Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick ( Chapter 5 )( Page 2 )( Jock's Schooldays )

He learnt something fresh almost every day: he learnt, for instance, that, although it was shady
and cool under the waggon, it was not good enough to lie in the wheel track, not even for the pleasure of feeling the cool iron tyre against your back or head as you slept; and he knew that, because one day he had done it and the wheel had gone over his foot; and it might just as
easily have been his back or head.  Fortunately the sand was soft and his foot was not crushed; but he was very lame for some days, and had to travel on the waggon. He learned a good deal from Jess: among other things, that it was not necessary to poke his nose up against a snake in order to find out what it was.  He knew that Jess would fight anything; and when one day he saw
her back hair go up and watched her sheer off the footpath wide into the grass, he did the same; and then when we had shot the snake, both he and Jess came up very very cautiously and sniffed at it, with every hair on their bodies standing up. He found out for himself that it was not a good idea to turn a scorpion over with his paw.  The vicious little tail with a thorn in it whipped
over the scorpion's back, and Jock had such a foot that he must have thought a scorpion worse than two waggons.  He was a very sick dog for some days; but after that, whenever he saw a thing that he did not understand, he would watch it very carefully from a little way off and
notice what it did and what it looked like, before trying experiments. So, little by little, Jock got to understand plenty of things that no town dog would ever know, and he got to know--just as some people do--by what we call instinct, whether a thing was dangerous or safe, even
though he had never seen anything like it before.  That is how he knew that wolves or lions were about--and that they were dangerous--when he heard or scented them; although he had never seen, scented or heard one before to know what sort of animal it might be.  You may well wonder how he could tell whether the scent or the cry belonged to a wolf which he
must avoid, or to a buck which he might hunt, when he had never seen either a wolf or a buck at the time; but he did know; and he also knew that no dog could safely go outside the ring of the camp fires when wolf or lion was about.  I have known many town-bred dogs that could scent
them just as well as Jess or Jock could, but having no instinct of danger they went out to see what it was, and of course they never came back. I used to take Jock with me everywhere so that he could learn everything that a hunting dog ought to know, and above all things to learn that he was my dog, and to understand all that I wanted to tell him.  So while he was still a puppy, whenever he stopped to sniff at something new or to look at something strange, I would show him what it was; but if he stayed behind to explore while I moved on, or if he fell asleep and did not hear me get up from where I had sat down to rest, or went off the track on his own account, I used to hide away from him on top of a rock or up a tree and let him hunt about until he found me. At first he used to be quite excited when he missed me, but after a little time he got to know what to do and would sniff along the ground and canter away after me--always finding me quite easily.  Even if I climbed a tree to hide from him he would follow my track to the foot of the tree, sniff up the trunk as far as he could reach standing up against it, and then peer up into the branches.  If he could not see me from one place, he would try another--always with his head tilted a bit on one side.  He never barked at these times; but as soon as he saw me,
his ears would drop, his mouth open wide with the red tongue lolling out, and the stump of a tail would twiggle away to show how pleased he was.  Sometimes he would give a few little whimpery grunts: he hardly ever barked; when he did I knew there was something worth looking at. Jock was not a quarrelsome dog, and he was quick to learn and very
obedient, but in one connection I had great difficulty with him for quite a little time.  He had a sort of private war with the fowls; and it was due to the same cause as his war with the other puppies: they interfered with him.  Now, every one knows what a fowl is like: it is
impudent, inquisitive, selfish, always looking for something to eat, and has no principles.
