The Training of Tawny - Part 4

Tawny and the bantams

At dawn bushbuck and duiker browse through the garden.  Bushpigs dig over the compost; mongooses fossick in the flower beds after mole-crickets, beetle grubs and other delicacies. The fruits of the great wild fig, mimusops and quinine trees shading the lawns, as well as those in the orchard below, are gleefully gorged upon by somango monkeys, sun squirrels and every bird from hornbill to bulbul, and at night by bushbabies, tree civets and genets. Buck, bushpigs, civets, mongooses and the dark glossy chongololo millipedes, some of them nine inches long, gratefully pick up the fallen fruit dropped by the wasteful tree dwellers. ‘Tornado’, the great snail, antenna’s his way across the lawn. Clearly the use of any insecticide is out of the question.  Hence I keep a small flock bantams to help control the insects.

            Predators abound.  I lose quite a few bantams to them, and would surely lose them all but for the dogs.  At the first squawk of alarm from the bantams they rage out to chase off the attacker. When all is calm we go on to reunite the scattered chicks with their anxious mothers, sniff out any that are missing and, perhaps, if we haven’t been able to get there fast enough, find a pathetic bundle of bloodied feathers.  Shout ‘Hawk!’ or even say it in the softest whisper, Tawny races out to search the sky.  If she sees one she runs below it, preventing it from coming down, until it gives up and goes elsewhere.

            Some of the smaller hawks, however, come through the dense tree-tops, hop by cautious hop, drop and snatch a chick before anyone has seen them.  If it is raining, civets, normally nocturnal, sometimes venture out and under cover of the noise of the rain creep up on the flock unawares. Others are bolder. Crowned eagles tumble in the sky, yelping musically and giving their presence away. In a parasol tree on the edge of the garden where the thick branches grow out from a crown like a giant umbrella blown inside out, an eagle began to build a nest, in good view of the bantams’ range – a flat above the restaurant. Furious that she couldn’t reach it, or prevent it building there, Tawny nevertheless fumed at it so constantly that it lost its nerve and moved its nest site further into the forest.

            Hens will sing about a new-laid egg, take to the air shrieking ‘Freedom!’ when they leave the broody nest for a meal or a dustbath, scream ‘Rape! Rape!’ hysterically as the cock chases them, trying desperately to keep his upright stance, wings stiffly at his side, which is so impressive when he’s standing but ridiculously awkward to maintain when running; and sometimes a hen will take to crowing herself.  Tawny will barely flick an ear at all this nonsense. She pays more attention to the cock.

            Among his extensive vocabulary is a special sound that means he sees a danger high, high in the sky, and everyone must keep dead still.  It even sounds a bit like ‘Freeze!’ Another sound means a bird is flying low – a sudden flash of wings.  Yet another means something is walking on the ground. Tawny understands these warnings and takes careful note, although, as they are quite small sounds, she is not always within earshot. The cock’s full alarm cry, of course, is unmistakable and Tawny can rush to his aid, hurtling over the stonewall contours of the steep garden faster than any of us could without breaking a leg.

***

The pretty legend about tiny chicks scuttling under the mamma hen when alarmed certainly doesn’t apply to my bantams. Instead the hen leaps up flapping and squawking, making a fine target and distraction of herself, while the chicks dive under the nearest cover and crouch motionless, sometimes for hours, until she clucks them out again. Sometimes she doesn’t know where they are and is so distressed that, instead of giving reassuring clucks to bring them out of hiding, she goes on shouting as if she thinks the predator must have got them all, and the chicks stay hidden.  Then Tawny is called to nose them out one by one and reunite them with their anxious mother.

            I give her a fairly free hand in this. The chicks are so tiny and well camouflaged, hiding under a dry leaf or a bend of grass, that I could easily step on them.

            One evening when we were looking for a day-old chick, with the dark almost upon us, I noticed her lying down with her chin between her paws, her eyes swivelling as she watched me searching carefully through the grass. This was quite unlike her. Usually she works with such enthusiasm I have to sometimes tell her, ‘Gently, slow down!’

            ‘Come on, Tawny,’ I called, ‘what’s wrong with you?’

            Minutes later, when she hadn’t moved, I went over to her. ‘On your feet, woman! Work!’ I urged, gentling back my impatience. ‘Find kip-kip!’

            Without lifting her head from her pawns, her eyes turned up to my face, she slowly opened her mouth and out tripped the missing chick like a gently bowled marble, quite unharmed. The tip of Tawny’s tail flipped apologetically: she isn’t allowed to take so much as a fallen feather in her mouth, let alone a live chick. She must have fished this little mite out of its hiding place and then not known quite what to do about it.

            More than once I have scolded her for apparently abandoning the search and going way off on her own. Then she shames me by coming back with a missing chicken, patiently nosing it through the grass and bushes to rejoin the others.

            Jack built the bantams a super house – stronger than the cracked and ancient house we ourselves live in – that even a honey badger, who could dig you out of a maximum security prison if he had a mind to, cannot break into. Bantams mostly like to roost in trees, out in God’s own fresh typhoon, where they fall easy prey to predators.  But get the cock to go in the house and the hens usually follow.

            Tawny makes sure they do. She rounds up the loiterers and hustles them in, then follows, looking around the roosts and the nesting boxes, for all the world as if she is counting them.

