1981–1995
They say a man has only one dog in his lifetime. This is the story about mine.
Shilo was born in 1981 at the Pont Drift border post, on the southern bank of the great, grey, green, greasy and now, due to soil erosion, gritty Limpopo River, which forms the border between South Africa and the north eastern corner of Botswana. He was the shyest of the five puppies that I was there to choose from, and I can still remember how reluctant he was to come out of the 44 gallon drum that served as his mother’s kennel. It had been his home for the six weeks he’d been in this world and he wasn’t ready to leave the comfort of his mother’s side. As Spartan as this was, he had her protection and love, he felt safe and secure. This was all he knew until I entered his life and he entered mine. And so it was, since that day I reached in to touch him and he licked my hand, we were never apart for longer than a few days at a stretch.
I was living alone at that stage of my life and therefore could devote a lot of time to him. This closeness developed to the point where commands were hardly necessary, simple gestures and tone were enough to communicate. As time went by, it became increasingly apparent that I was completely mistaken with my first impression of him. What I initially thought to be timidity and shyness was, in fact, a combination of sensitivity and intelligence. He was able to pick up on the most subtle nuances to the point that later, Meagan and I would have to spell certain words if there was something we didn’t want him to react to.
His ability to respond to hand signals probably saved his life one day. We were on the Transkei Wild Coast at the time, fishing on the incoming tide at the mouth of the Mkambati lagoon and the shad were biting well. We were totally preoccupied with the task at hand and so no one noticed when Shilo ran off chasing after one of the local bitches who happened to be on heat. When we realised what was happening, he was already crossing the lagoon after her.
The only way I could call him back over the noise of the sea was to get his attention and wave my arm beckoning for him to return. Thanks to his obedience, he responded immediately. This must have saved his life, for another 15 minutes and the back wash current would have swept him out to sea.
The African bush is filled with dangers for dogs, so Shilo went everywhere with me, it being too dangerous for a young pup to be left alone at camp. This emphasised the immediate need for discipline and training, neither of which was a problem. He responded enthusiastically to training and learned quickly, which I was really pleased about. An untrained dog is particularly vulnerable and curious puppies are at most risk. To any dog, however, the most serious threats come from warthogs and baboons. Nothing tests a dog’s resolve and discipline quite like an arrogant baboon. Aggressive and over-protective dogs in particular, are easily lured out of their safety zone and then torn to pieces by these well-armed primates who are masters at gang fighting.
Another test is the cheekiness of warthog piglets scampering around and playing on the lawn. This provokes even the most restrained dog to chase them, but unfortunately Mother Pig with her razor-sharp lower tusks is usually only a belly-ripping swipe away. Baboons and warthogs were part of his first real world lessons, and undoubtedly amongst the most important for him to learn. Shilo took to these instructions very well, and was soon taught not to chase anything unless given the command ‘teksit’. There were times I could swear he was co-operating just to see how happy it made me. As luck would have it, we were moving bricks from a brick pile and came across a nest of young snakes. I recognised them immediately as egg-eaters. These little snakes resemble night adders, but because they’re absolutely harmless and don’t have a tooth in their mouths, they strike repeatedly at the least provocation to make themselves appear dangerous. As a result, they turned out to be the most perfect props for teaching Shilo that snakes were to be avoided. This was one occasion when he was encouraged to bark.
Shilo was built leaner than a Labrador but heavier than a Doberman, his deep chest and relatively narrow waist predisposing him to speed. He really loved to run, so much so, that unless you reined him in, he would run the pads off his feet on the rough roads in the Tuli Block, which were littered with quartz, and this would put him out of action for a few days while they healed.
As an aside, I understand that timber wolves have thicker pads than any domestic breed. Apparently, during the Angola/Namibia border conflict era, the military canine unit was looking into the possibility of cross-breeding dogs with wolves, in order to obtain a breed with hard-wearing pads. This would have enabled this unit to track terrorists over rough terrain for longer periods. Shilo could have done with some of those calloused and hard-wearing ‘wolf pads’. At one stage I contemplated importing or making those booties they put on Huskies’ paws for those gruelling sled races in Canada and Alaska, but it turned out that these shoes could only be used in snow and ice, not on sand or gravel. Anyhow, I believe the toes and claws of dogs play a crucial role when turning or needing to gain purchase on dry ground, particularly at speed. With his feet covered, Shilo would have been seriously handicapped, so we abandoned the booty idea.