A friend of mine once told me a story about a dog of his and the trouble he had with fowls.  Several of us had been discussing the characters of dogs, and the different emotions they feel and manage to express, and the kind of things they seem to think about.  Every one knows that a dog can feel angry, frightened, pleased, and disappointed.  Any one who knows dogs will tell you that they can also feel anxious, hopeful, nervous, inquisitive, surprised, ashamed, interested, bad, loving, jealous, and contented--just like human beings. We had told many stories illustrating this, when my friend asked the question: "Have dogs a sense of humour?"  Now I know that Jock looked very foolish the day he fought the table-leg--and a silly old hen made
him look just as foolish another day--but that is not quite what my friend meant.  On both occasions Jock clearly felt that he had mad himself look ridiculous; but he was very far from looking amused.  The question was: Is a dog capable of sufficient thinking to appreciate a
simple joke, and is it possible for a dog to feel amused.  If Jess had seen Jock bursting to fight the table-leg would she have seen the joke? Well, I certainly did not think so; but he said he was quite certain some dogs have a sense of humour; and he had had proof of it. He told the story very gravely, but I really do not even now know whether he--Well, here it is: He had once owned a savage old watch-dog, whose box stood in the back-yard where he was kept chained up all day; he used to be fed once a day--in the mornings--and the great plague of his life was the fowls.  They ran loose in the yard and picked up food all day, besides getting a really good feed of grain morning and evening; possibly the knowledge of this made the old dog particularly
angry when they would come round by ones or twos or dozens trying to steal part of his one meal.  Anyhow, he hated them, and whenever he got a chance killed them.  The old fowls learned to keep out of his way and never ventured within his reach unless they were quite sure that he was asleep or lying in his kennel where he could not see them; but there were always new fowls coming, or young ones growing up; and so the war went on. One Sunday morning my friend was enjoying a smoke on his back stoep when feeding time came round.  The cook took the old dog's food to him in a high three-legged pot, and my friend, seeing the fowls begin to gather round and wishing to let the old dog have his meal in peace, told the cook to give the fowls a good feed in another part of the yard to draw them off.  So the old fellow polished off his food and licked the pot clean, leaving not a drop or a speck behind. But fowls are very greedy; they were soon back again wandering about, with their active-looking eyes searching everything.  The old dog, feeling pretty satisfied with life, picked out a sandy spot in the sunshine, threw himself down full stretch on his side, and promptly went to sleep--at peace with all the world.  Immediately he did this, out stepped a long-legged athletic-looking young cockerel and began to
advance against the enemy.  As he got nearer he slowed down, and looked first with one eye and then with the other so as to make sure that all was safe, and several times he paused with one foot poised high before deciding to take the next step.  My friend was greatly amused to see all
the trouble that the fowl was taking to get up to the empty pot, and, for the fun of giving the conceited young cockerel a fright, threw a pebble at him.  He was so nervous that when the pebble dropped near him, he gave one great bound and tore off flapping and screaming down the
yard as if he thought the old dog was after him.  The old fellow himself was startled out of his sleep, and raised his head to see what the row was about; but, as nothing more happened, he lay down again, and the cockerel, finding also that it was a false alarm, turned back not a bit
ashamed for another try. The cockerel had not seen the old dog lift his head; my friend had, and
when he looked again he saw that, although the underneath eye--half buried in the sand--was shut, the top eye was open and was steadily watching the cockerel as he came nearer and nearer to the pot.  My friend sat dead still, expecting a rush and another fluttering scramble.