            The hens don’t care to sleep long in the nesting boxes, for reasons of heat and hygiene, and often before their chicks are really big enough to hop up the ladders to roost, flap upstairs, clucking encouragingly for the babies to follow. I let them try for a while and if they can’t make it, either lift the hen down and tell her to go to sleep in a box for a few more nights, or lift the chicks up to her.

            They are difficult to catch, being worried and feeling very small and abandoned down on the floor. So I crouch down and cup my palms low to the floor, and very gently Tawny noses and nudges the cheeping little chicks into my hands.  Before long they learn to hop in by themselves, as taking-for-granted as office workers stepping into a lift.

*****

The Training of Tawny Part 3

Praise

I would be expecting some enthusiastic work from Tawny when she was older; therefore praise for work well done or a command swiftly executed would necessarily be enthusiastic. If I were to give her nothing but low-key or minimal praise, she would eventually give me only low-keyed work.

This principle would not apply to matters of discipline, or any other situation where Tawny, having come under control, would be required to remain controlled. In such situations praise would always be genuine, but not so wild and lavish that the sense of control would be lost.

Take, for instance, the incident of the sitting-room chair.  Tawny so wanted to be in that chair but, with a big prick from her conscience and little guidance from me, she controlled her desire and lay down on the floor.  She wanted to curl up and sleep and now she was in the correct place to do so. Had my praise been other than subdued she would have got up and come to me, pleased and playful, and would have to start all over again with deciding where to sleep.

She certainly deserved some praise. She was a very young puppy among people still strange to her, yet she had stopped to think about what she was going to do in relation to my wishes, had correctly interpreted and obeyed my response to her questioning gaze. A loving expression and a soft ‘Clever baby!’ quite sufficed.

For some reason my dogs seem to think that the exclamation ‘Good girl!’ means the end of the lesson or the end of the job and they start fooling around again. ‘Clever girl’ hasn’t the same effect.  I don’t know why this should be; perhaps because ‘Good girl’ or ‘Good dog’ is used by everyone, including visitors, and means to them only that the humans are pleased with them, in a general way, which of course makes them feel free and bouncy.  So ‘Clever’ is their praise word for use within working or training situations.

Table manners

In the evening the cats and dogs are fed at the same time in individual dishes on the floor of the small kitchen.  While I’m preparing the food they all hang around, hintfully licking their lips and dribbling. The dogs who can fit under the kitchen table sit there on sack-covered boards. Bay, who can’t fit, waits in the doorway. The cats are allowed anywhere but on the table.  There must not be a hint of a whimper nor a mutter of miaow, or a damp cloth descends from nowhere, splat. If a bit of food falls on the floor no one may snatch it. I put the dishes down 2 by 2. They all know their own names and places and wait their turn. When the last animal is served Bay walks in untold to her plate, which I hold for her sitting on the stool, keeping a watchful eye on the rest.

            Some eat slowly, some fast.  No one is allowed to snitch from another’s plate. One cat might feel there’s a need, just today, to be fed with the fingers, and sits and waits patiently until I can come to the rescue. The big eaters stare hard at the leftovers until, if I can spare it, I tell them they can clean up. The dogs then get a bone each and take them off to favourite spots to avoid any fighting. Afterwards they may come back to ask for soup or milk. They ask only with their eyes.  The cats sometimes ask for milk, too – they are permitted a pip of a miaow if their eloquent looks don’t get my attention.

            The routine is unvarying, predictable and trusted. That’s discipline.

            It’s easy to enforce. The proprietory right over food is a very strong law amongst carnivores. I am their pack leader and my rulings on ‘the kill’ are respected. New puppies, transgressing, get a growled ‘No!’ and are pushed firmly into their places. Cats get hissed at: ‘S-s-s Fable!’  (for this reason, I don’t name cats with names beginning with S). Sometimes in the early stages they have to be pushed off their line of robbery with a palm against their noses, or plopped with a damp dishcloth, which is perfectly harmless but hateful.  If they are too young to understand, less than six weeks, say, they are fed in another room.

            At six weeks old Tawny couldn’t understand. At seven-and-a-half weeks she was allowed in the kitchen with the others. Two days later I could turn my back on her without a worry.  Each new generation copies the behaviour of the established incumbents with the minimum of guidance from me.  I just had to invoke existing hierarchies.  When Tawny was still small her attention would sometimes wander from her evening bone, and Bay or TellMe, liking to think it was entirely abandoned, would pick it up. ‘No,’ I’d remind them, ‘That’s Tawny’s bone.’ And they’d spit it out regretfully and amble off.  Quite marvellous.

Discipline

I am sure that you will agree that if a child or an animal is to be comfortable in, and totally accepted by the society into which Destiny has dumped them, they must know the rules and stick to them most of the time.  In our home, there are probably more strictly enforced rules than in most households.  The fact that this place is a wildlife sanctuary, and wild animals can’t really be disciplined, lays a further burden of good behaviour on the domestic animals -  and the humans.  To offset this a great deal of time is lavished on play, praise and loving.

            So of paramount importance is no chasing or barking at cats or any other animal.  In this respect there are some lessons that are more quickly and soundly learnt by a puppy if she thinks the subsequent happenings are purely the result of her own action and not that somehow she has displeased someone.

            When crippled Fleur and Tawny first came face to face I stood guard, a flyswat secretly at the ready.  My small hope that they would kiss and make friends was still-born. At the first quick movement forward by Tawny the flyswat stung her ears.  The next time it was harder.  Puzzled, she looked up at me, but I was looking up at the ceiling.  A few experiences of this convinced her that Fleur was equipped with a secret weapon and was better left alone.  This translated to the other cats and the lesson was learned before the second day with us had passed.