Shilo’s first journey to the big city, the first time he placed his pads on paved roads, was in Johannesburg. What I saw him do on that trip convinced me that he and I were destined to be together, for life. A good friend of mine, South African 250cc motocross champion, Tyrone Stevenson, invited me to watch him race while I was in town. I told him I would love to, but had a dog I couldn’t leave on its own. I explained that my dog had never been to a city before and was totally street unwise.
‘No problem. I’m sure he’d love Sasha,’ Tyrone said.
‘Who’s Sasha?’ I asked.
‘She’s my dog, a cross Doberman Rottweiler’, he answered.
When they met the next morning, it was love at first sight. Sasha was slightly bigger than Shilo, but both dogs were about the same age and appeared to have similar energy levels.
Despite this ideal match, I was a little apprehensive, as this would be the first time I would be leaving Shilo on his own with an attractive lady in unfamiliar surroundings. But, the high walls and secure gate gave me a measure of assurance; I was sure that he’d be safely confined and enjoy himself at the same time.
We returned late that afternoon, in high spirits, for it had been a successful day at the track for Tyrone, and Meagan and I were looking forward to a hot bath, eager to soak away the day’s dust and grime that is part and parcel of motocross. I must admit to being quite keen to see if Shilo had missed me, as much as I had missed him. I imagined him waiting at the gate for me, but when we arrived at the house, only Sasha was there to greet us.
My heart sank. Despite an extensive search, Shilo was nowhere to be found. The maid then informed us that when she came to work and opened the gate, Shilo took the gap and slipped past her out into the road, and there was nothing she could do. This meant he was now exposed to busy road traffic to which he was totally unaccustomed and with no familiar smells or landmarks to guide him who knew where he could end up. I began to paint a really negative picture in my mind. Meagan and I decided to drive around the area, which we did for what seemed like hours, questioning everybody we could and calling his name repeatedly. When it became too dark to see anymore, we decided to call it quits and head on back to my father’s house, which was about six kilometres from Tyrone’s.
Dejected, expecting the worst, we drove in silence through the two busy intersections where I half expected to find Shilo’s lifeless body. Thankfully there was nothing. I was going through the mental process of preparing for the prospect of never seeing my dog again and I was behaving like a zombie, just going through the motions. Then, nearing the turn-off to my father’s house, I caught sight of a familiar shape in the headlights as they swung in an arc round the corner.
I couldn’t believe my eyes initially, but it was no mere illusion, it was Shilo! Nose to the ground and only 200 metres away from my father’s house!
‘Shilo!’ I called, not quite as loudly as I would have liked. Either I was choked emotionally or some motocross dust must have been lodged in my throat, but it was loud enough for him to hear, and in a flash he was on the front seat between Meagan and me, licking my face, something he was not normally encouraged to do. He also smiled a lot when he was happy or embarrassed, which made him sneeze, so it was lick-smile-sneeze, lick-smile-sneeze, all the way home to my father’s house.
So what is so extraordinary about this? Countless domestic dogs throughout history have been known to run home from hundreds of miles away. Be this as it may, Shilo’s situation was rather different as all the odds were stacked against him.
He had never set foot on the ground between Tyrone’s house and my father’s, nor had he ever walked on a tar road, or seen so many people and cars, except from the inside of my vehicle. He had come straight out of the Botswana bush to Johannesburg’s concrete jungle in the back of a vehicle. What scent he was following when we found him, and how had he negotiated two busy intersections without mishap, I will never know. All I do know is that this was but one of many instances which made me realise that Shilo was a dog in a million, and that I was privileged to share part of my life with him.
Being a cross Doberman Pinscher/black Labrador, meant firstly he wasn’t the ideal colour for the hot bushveld environment, and secondly, he had a light layer of underfur inherited from his Labrador genes, which assists with insulation in cold weather. Strangely enough, this proved to be no problem in the heat either, as this under-fur also trapped and held water, so once wet, the ‘radiator effect’ lasted a long time, proving to be an effective means of combating the heat. Having been born and bred in the bush, Shilo showed a remarkable degree of tolerance for the bushveld heat although he appeared to be more comfortable in the freezing wetlands of the southern Drakensberg or eastern Free State.
At one stage I considered dyeing his coat a lighter colour for the summer months, but never got around to doing it. In any event, this cosmetic solution was never really necessary.
Shilo’s own characteristics soon proved to be the attributes that allowed him the ability to work in the heat of the bush and earn a legendary reputation as one of the finest retrievers around, and also in temperatures well below freezing.