At last the cockerel took the final step, craned his neck to its utmost and peered down into the empty pot.  The old dog gave two gentle pats with his tail in the sand, and closing his eye went to sleep again. Jock had the same sort of trouble.  The fowls tried to steal his food;
and he would not stand it.  His way of dealing with them was not good for their health: before I could teach him not to kill, and before the fowls would learn not to steal, he had finished half a dozen of them one after another with just one bite and a shake.  He would growl very low
as they came up and, without lifting his head from the plate, watch them with his little eyes turning from soft brown to shiny black; and when they came too near and tried to snatch just one mouthful--well, one jump, one shake, and it was all over. In the end he learned to tumble them over and scare their wits out without hurting them; and they learned to give him a very wide berth. I used always to keep some fowls with the waggons, partly to have fresh
meat if we ran out of game, but mainly to have fresh eggs, which were a very great treat; and as a rule it was only when a hen turned obstinate and would not lay that we ate her.  I used to have one old rooster, whose name was Pezulu, and six or eight hens.  The hens changed from
time to time--as we ate them--but Pezulu remained. The fowl-coop was carried on top of everything else, and it was always left open so that the fowls could go in and out as they liked.  In the very beginning of all, of course, the fowls were shut in and fed in the coop for a day or two to teach them where their home was; but it is surprising how quickly a fowl will learn and how it observes things. For instance, the moving of the coop from one waggon to another is not a
thing one would expect the fowls to notice, all the waggons being so much alike and having no regular order at the outspans; but they did notice it, and at once.  They would first get on to the waggon on which the coop had been, and look about in a puzzled lost kind of way; then
walk all over the load apparently searching for it, with heads cocked this way and that, as if a great big coop was a thing that might have  been mislaid somewhere; then one after another would jerk out short cackles of protest, indignation and astonishment, and generally make no
end of a fuss.  It was only when old Pezulu led the way and perched on the coop itself and crowed and called to them that they would get up on to the other waggon. Pezulu got his name by accident--in fact, by a misunderstanding.  It is a Zulu word meaning `up' or `on top,' and when the fowls first joined the waggons and were allowed to wander about at the outspan places, the boys would drive them up when it was time to trek again by cracking their big whips and shouting "Pezulu."  In a few days no driving or whip-cracking was necessary; one of the boys would shout "Pezulu" three or four times, and they would all come in and one by one fly and
scramble up to the coop.  One day, after we had got a new lot of hens, a stranger happened to witness the performance.  Old Pezulu was the only one who knew what was meant, and being a terribly fussy nervous old gentleman, came tearing out of the bush making a lot of noise, and
scrambled hastily on to the waggon.  The stranger, hearing the boys call "Pezulu" and seeing him hurry up so promptly, remarked: "How well he knows his name!"  So we called him Pezulu after that. Whenever we got new fowls Pezulu became as distracted as a nervous man
with a large family trying to find seats in an excursion train.  As soon as he saw the oxen being brought up, and before any one had called for the fowls, he would begin fussing and fuming--trying all sorts of dodges to get the hens up to the waggons.  He would crow and cluck-cluck or
kip-kip; he would go a few yards towards the waggons and scratch in the ground, pretending to have found something good, and invite them to come and share it; he would get on the disselboom and crow and flap his wings loudly; and finally he would mount on top of the coop and make all sorts of signals to the hens, who took not the least notice of him.  As the
inspanning went on he would get more and more excited; down he would come again--not flying off, but hopping from ledge to ledge to show them the easy way; and once more on the ground he would scrape and pick and cluck to attract them, and the whole game would be played over again and again.  So even with new fowls we had very little trouble, as old Pezulu
did most of the teaching. But sometimes Pezulu himself was caught napping--to the high delight of the boys.  He was so nervous and so fussy that they thought it great fun to play tricks on him and pretend to go off and leave him behind.  It was not easy to do this because, as I say, he did not wait to be called, but got ready the minute he saw the oxen coming up.  He was like those
fussy people who drive every one else crazy and waste a lot of time by always being half an hour early, and then annoy you by boasting that they have never missed a train in their lives.