            Barking at the other cats, a problem not needing such an instant solution, brought a sharp, ‘No!’ from me with a loud clap of my hands, backed up if necessary with a quick grip and shake of her scruff, as a wild mother dog would do to discipline her puppy.  As she grew, Tawny  would have to learn that she was allowed to really bark, as opposed to wuffing or growling, only as a warning of the presence of strange dogs and humans.

            Very soon, when the cats no longer ran away, the fun went out of baiting them – and anyway, why worry about that when there were bantams to chase.

            On this score I said nothing at all for there was a far more efficient teacher than myself.  This was old When (White-hen) who had two small chicks that I knew she would defend with the ferocity of a hawk – and so she did.  She leaped on Tawny’s back and rode her, shrieking, down the terraced garden, the yelping puppy bucking like a bronco.  Tawny’s conclusion: bantams are all right for looking at but not for chasing, really.

            Had When not been available I would have had to take Tawny on a lead, small as she was, and walk her among the hens, sit down among them with her in my lap, and every time she showed an active interest, tell her firmly, ‘No!’ grasp her muzzle and give it a small, single shake inwards towards her chest. I might have had to do this so often it would have become thoroughly boring.

            As it happened, a few days later she walked, by accident or design, close to another bantam with newly hatched chicks. There were fearful shrieks and Tawny fled for the house screaming blue murder.  Dan and I were in the kitchen and quickly turned our backs and chatted loudly as if we hadn’t noticed. Tawny pressed against our legs, crying, but we ignored her. After a while she went to the door and watched the bantams from a position of safety.

            Now it happened that a little earlier Bay had snapped at Tawny for tampering with her bone; I had rushed to snatch up the yelping puppy and comfort her – though I didn’t chastise Bay for asserting ‘pack discipline’.  Bay, Tawny and I now belonged to the same ‘pack’ and at this early stage Tawny could expect a measure of protection and sympathy from her ‘mother’ or ‘pack leader’.  In the case of the bantams, this was not forthcoming; the lesson was learned.

            To reinforce this I took Tawny with me for a while to the hen-house early every morning to let them out to free-range for the day.  They flew from their perches, squawking and clucking through the door, the cock trying to chase all the hens at once, while I held Tawny firmly in my arms.  Eventually she lost interest.  In time she would learn to correctly interpret all the sounds the bantams make and react accordingly.

More on bantams in the next post.

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The Training of Tawny Part 2

Come

The next most important word for Tawny to learn was ‘Come’. Come-for-food, come-for-romp, come-for-grooming... never Come-and-be-admonished. She learned that in a day or two.  Even then she hesitated, reluctant to leave what she was doing, I kept the command joyful and inviting.  If she still hesitated I would prance away, patting my lap, or else pick her up with a firm but gentle command to come. I suspect most dogs learn this word quickly but are not always keen to obey.  When they are old enough for a collar and lead one can be more insistent.

            I once took in a young dog, slightly older than this easy small-puppy stage, who had never been stroked or patted.  She had no name; the only communication she knew was an abusive shout.  Her survival strategy was Grab what you can and run.  At first I spoke only one word to her: Come, softly and gently and always when close to her.  Come-for-your-food, Come-outside-with-me, Come-to-your-bed... The puzzled expression on her face as she tried to understand this human sound that seemed to be directed at her was sweetly comical.  I kept this up for a full week before coupling it with her name – RainShadow.

            

Seeing Bay and TellMe react so gladly to the word must have helped her understand, just as their obviously relaxed contentment must have helped her trust me.  On the third day with us I saw the worried alert look beginning to leave her eyes and the trembling lessen, and soon she was over her bad start in life and in time became a useful member of our little animal rescue team.

            But back to Tawny.

            When she was good at ‘Come’ I introduced the first hand-signal for it – patting my thigh in the usual way while calling her.  In a couple of days she had grasped that combination, and I then substituted as often as not a whistle instead of the word.  When she was older she learned another signal for Come, where I held my arms straight above my head and parted and crossed them several times while calling.  This was for use when we were far apart or in long grass when patting my thigh wouldn’t be seen.

            Another signal useful in thick bush or thickets where movement is restricted, is an inward beckoning with the hand such as one would use with a person, and this in time could be reduced to crooking a finger if Tawny was close enough to see it.  These two signals were easily taught by combining them with the ‘Come’ whistle until they could, if necessary, be used on their own.

            She seemed inherently sensitive to the sound of a whistle and reacted instantly, as if she couldn’t help herself, whereas she was often noticeably slower to respond to a call or a hand-signal which she knew equally well.

           Yet another signal to come she was quick to learn was an inviting toss of the head.  It may seem strange that a dog should find this very human gesture easy to pick up.  But if you watch a young dog trying to get another to come on and play, you see it moving its head playfully from side to side, its chin tucked in.  Basenjis do this in a very pronounced way, and recognise the similar action in a person immediately, without having to be taught.

           By the time Tawny was a year old I had only to give her a certain look and she would come.  I think dogs are a lot more aware of our facial expressions than most people realise.  For this reason I believe it is better not to train a dog while wearing dark glasses.

‘No!’

Because Tawny was a healthy and lively pup, of course the moment she settled she was up to every trick. ‘No!’ was the word she heard more than any other in those early days – so much so I worried a little she might think it was her name!  ‘No!’ was barked at her, snapped at her, growled at her, in both human and dog-language, and accompanied by a dark and threatening look.  In time, the look alone would suffice, without a word being said.

