Wanderings amongst Painted Wolves: My time with the last Wild dogs of the Waterberg
By Bruce Crossey @wildlifebruce_crossey
In 2001 there were approximately 150 African wild dogs roaming what is now known as the Waterberg Biosphere Reserve in South Africa. Fast forward 17 years and only one pack remains. At the same time, I was at the start of my Masters Degree, researching factors which affect the stress physiology of what is now Africa’s second most endangered carnivore, and attempting to answer questions surrounding the long term diet of this charismatic and often elusive species. As luck would have it, this was where the paths of this enduring pack of painted wolves and mine would converge.
Having fallen victim to years of persecution by farmers, many of whom disregard the wild dog’s status as a protected species and attempt to shoot them on sight, the Endangered Wildlife Trust (EWT) collared two individuals in this last remaining pack of survivors. Their aim: to monitor this last wild dog pack, providing them with protection while attempting to minimize wild dog-farmer conflict in the Waterberg. With Derek van der Merwe of the EWT at the helm, a plan was formed to financially compensate farmers on whose land the wild dogs would den, a time during which a pack will hunt twice a day in order to feed the voracious appetite of the growing pups. This relied on supplementing the daily diet of the dogs with a carcass supplied from another farm, and then bringing tourists to come and witness the last free-ranging pack of African wild dogs, outside of any proclaimed reserve, in action.
Such a plan was incredibly bold, requiring buy-in from the local community to donate game carcasses from their own farms, as well as intricate negotiating to put together the many moving parts that would culminate in tourists finally seeing these rare and enigmatic canids. Not least adding to the concerns surrounding the project was the fact that this pack had become comparable with ghosts, with very few sightings reported… likely the reason for their survival.
With the plan in motion, and gaining momentum, Derek approached me with the opportunity of a lifetime; a week of monitoring the last survivors of a wild dog dynasty that has endured all of the hardships which have claimed the lives of every other pack in the area over the last 100 years, and survived. Armed with a freezer full of impala carcasses, a VHF tracking system and a game vehicle, my adventure began. By the time I arrived, the pack had moved den sites several times. The most recent of which had been from a very comfortable looking rocky overhang, which sank approximately 20m back into a cave-like system of nooks and crannies that was a veritable playground for any wild dog pup; to the side of a koppie which was criss-crossed with boulders. The setup of the new den site made the dogs look like they were playing a game of checkers whenever they moved, boulder hopping from one rock to the next with ease, before retreating into a crevice where the pups, and with them the future of the species in the region, were hidden. The location of the new den site provided me with a unique vantage point, another hill more or less 200m away, from which I could sit on a boulder and observe the dogs moving around their den with binoculars, a valley of thick bush separating us.
Each afternoon, as the pack was waking from their midday nap, having digested their morning kill of wildebeest or impala, I would fetch an impala carcass that I had earlier removed from the freezer to thaw, and bring it to my vantage point 200m from the den site. Using the VHF tracking equipment to confirm that the pack was at the den, I would tie up the carcass to a nearby tree with a good vantage point for any guests that I had with me to be able to view the feeding, and begin the process of calling the pack in. This began with the playing of a 20 minute recording of the wild dog “hoo call”, a long distance call used by wild dogs to locate other pack members when they are separated, and which can travel over several kilometers to the rounded satellite-dish ears of any other wild dogs in the area. At a first listen, it is hard to believe that this is a sound that comes from any mammal at all, let alone that of a dog whose cousins are associated with the dull, loud bark that has kept many a neighbourhood awake into the wee hours of the morning. However, if a sound akin to that of an owl going hell-for-leather under the moonlight seems unbelievable, then the wild dog’s “feeding chitter” which was played for another 10 minutes after the hoo call, left many of the guests I had with me agog. This sound is made by the pack to indicate that a kill has been made, and that others should join in the feeding before the kill can be stolen by a nearby scavenger such as a hyena or lion. An accompaniment of a flurry of white tipped tails being thrust into the air as the pack partakes in their meal all adds to the excitement and spectacle. To me, this ritual has always inspired me to imagine a cacophony of squirrels, mongooses and dachshunds frantically arguing over who can make the most high pitched noise… but I have heard many other descriptions which have seemed equally as apt.
