had gone about 150 metres through the undergrowth when Khehla paused, placed two of his gnarled fingers in his mouth, one on either side of his single front tooth, and gave a shrill whistle. A single short bark came in distant reply, emanating from a new direction. Taking the new bearing, the old man moved off once more. This ritual was repeated several times before we finally came to a small clearing in which lay the ewe, with the dog hanging on to one of its hindquarters.
We gathered around and congratulations were forthcoming. Not for me, I might add, but for Khehla and his dog. I could not tell who was more pleased – the dog or the old man whose wizened frame expanded under the faded khaki shirt as we all paid glowing tributes to this superlative hound, whose tail now beat out a steady rhythm on the ground, causing puffs of dust to rise.
That night the conversation around the campfire ignored the fact that I had bagged a bushbuck, focussing instead on the sterling efforts of the dog, which was now referred to as Jock.