            At first she responded very well to this command. Later, when she had grown a bit and had thoughts of cutting loose from mamma’s apron strings, she sometimes got a cheeky look in her eye, tossed her little head and went right on with what she was doing.  Now I had to be sure that when I said ‘No!’ I really meant it, no two ways about it – it could be life-saving, when confronted by a venomous snake, for example. So sometimes the word had to be reinforced with a small slap or a sharp clap of the hands.

House-training

One thing that couldn’t wait for English proficiency, of course, was house-training.  For the first couple of days while things were still strange to her, I tried to anticipate a puddle coming and carry her outside to a designated spot in the garden.  I did this after every meal or drink.

            Our house is built on a narrow contour carved out of the steep hillside and has steps on all sides except the back, and these did present a problem to her until she worked out a way to tumble down them and scramble back up.  Another problem, common to all puppies, was that while the need to pass a dropping could be felt in advance, a puddle just came when it came.  When a ‘mistake’ was made in the house I slapped the floor hard beside it, saying ‘No! No!’ then ‘Outside!’ and carried her out to the spot in the garden.  If it was a dropping I scooped that up and took it out as well, if possible to leave it there for a while, as dogs have a natural tendency to use the same area repeatedly to relieve themselves.

           In such circumstances many people slap the puppy.  I fail to see any sense in this. The idea isn’t to teach her not to relieve herself, but not to do so in the house.  The action of slapping the floor beside the mistake and one’s stern expression and voice is quite enough to convey the displeasure.

            Within three days Tawny understood but couldn’t always make it outside in time.  The first time she achieved this and passed a dropping in the garden I saw her look at me worriedly.  I told her gently, ‘Clever girl!’ which reassured her instantly.  Even at that young age an intelligent puppy can read one’s voice, expressions and movements with amazing accuracy.  And undoubtedly Bay and TellMe’s graphic demonstrations in the garden helped Tawny grasp this important lesson.

           Still, it wasn’t long before I had to go into hospital for a foot operation, and Tawny went into kennels.  When I returned, all that Tawny remembered of house training was how absorbent was the sitting-room carpet.

            So we started again.  First thing in the morning and last thing at night, Bay and I took Tawny outside and gave her a small demonstration, if you know what I mean, and waited until she had done likewise.  This was not a popular activity when it was raining.

            When I discovered a mistake in the house at least I knew it was hers. I took her to it –  never calling her to it because that would soon have made reluctant to come at all – held her to it, pointed it out and slapped the floor beside it, then took her out, ‘Outside!’  If it was a dropping I’d take it out with her to her ‘toilet place’ in the garden; then sit with her a while and soothe and calm her. She needed reassuring until she grasped that it was not doing the dropping that was the issue, it was where she did it.

Bay wonders if she's accidentally squashed someone...

           Tawny was easy – not all pups are – and was quite reliable after another week. Before she could last out through the night I put down newspapers sprinkled with earth by the door and encouraged her to go there.  By the time she was 8 weeks old she could last from 10 pm to 5 am, unless disturbed.

            As with all the early lessons in good behaviour, reliability grew as she grew – and as they were praised.

(More on praise in the next post.)

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The Training of Tawny (1)

The Training of Tawny

Introduction

Jill Wylie often wrote of her tracker-dogs’ sundry achievements, especially the tracking down of lost and trapped animals, and many people asked how she managed to train them in such apparently extraordinary ways.  She would characteristically express bafflement at the question, as if she had never thought about her method, or regarded it as so instinctive and transparent it needed no explanation.  However, she did eventually begin to write something a bit more instructional than her usual stories, accounts, poems, books and reports. The Training of Tawny recounts in a sort of ‘biographical’ way how Jill went about training Tawny, a little Labrador-cross, to trust her, integrate with the menagerie of Wildwoods Sanctuary, and do the search work.

            The manuscript was never finished, but there is enough of it worth airing, which we will do in several parts.  In some ways, there isn’t anything extraordinary about Jill’s methods: as you’ll see, it all seems so obvious actually.  What was extraordinary was the ends to which she put that training – and because she had a purpose, and needed a woman-dog team to achieve it, she did end up with astonishing successes.  In the end, it is all founded on insight, observation, empathy and a pure reverence for life itself. - Dan Wylie

PART 1

She was an unsolicited gift from a distant friend.  Her mother was said to have been a yellow Labrador – more likely Golden Retriever – father unknown.  I thought I could detect a touch of Collie, more certainly Spaniel – in any case really just the sort of dog I would have chosen myself.  We already had two dogs: Bay, an enormous Great Dane-Irish Wolfhound cross, and TellMe, a Basenji-cross-Keeshond, but they were getting on in years and it was not a bad time to take on a puppy.

            Her new home was Wildwoods Sanctuary, our wildlife, forest and conservation sanctuary in the Vumba mountains of eastern Zimbabwe.  She was about to enter a rather busy household, which consisted of the following:

            One husband (Jack);

            One 16-year old son (Danny);

            Two dogs: TellMe, surrogate mother to countless puppies, kittens and fawns; and Bay, 125 pounds of loveable stupidity;

            Five cats (Bounce, 17 years old and very polite; Drum, Siamese-coloured “tom-tom”; Fable, stocky Russian Blue with a crushed zig-zag of a tail; Yes-I-Am, Siamese orphan from the forest; Jungle, beautiful bottle-reared “show-tabby”; and Fleur, black-and-white long-hair, once paralyzed but moving well if shyly now;

            One genet, Whipaway, an orphan in process of rehabilitating into the forest but still paying regular visits;

            One duiker, Hillbilly, another orphan now free but regularly returning to share the chicken-grain;

            One small flock of bantams, including When, fierce 8-year old mamma hen.