In particular, I recall one evening when I was fortunate enough to be alone with the pack that stands out to me, and these scenes will stay with me forever. Sitting on my boulder, overlooking the valley of dense scrub, I had seen the pack react to the hoo call through my binoculars. They had started to make their way effortlessly down the hill where their den was located, disappearing into the brush below and leaving the hungry pups with an equally hungry crew of guardians (including, on this occasion, the alpha female Lindani, who could be identified by the black tip at the end of her tail) still in view at the den site. As the feeding chitter was coming to an end over the speaker, I looked down from my boulder to see flashes of black, white and dark yellow breaking at the base of the boulder and moving outwards, and around the rock as water does when flowing around a stone. Looking back up, I was met with a pair of deep set yellow eyes, they were those of the alpha male, Witwater. His gaze was that of curiosity, as if to say, “Are you the one hunting for us and leaving these carcasses here, and if so, how do you do it with such scrawny paws and a very unintimidating muzzle?” Blinking, I missed him as he bolted into the bush to the right, deciding to make his way to the carcass from the far side of where I had placed it, compared to the rest of the pack that had taken a more direct route. Slowly moving back to the vehicle, I turned off the feeding chitter and waited, my eyes fixed on the carcass. Watching the pack feed over the previous days, little clues had begun to emerge, which, once pieced together started to frame a picture of how this pack of 9 adults (and now 13 pups) had managed to survive where so many others had failed.
A yearling individual, St. Leger, was, without fail, the first individual to investigate each carcass, with older individuals who were wiser to the possible dangers seemingly more hesitant to move in on the free meal. St. Leger’s curiosity and boldness is something that immediately endeared him to me, and among all of the different personalities that emerged as I was fortunate to observe this pack, he quickly became a favourite of mine to watch at feeding times. He often approached the vehicle, issuing a growl and then running back to his feeding family as if to let me know that NONE of their food would be shared with me, even if I did the job of lugging it over to them in the 40 degree heat…and ringing the dinner bell.
Once feeding had commenced, the pack would split off in different directions, a liver going one way, the torso going another as different pack members converged. To many, it would appear that the dogs were fighting over who got what, however, this actually represents a helping behaviour, where individuals are not strong enough to rip off the meat that they need for themselves. They therefore require the assistance of pack members to tear and pull the carcass apart, much like opening a Christmas cracker on Christmas day at the family table. What was particularly striking, was that, contrary to what many would expect, Witwater rarely fed at the feeding site, instead opting to skirt those that were preoccupied with feeding and patrol the perimeter of the pack. He acted as their guardian, their leader and, arguably, one of the main reasons for their survival. Once feeding was over, a few pack members, Witwater often amongst them, would simultaneously head back to the den, leaving some of the other members to gnaw on a bone or make use of the last remaining scraps. This was also the opportunity for me to collect any faecal samples that were left after the dogs had fed … one of the less enviable parts of my job, but one that was vital for my research into diet and stress physiology.
On this particular occasion, I believed that the whole pack had moved off and rushed to collect my samples. Midway through collecting a sample I heard some rustling in the brush and looked up. This time I was met with the gaze of Lightning, so named after the patterning running down his front left leg. He was painted with the same curious gaze as Witwater had shown me earlier, before he too darted off into the bush and melted away in the direction of the den.
That evening I sat on my boulder with my binoculars and waited to see the pack emerge on the other side of the valley of brush. While I waited, I considered the conversation that may take place between Witwater and Lightning as they discussed my motives for providing them with this food, and could not help but have a little laugh at the expression that they would have had on their faces then. Before my thought had the chance to fade, the members that had been the first to leave the carcass appeared at the base of their den’s koppie and nimbly made their way to the rocky outcrop that they called home. The dying light of the day casting long shadows as their sleek figures wound their way around the guardians and pups who had been waiting for them, now sniffing and chittering excitedly. Meat was hurriedly regurgitated to feed the hungry pups and den guards, and it was at this point that Witwater fed. In this moment, where the alpha male, entitled to feed whenever he pleased, clearly waited until the pack was safe and sound before eating his fill, that the importance of the social structure exhibited by wild dogs and how this is fundamental to their survival could not have been better demonstrated. At this point, a deep sadness also set within me. Despite the hard work and similar strategies and sacrifices employed by so many other packs and their noble leaders, like Witwater, this was all that remained of the Waterberg wild dog dynasty. It was then, that I found myself determined that this could not be the legacy left by humans in the Waterberg.
Sadly, wild dog-farmer conflict still persists in the Waterberg. The year 2019 saw no less than two of the wild dogs from pack that I monitored illegally shot and killed by farmers, and three pups purposefully driven over and killed on a dirt road. It is now 2020 and I write this with renewed hope. My Masters research is at an end, and the number of wild dogs in the Waterberg has almost doubled. Ultimately, this stands testament to the hard work and dedication of people like Derek van der Merwe, co-operating farmers and organizations such as the EWT and the Wild dog Advisory Group of South Africa.
The work is, however, not over and the beginnings of this possible success story have not been without losses. With more work before us than that which is behind, I would leave you with the words of Sir David Attenborough, “It is surely our responsibility to do everything within our power to create a planet that provides a home not just for us, but for all life on Earth.”