Besides running, he loved to swim, and thought nothing of swimming in icy cold water. Often the pans and dams had two or three metres of thinnish overnight ice around the edges, which he would have to crack through before swimming out to retrieve waterfowl. With ambient temperatures sometimes as low as minus ten, which caused the steam to rise off his wet body, he would remain completely focused on the horizon and the next flight of duck. These were his finest hours. His retrieving skill went beyond the retrieval of waterfowl, sticks and balls. One afternoon at Motswari camp in the Timbavati, he jumped into the swimming pool, grabbed a young girl by the arm and pulled her to the safety of the shallow end. It wasn’t much shallower than the rest of the pool but did have a set of stainless steel rung-type steps. The only way Shilo could get out of this particular pool was if you helped him by grabbing the nape of his neck as he got close to the edge, then he would push himself against the resistance of your hand and clamber out. Worried that he may have hurt the girl, Meagan questioned her friend who then confirmed that the young girl was having difficulty in the deep water and splashing excessively. This, I suspect, is what triggered his instinctive response to retrieve. We had purposely never taught Shilo to grab or retrieve people in water rescue scenarios, for fear he may exert too much holding pressure and puncture their skin. We could never lose sight of the fact that while he was able to employ the soft mouth pressure essential for retrieving wild fowl and attributed to the Labrador in him, he was still 50 per cent Doberman.
Shilo very seldom barked, so when he did, we knew that there was usually a problem. This was another necessary discipline in the tourism/game lodge environment. You couldn’t have a yapping dog around while guests are trying to enjoy the sounds of the African bush.
As it happens, this is also one of the biggest problems with dogs in urban areas, and yet it was one of the easiest things to teach him not to do. I had Shilo sleep with me in my bed from day one, until many years later when he took to sleeping next to the bed. When he was a little pup many of the night noises were strange to him, so every time he heard something out side he yipped. When he did, I’d utter an urgent ‘uh! uh!’, dog speak for ‘no! no!’ Then, if unable to suppress the urge to keep quiet, he would growl. When he growled, I praised him. Initially the growl would break into a yip, but, with praise, he was soon able to control this. So, Shilo became a growler not a barker.
Sixteen years ago, when Meagan and I went to interview for the position at Olifants, Shilo came along as well, of course. As I mentioned earlier, he was my shadow and where I went, he went. It really was a case of ‘love me, love my dog’. The back of my truck was customised for his comfort while travelling and for when he had to spend the night in the vehicle – when, for example, a B&B didn’t allow dogs. In these instances I used to leave a Fisher Price baby monitor in the back with him.
Knowing that the Olifant’s interview could last for an indeterminate length of time, I had to make him as comfy as possible. So, in the courtyard-cum-parking lot of Dimension Data, I found a shady spot to park and let him out to do his ablutions on a nearby patch of lawn studded with lovely trees. Once this function was complete, it was back into the truck and onto his mattress. Sliding both the side windows of the canopy open, I then filled his water bowl, turned the 12V Hella turbo fan on to medium, and closed the door. I never locked the canopy door when he was in the back.
Unbeknown to us, we were being watched the whole time from one of the upper floors. On termination of the interview, I was asked directly, ‘and what about the dog?’ My answer was simply that my dog was old, bush-wise and well-trained, and if I were to go to Olifants, so would Shilo.
Time passed and age was catching up on Shilo.
Slowly, his quality of life was deteriorating, to the point that in his 14th year he could hardly walk without discomfort, and this condition became progressively worse. I knew the day I had dreaded all these years would soon dawn, and when it did, I phoned Gerrit. About 30 minutes later, his Cessna 172 touched down on the airstrip. Without elaboration, we drove in virtual silence to the house, this wasn’t the time for usual small talk and both of us knew that. As usual, Shilo had heard my vehicle and was waiting for me at the door, smiling so hard he sneezed repeatedly. His tail wagged with increased vigour when he saw Gerrit. He may have thought we were going wildfowling together again, something we hadn’t done for a long time. His mind was now occupied with excited anticipation of what he lived for.
When Gerrit ruffled the skin on the back of his neck, as he usually did when they met, Shilo didn’t notice that this time, a tranquilliser was gently injected into the loose folds by those same hands, nor had he noticed that Meagan had taken Eleana and Dino for a walk up the road past the water tanks. Soon after, in the basket next to my bed, where he always slept, I held his head in my lap while the final ‘sleeping’ drug was administered. Moments later, the canine love of my life for so many years slipped quietly away in my arms.
Shilo lies buried under a shady knobthorn tree at the bottom of our garden on Olifants. There could never be enough space on a headstone for a fitting epitaph to his memory, so I chiselled a granite sliver to clearly mark his grave. It reads, simply, ‘Shilo’.