Into this menagerie tumbled 6-week-old Tawny – so named for the shaded gold of her coat –  weary and confused after her long journey, but undismayed by the number and variety of her sudden companions.  There would be a great deal to learn.

She ran immediately to big Bay; maybe she looked something like her Labrador mother, magnified several times. Young Bay, who had never seen a puppy before, was wonderfully and unexpectedly gentle. She knocked her softly flat with her exploring nose, tried her best not to tread on her with her huge paws and took great care not to sit on her.  She never cared who else she sat on.

TellMe took time to look over the new arrival, accepted her and immediately demanded that she behave herself in her presence.

That night I put Tawny’s basket on the floor by my bed, settled her on her blanket with a hot-water bottle under it, to provide a warm and rounded bulk like a companion pup.  When she woke in the night whimpering for her mother and the security of her siblings, I could drop my hand down to her and she would know she was not alone.

By dawn she was rested but naturally still confused.  I gave her a drink of warm milk and took her out immediately onto the lawn to relieve herself.  I called her, Tawny Tawny Tawny – the first lesson she needed to learn.  When Jack had gone to work and Danny to school, I sat on the lawn again, took the puppy onto my lap and called her name over and over, in soft excited tones until she was happily dancing on my lap, loving this new game.  During the day I called her many times in the same soft tones, whenever there was something to show her or give her, and by evening she knew that this special sound meant her – and so did Bay and TellMe, who, when they heard that name, would instantly look around for her.  She was uncertain, though, when Jack and Danny returned in the late afternoon and called her in their voices.  It would take a day or two to realise the word ‘Tawny’, in any voice or tone, was meant for her.

Jill, Bay and Tawny

Trust

After that first playful lesson on the lawn I lay back and nestled her into my armpit, stroked and crooned to her and felt the tension run out of her.  There, with her head on my shoulder and her face next to mine, she gave me her trust, totally and unconditionally.  There is something about that position that seems to reassure frightened and insecure puppies.  I have used it many times.  It’s akin to when a small, troubled child puts their little hand in yours and you feel that awesome trust flow into your very soul.

Starting out

I like to start training a puppy when she is six weeks old.  This may seem very young.  I once thought so, too – until our Basenjis had pups.

            Basenjis, allowed to develop as they should, are as close to nature as are cats.  In fact they display many feline characteristics. When their puppies were six weeks old our two took them out and taught them – to mind from underfoot, to come, to wait, to keep quiet, to track, to observe, to obey. It is quite amazing how much a healthy, inquisitive puppy can learn at that early age. Reliability, of course, comes only after practice, maturity and self-control.

            To start training such a tiny puppy without confusing her or inducing negativism, I need to have a clear plan of what I am going to ask of her as an adult dog as well as at each stage of her development, and the vocabulary I will use. I need to know something of dog psychology and the origins of her instinctive behaviour.  I must be prepared to ‘think dog’ as often as I ‘think human’. To realise her potential and her limitations, I must be able to accurately read her expressions and her body talk. And I must train as a parent.  Later, when I want serious work from her, I gradually become something of a pack leader, as well as something of a big sister.  If at the same time I allow her to become something of a human, as she readily will if she trusts me, we will have a great thing going between us.

            The main thing at this very early stage is that one is hardly ‘training’ so much as reinforcing what is already coming naturally to the puppy, saying ‘Come’ when she is already coming, ‘Sit’ when she is already in the act on her own, and using the enthusiasm of her own curiosity more than anything else.

            I have read many manuals on dog training. The methods used for basic obedience are generally the same, while the approach to more advanced work varies considerably.  Some are rather insipid and shallow, many too unsympathetic and over-regimented for my liking.  Most are set for proper school conditions and many lessons call for the aid of an assistant.  Which I didn’t have.  And would never have in the real-life search situation in the bush.  I had to work rather differently.

Christmas for Everyone

It was Christmas eve at our mountain farm in Kenya. The night was cool and bright as dew and all the stars wide open.  The young moon wandered the sky like a little canoe and down in the forest a wood-dove called purely and slept again.  Now all the lamps in the house had been turned out except mine and the one in my mother’s room where she worked away at things rustling and mysterious.

            Big dog Slasher and I turned away from the night and went into the tiny cabin we shared.  Slasher got into bed without saying his prayers but I knelt down.  It was, after all, the Lord’s birthday and not the time for shirking.

            Our Father who art in heaven... The thatched roof of the cabin was beautifully neat, the grass lying straight and slick on wattle poles, rising to a peak in the centre and fastened with strips of bark.  The walls were neat, too, of horizontal planks overlaying one another.

            Our Father who art in heaven...  And over the bed was a lovely picture of a doe with twin fawns drinking in a river.  It was just a picture torn off an old calendar but tonight, with the lamp low and flickering in the far corner of the room the stream in the picture seemed to glisten and swirl.  I fancied the doe flicked her ears to listen and the fawns stood ready to run.  I listened too.