But there was one way in which Pezulu used to get caught.  Just as he knew that inspanning meant starting, so, too, he knew that outspanning meant stopping; and whenever the waggons stopped--even for a few minutes--out would pop his head, just like the fussy red-faced father of
the big family looking out to see if it was their station or an accident on the line.  Right and left he would look, giving excited inquisitive clucks from time to time, and if they did not start in another minute or two, he would get right out and walk anxiously to the edge of the load
and have another good look around--as the nervous old gentleman gets half out, and then right out, to look for the guard, but will not let go the handle of the door for fear of being left.  Unless he saw the boys outspanning he would not get off, and if one of the hens ventured out he
would rush back at her in a great state and try to bustle her back into the coop.  But often it happens while trekking that something goes wrong with the gear--a yokeskey or a nek-strop breaks, or an ox will not pull kindly or pulls too hard where he is, and you want to change his place; and in that way it comes about that sometimes you have to outspan one or
two or even more oxen in the middle of a trek. That is how Pezulu used to get caught: the minute he saw outspanning begin, he would nip off with all the hens following him and wander about looking for food, chasing locusts or grasshoppers, and making darts at beetles and all sorts of dainties--very much interested in his job and wandering further from the waggons at every step.  The boys would watch him, and as soon as they were fixed up again, would start off without a word of warning to Pezulu.  Then there was a scene.  At the first sound
of the waggon-wheels moving he would look up from where he was or walk briskly into the open or get on to an ant-heap to see what was up, and when to his horror he saw the waggon actually going without him, he simply screamed open-mouthed and tore along with wings outstretched--the old gentleman shouting "Stop the train, stop the train," with his family straggling along behind him.  It never took him long to catch up and scramble on, but even then he was not a bit less excited: he was perfectly hysterical, and his big red comb seemed to get quite purple as
if he might be going to have apoplexy, and he twitched and jerked about so that it flapped first over one eye and then over the other.  This was the boys' practical joke which they played on him whenever they could. That was old Pezulu--Pezulu the First.  He was thick in the body, all
chest and tail, short in the legs, and had enormous spurs; and his big comb made him; look so red in the face that one could not help thinking he was too fond of his dinner.  In some old Christmas number we came across a coloured caricature of a militia colonel in full uniform, and
for quite a long time it remained tacked on to the coop with "Pezulu" written on it.
Pezulu the Great--who was Pezulu the Second--was not like that: he was a game cock, all muscle and no frills, with a very resolute manner and a real love of his profession; he was a bit like Jock in some things; and that is why I fancy perhaps Jock and he were friends in a kind of way. But Jock could not get on with the others: they were constantly changing; new ones who had to be taught manners were always coming; so he just lumped them together, and hated fowls.  He taught them manners, but they taught him something too--at any rate, one of them did; and one of the biggest surprises and best lessons Jock ever had was given him by
a hen while he was still a growing-up puppy. He was beginning to fancy that he knew a good deal, and like most young dogs was very inquisitive and wanted to know everything and at once.  At that time he was very keen on hunting mice, rats and bush squirrels, and
had even fought and killed a meerkat after the plucky little rikkitikki had bitten him rather badly through the lip; and he was still much inclined to poke his nose in or rush on to things instead of sniffing round about first. However, he learned to be careful, and an old hen helped to teach him. The hens usually laid their eggs in the coop because it was their home,
but sometimes they would make nests in the bush at the outspan places. One of the hens had done this, and the bush she had chosen was very low and dense.  No one saw the hen make the nest and no one saw her sitting on it, for the sunshine was so bright everywhere else, and the shade of the bush so dark that it was impossible to see anything there; but while
we were at breakfast Jock, who was bustling about everywhere as a puppy will, must have scented the hen or have seen this brown thing in the dark shady hole. The hen was sitting with her head sunk right down into her chest, so that he could not see any head, eyes or beak--just a sort of brown lump. Suddenly we saw Jock stand stock-still, cock up one ear, put his head
down and his nose out, hump up his shoulders a bit and begin to walk very slowly forward in a crouching attitude.  He lifted his feet so slowly and so softly that you could count five between each step.  We were all greatly amused and thought he was pointing a mouse or a locust,
and we watched him. He crept up like a boy showing off until he was only six inches from the
object, giving occasional cautious glances back at us to attract attention.  Just as he got to the hole the hen let out a vicious peck on the top of his nose and at the same time flapped over his head, screaming and cackling for dear life.  It was all so sudden and so surprising that she was gone before he could think of making a grab at her; and when he heard our shouts of laughter he looked as foolish as if he understood all about it.