            From somewhere above us came the thinnest whisper of sound.  Before I could move, down the steps of the wall planks, very cautiously, fist over foot, came a little grey dormouse.

            He stopped, looked across at Slasher snoring in his basket, at the doe and the twins in the picture, and at me.  Nobody moved a whisker.

            He was as round as a butterball, wrapped up in a fuzz of close grey fur.  His bushy tail was long, the hair harsh and not very thick.  He flicked it once to show how it worked.  he had a round little face, a turned-up nose and mouse ears.  Darker shading from his nose to his ears highlighted his silver cheeks.

            After we had stared at each other for so long without moving  I was beginning to wonder if we were real or dreaming, he gripped a plank with his hind feet, head down, shook hands with himself and skipped away into the thatch.

            I nipped across to the house, put some milk and cheese in the soap dish and left it on the cabin shelf, turned out the light and got into bed, too full of wonder and happiness to get any further with the Our Father.

            At half past four the next morning my mother came by lamplight to rouse us children for church.  Christmas slept in the mist.

            The first thing I thought of was the soap dish and jumped out of bed so fast my mother never got over it.  The soap dish was empty and polished.  A corner of the dish had been sampled too.

            Day came on the way to church.  Mist swam among the soft pink featherheads of the grass.  Birds yawned and fluffed and covered their eyes with their wings again.  A little duiker doe stepped carefully through the dew.  Church was nice, too, so early in the morning, with the cattle outside just waking, blowing bubbles of warm breath into the cold dawn.

            Afterwards, we spent the rest of the morning squealing over our presents.  The dogs and cats got theirs, all edible except for new collars for the Sealyhams.

            We all ate stick-jaw toffee to keep our strength up.  It gummed the cats’ whiskers together but they asked for more.  The Sealyhams loved it.  Slasher didn’t but wasn’t going to be left out of anything and carried his piece around for ages between his left canine teeth, very careful not to get his lips on it, until he thought no one was looking.  Then he shoved it under a corner of the carpet and came back licking his lips and saying how delicious it was.

            Only one person had to wait for Christmas until all the house was quiet and dark and everyone asleep.  Then I filled the soap dish with piles of titbits I had saved during the day and put it up on the shelf for the dormouse. 

            In the thick of the night I woke and lay wondering why.  Slasher was asleep, snoring his way through some jerky dream.

            There came a soft, rude noise, followed by a sound like someone slapping about with a very small facecloth.  I moved my hand slowly to my new Christmas torch and shone it onto the shelf above the washstand.

            The little dormouse was sitting in the empty soap dish washing his face.  His stomach was so full the bulge of it lay on his toes.  Slasher woke up as surprised as if he saw his dream come true and I whispered to him to be still.

            The dormouse finished washing, patted his stomach and scratched his bottom, gave the soap dish a long, sad look, flicked his tail and waddled off.

            Later in the night Slasher woke with a terrible stomach ache.  I took him onto my bed and massaged him.  He groaned and rolled his eyes and looked awful.  I had been very careful to take all the turkey bones out of his celebrations but I grew afraid and ran to the house to call my mother.  She helped me give him a dose of milk of magnesia, then she tied a hot water bottle on his stomach with a towel.  Slasher didn’t mind how funny he looked.  He was much comforted and drooled his thanks.

            I had a look at the Sealyhams and they were all right.  The cats were out somewhere, living it up on their own.  The night had turned cold.  Slasher and I got under the blanket and he was soon asleep.

            I lay for a while hoping the dormouse wasn’t in the same trouble.  The last I saw of him his stomach looked full to bursting, his cheek pouches bulging out past his shoulders as he waddled fatly up the wall planks.

            I made a note to get a wee doll’s hot water bottle, just in case we may need it sometime.  The first bird was yawning as I fell asleep.

*****

A Tale of White Horses

Once upon a time long ago, there lived in a coastal town a little boy named Jock.  He was small for his age, thin and not very strong.  The other children seldom allowed him to join their games.  “You’re not big enough to play with us,” they would say.  “You can’t keep up.”  So Jock was a lonely little boy who spent most of his spare time on the beach.

            He loved the sea.  The pounding of the waves seemed to tell him of great strength he could find within himself, and when the sea was calm, he felt at peace being on his own and not having anyone to compete with.

            But even more than the sea Jock loved horses.  Almost every morning he got up early and went down to the beach to watch the race horses exercising on the sands.  He wished one of the riders would call to him, “Hi there! Would you like a go?”  For he knew, he just knew, that the very first time he would get on a horse he would be able to ride with the best of them.  But they didn’t even notice him, alone among the sand dunes.

            One morning Jock went down to the beach to find the tide in high and the waves mightier than he had ever seen them before.  He laughed and ran along the hissing edge of the water, and because it was much too rough for the horses to come down, he ran all the way to the rocks on the point that marked the end of the beach.

            Suddenly he saw, standing by the rocks, a pure white foal.  Jock gasped, for never had he seen such a beautiful animal.  He approached cautiously but the foal wasn’t at all afraid and let Jock come right up to him.  His snowy coat was as fine as spun silk, his curly mane and tail as soft as combed wool, and his eyes, that Jock thought at first were black, were blue and green and dark as the deepest part of the sea.  He and Jock played together until it was time for Jock to go to school.

            After that he often met the foal, but only when the tide was in or the waves were tall.  The foal never came when the sea was calm.  Jock would hold on to the foal’s mane and they would run up and down the beach and in and out of the water.

            All this exercise made Jock’s legs grow strong and soon the other children were asking him to join their teams because he could run so fast.  Jock was happy to do so, but he didn’t tell them about the white foal.  That was his secret.

            One day, after about a year, the foal, who had grown a lot by then, was standing by a tall rock and Jock thought that if he climbed up on that rock he might be able to get on the foal’s back – if the foal didn’t mind.

            The foal didn’t mind at all.  When Jock was safely seated he walked up the beach. And then he cantered, and then he galloped, and Jock, gripping the foal’s mane hard, shouted into the wind, “I can ride!  I can ride!”  Later they dared to join the race horses and had a wonderful time.

            “That’s a nice horse you’ve got there,” said one of the stable boys.  “Is he yours?”

            Jock didn’t know what to say.  If he said Yes, he would be telling a lie.  If he said No, they might accuse him of stealing.  If he said he didn’t know they might think the white foal was a stray and try to catch him.

            “He – he’s my friend,” stammered Jock.

            “Oh, he’s your friend, is he?” said the stable boy.  “Let’s race him.  He’s fast!”

            One morning Mr Mansfield, who owned the racing stables, came down to watch his horses exercising.  Jock and the foal didn’t notice.  When it was time for Jock to go to school he rode the foal back to the rocks, watched him disappear round the point and trudged back up the beach.

            “Hold on there, boy!” called Mr Mansfield, intercepting him.  “What’s your name?  Where do you live?”

            Jock told him, but with a sinking heart.  All that day he had a terrible feeling that he was in for trouble.  In the evening Mr Mansfield came to see Jock’s father.

            “I like that horse of yours,” he said.  “I’ll give you a good offer for him.”

            “I’m sorry,” said Jock’s father.  “There must be some mistake.  I haven’t got a horse!”

            “Well, whose is that horse I see your son riding on the beach?”  asked Mr Mansfield.

            “My son?  Jock?  But Jock doesn’t ride!”

            “He certainly does,” corrected Mr Mansfield.  “Where is he?”

            “In his room dong his homework, I hope,” said Jock’s father.  “Jock!” he called.  Jock came running.

            “What’s this I hear about you riding on the beach?”

            “I was only playing, Dad,” explained Jock quickly.  “I wasn’t doing anything wrong, honestly!”

            “Whose horse is it?” asked his father.

            “I don’t know,” Jock replied.  “He just comes to the beach sometimes and we play together, that’s all.”

            “Playing or not,” interrupted Mr Mansfield, “your son is a fine little rider and I’d like to see him start at my stables as an apprentice.”

            “Why, that’s very good of you,” exclaimed Jock’s father, very relieved to learn that his son was good at something.  “I’ll certainly think about it.”

            “Oh, thank you, Dad!” cried Jock, hugging him.

            “Hold it,” his father smiled.  “I haven’t said yes yet.  It will depend on some improvement in your school work.”

            “Yes, Dad!” Jock laughed, and ran off to finish his homework.

            But the secret of the white foal was out.  Mr Mansfield, after many inquiries, decided the foal was a stray and made plans to catch him.  When Jock heard about this he ran to his father in tears.

            “Dad!” he cried.  “They’re going to catch the foal!  They can’t do that!”

            “Why not?” asked his father.  “He’ll go to Mr Mansfield’s stables and be properly trained.  What’s wrong with that?”

            “He’s a free horse!” Jock tried to explain.  “He’s never had a bit in his mouth.  He’s never known a saddle or a bridle.  He has to stay that way – even if I never see him again!”

            “I just don’t understand you,” grumbled his father.  “You know you can’t have a horse running about without an owner.  Mr Mansfield will look after him properly.  And of course you’ll see him again.  When you start at the stables, as I’ve decided to let you do, he’ll be there for you to take care of.  Now run along.  I have to get to work.”

            When Jock got down to the beach he found heavy nets strung across the sands, men crouched amongst the rocks at the point, others on horseback hiding in the dunes.

            “Don’t come today, white foal,” Jock begged silently.  But the waves were rough and he knew the foal would come – and there he was, trotting round the point looking for his friend.

            The men made ready at the nets, moved out from among the rocks, blocking the way round the point, rode up from the dunes with ropes in their hands.

            “Run away! Run away!” shouted Jock, sprinting down to the white foal and waving his arms.  But the foal thought he was playing a game and frisked about on the sand as pretty as a white cloud in a summer sky.  The men moved closer and closer.

            Jock flung his arms around the foal’s neck. “No!” he screamed.  “You can’t take him! You can’t!”  But the men came on and on.

            Just then, out from the wild waves reared a herd of great white horses, water cascading from their backs, their nostrils flared, their hooves like polished stone.  Quickly they surrounded the foal.  One of the mares touched her soft muzzle to his and they all wheeled and raced back into the sea, the foal with them.  And their manes were spray on the leaping waves, their flashing eyes, deep water.

            Jock collapsed on the sand, sobbing.  His father, who had quietly followed him, sat down beside him and put his arm around his shaking shoulders.

            “Don’t take it so hard, son,” he comforted.  “You were right.  The foal wanted to be free.  Perhaps it’s better this way.”

            “No, Dad, you don’t understand,” whispered Jock.  “He hasn’t drowned.  That’s where he came from, don’t you see.  He’s gone home now.  And I’ll never see him again.”  And he sobbed some more, in both sorrow and relief.

            But Jock did see the white foal again, often, playing with the others in the wind-whipped waves, although they never came on the beach again.  It was too dangerous.

            He went each day after school to work at the stables and in time became a very famous rider, which is why today the small, wiry men and boys who ride race-horses are called ‘jockeys’.

            He never used to whip or spur on the horses he rode.  They always raced their best for him, knowing how much he loved them and their brothers in the sea.

*****

Don't wake the baby

(A talk to schoolchildren)

A year or so ago many of you youngsters were allowed to walk in the town by yourselves for the first time – because you knew something about the rules of the road.  This year you have started wandering in the bush, and you should know some of the rules that apply there too.

            At the moment I don’t want to talk about your safety in the bush, except to say that you shouldn’t go too far at first.  Get to know the nearest part very very well before gradually exploring further.  And until you have learned what is poisonous and what is not, don’t put anything in your mouth!

            I want to talk about how we should behave.

            When you visit the house of a special friend you don’t go charging about disturbing and destroying things, leave rubbish lying around the place or go off with things that don’t belong to you, do you?  It’s the same when you go into the bush.

            The bush is the home of many wonderful and special creatures and you are the visitor.  Move as quietly as you can, like the animals do.  Stop often to watch and listen and get the feel of the place.  That way you will be able to see what is going on, instead of frightening everything away.

            By all means collect interesting sticks, stones, leaves, grasses and feathers.   But leave the butterflies and other creatures where they are.  Their lives are hard enough without people interfering.  Leave the birds’ eggs in the nests.  They belong to the bird, not to you.  If you are careful and clever you can keep watch on a nest and see when the fledglings hatch, see the parents feeding them and watch them learn to fly.  This is far more interesting and useful than taking an egg home with you where it will never come to anything.

            Another thing you might come across is a fawn.  He may look thin and all alone and you might think he is starving and lost.  But leave him alone.  His mother won’t be far away and she’ll come back as soon as you leave.

            Let me tell you how it is for some of these little buck and you will see what I mean.

            When a baby duiker or bushbuck is born he weighs less than one kilogram and is only 25 to 30 cm tall at the shoulder.  His stilty, wobbly legs are no thicker than a finger and his tiny hooves make prints that would fit on a thumbnail.  A baby steenbok or a grysbok is very much smaller and a blue duiker smaller still.

            He has many enemies: humans, all the dog family and most of the cats, the large mongooses and civets, owls and eagles.

            How can the mother protect such a frail little baby?  She can’t fight for him with teeth  and claws like a cat or a dog.  She hasn’t even got horns.  She can’t carry him away from danger like a monkey can.  And if she stands around worrying about it, an enemy may get her scent and creep up and find the baby.

            So what does she do?  She hides him.  He has hardly any body scent at all and an enemy could come sniffing around and walk right past him, never knowing he was there.  So she feeds him and washes him and tucks him down in the tall grass or under a bush, and there he lies with his chin on his flank and his ears smoothed back so that his head isn’t easily seen.  He closes his big bright eyes and sleeps the hours away, looking quite like a boulder or a little mound of earth.  The mother slips away to find food and scout around for danger.

            If she sees an enemy she might let it get her scent and lead it away from her baby.  Once in a while she tip-toes back to feed him.  He doesn’t do any droppings until she washes him and cleans the droppings away so that there is no smell left around his hiding place.

            Some mothers are very brave of an enemy catches the baby.  My dog Whisper once found a duiker fawn hiding on a hill.  She held him gently between her paws and washed his head and sang a little croony song to him.  As I was getting her to leave him without frightening him, the mother came back.  She tried to butt us and made the fawn run behind her.  Wild babies have to do exactly as they are told or risk coming to harm.

            After a few days the new fawn tries a little exercise, but only when the mother is there.  He tosses his little head, which makes him lose his balance.  After a bit of practice he tries skipping – one foot at a time at first.  Later he tries kicking his heels in the air.  He likes to be near his mother when he does this so that he can bump up against her instead of falling on his nose.  Some days later he tries jumping.  He leaps straight up in the air, and comes down in exactly the same place – so as not to get lost.

            The next thing is to try running.  This is fun but can be dangerous.  He soon finds that he can go like the wind.  Well, perhaps a small, not very fast wind.  The problem is how to stop.  He bumps into bushes and prickles and sometimes scratches his face.  His mother is very anxious but she knows that he must learn how to stop now, before he is strong enough to go really fast, or heavy enough to crash hard into something.

            Now she lets him walk about with her some of the time.  When he is two weeks old he tries to copy her.  He takes leaves into his mouth but sucks them instead of chewing.  He moves his ears this way and that and learns to understand what the birds and the wind are saying.  Watching his mother browse he learns to look up, which is very important, and he copies the careful way she walks, stopping often to listen.

            The father lives off away by himself and doesn’t help to care for the fawn.  The mother must do it all alone and she loves her little baby more than anything in the world.  If something happens to him she will grieve for days and all the milk that she has made ready for him will begin to hurt her and make her sick.

            So if you find a fawn all alone in the bush, pretending to be a stone or standing very still like a furry sort of flower, don’t disturb him.  Creep very quietly away and don’t go there again for several weeks, especially if you have a dog.

            Fawns can be very difficult to bring up without their mothers, and very often die.  If they do live they don’t make such good pets.  They don’t like to be cuddled and carried around and played with like other animals.  And long before they are a year old they want to join others of their kind and would be most unhappy staying with you.

            So don’t wake the baby.  Be his friend and pretend you didn’t really see him hiding there.

*****