My Pal Mike

by William Sydney Chadwick

Mike was born in my camp, 300 miles above the great Victoria Falls in Africa. He was a mongrel but an aristocrat. For his mother was my purebred Irish terrier, Fanny, and his father an Airedale of unblemished pedigree, owned by the local Native Commissioner. His life was adventurous from the start. He was only five months old when he saw his sister knocked into the river by a crocodile’s tail and engulfed in cavernous jaws before she could regain the bank.

A month later he saw his brother killed by a black mamba when the reptile glided across the camp clearing, and the misguided puppy rushed out and seized it by the middle. Mike was rushing to support his brother when the toe of my boot hurled him out of danger, and before he regained his feet, my gun had blown the snake’s head off. Ten minutes later he saw his brother die. Then I took him by the neck and pointed to the squirming body of the snake while I gave him some advice he appeared to understand. His eyes undoubtedly interpreted the meaning of my gestures, and he never afterwards took liberties with snakes.

In many a moment of peril, later, he owed his life to that same rare speed of intuition and an intelligence which seemed to enable him to classify each new danger as he met it.

He was six months old when I took him out for his first hunting lessons. I had noted that he inherited the Airedale’s gift for silence, as well as the build and color of his father. I taught him to crawl beside me when stalking game on all fours in the open, thus having him at hand without the risk of frightening the game away. That lesson was difficult, but he had learned it in a few months.

When he was nearly two years old I took him on his first long hunting trip. At our second camp he heard the thunderous tones of a lion at close quarters for the first time.

Attracted by the smell of meat in the camp, the royal killer came within a hundred yards before his vibrating roar stilled the native chatter and made every hair on Mike’s spine stiffen with anger.
Then doubt seemed to assail him and he crept into the doorway of my tent, growling softly as he stared
into the dark bush. I drove the beast off with a couple of shots and then told Mike that the fellow with the big voice was a bit outside his fighting weight. He had been a little scared and my pat on the shoulder seemed to comfort him. I judged he would take no chances and left him on guard, taking his excitable mother into the tent.

Some time after midnight a hyena sneaked towards the native bivouac, and Mike must have scented the brute and crept silently forward to intercept him. A sudden yell of alarm awakened me, and I found that Mike had landed on the hyena’s back and bitten him when the beast was within six feet of my head man, Stephen.

Mike was still standing beside the Zulu when I reached the bivouac and was growling ferociously. Stephen explained the cause of the commotion and then said, “That hyena wanted flesh from my face, master, but Mike saved me from his jaws. Keep him in our tent, Nkose, for he has a Zulu heart and will fight any beast that walks. He is my little brother!” I knew that the friendship of the grim-faced Zulu might mean life for Mike if ever the need of his help arose. But I did not chain the dog, because I wanted him to learn by experience to avoid danger and develop discretion. So, I patted him and praised his vigilance, and his amber eyes looked the love and worship which only the undivided heart of a dog can feel for a man.

Soon afterwards we crossed the Quando river into Portuguese territory and, within a week of the crossing, Mike encountered a leopard for the first time. He had been lying across the door of my tent as usual when I went to sleep and must have scented the beast. But he was too late to save his mother. She had been asleep by the fire, about ten yards away, and had probably scented the leopard too for she was halfway to the tent when seized. At the anguished yelp, which awakened me, I rushed from the tent to see a spitting ball of fury contorting itself in an effort to reach the dog which clung to his rump.

For Mike had come to the defense of his mother and jumped to the rescue. He was hanging desperately to the leopard. One slash from those razor talons meant death, so I took the risk of hitting Mike and fired.

The spotted killer uttered a venomous snarl and before I could fire again made a scrambling rush for the bush. Mike had dropped from his quarters at my shot and was standing beside the limp form of his mother, which the leopard had dropped to meet his attack. I examined the dead body of Fanny and then warned Mike of the folly of pitting himself against such a killer while secretly paying tribute to his fearless heart.

Mike bristled with rage as though he understood my words, and looked savagely in the direction the leopard had taken. But in a few minutes, he came and sat beside me, and we kept watch together until dawn. Then we took the spoor of the badly wounded leopard, and after a mile it led into thick bush. The thicket was only about two hundred yards in circumference, so I decided to burn it.

Mike had already scented his enemy. but obeyed my order to lie down as the natives fired the bush. The sudden shout of a native was followed by the rush of the leopard from cover and, in spite of his wound he moved swiftly towards an adjacent tree. Before I could stop him, Mike shot in pursuit and, at the very foot of the tree, forced the leopard to turn at bay. But the striking paws drove the dog back and, as he jumped out of danger, the leopard leaped for the tree trunk.

He was perhaps six feet above ground when Mike jumped for him and fixed his teeth in a hind leg. The beast fell in a heap and only agility unusual for a dog enabled Mike to avoid the blow of a flensing paw. But he did not retreat far and showed obvious determination to hold the leopard until I could shoot.
Because of his position I could not fire at once, and the leopard lost no time in swarming aloft again. This time, Mike’s desperate leap enabled him to seize a hind foot; but the leopard clung firmly to the rough bark, while he spat and snarled in hideous menace. He was kicking fiercely to dislodge the dog when my bullet cut short his snarls and his career, bringing him to the ground almost on top of Mike.

The dog was up instantly, and when we reached the pair, he was stalking stiff-legged round the body of the leopard. Bristling with anger and growling deep in his throat, he looked so comical that some of the natives laughed. They were instantly cuffed by the heavy hand of Stephen, as he said, “You laugh, you hyenas! But the dog fought the leopard while your bellies shook with fear! It is his kill. And at the triumph of a warrior, such as you may not laugh!”

I knew then that, to Stephen, Mike was more than a dog. A month later he strengthened that impression when we were deep in elephant country. When we first found the great spoors, I left Mike in camp, knowing that he could be of little use against the great beasts and might get hurt or killed. But the reproach in his eyes and the heartbreak in the howl which followed me haunted me all that day.

The next day I took him with me. I soon found that elephant spoors did not interest him, but he grew vastly excited over tracks of antelope and bush-pig and seemed puzzled when I refused to turn aside for them. His obedience to my command to follow was apathetic and I guessed that he considered the hunt a poor one. Soon after noon we sighted the elephants resting in the bush and I signaled the natives to lie down. Then I went ahead with Stephen and Mike, crept quietly within thirty yards of a big bull, and fired.

I think the trumpeting which followed and the crash of the stampeding herd must have scared Mike. I found him crouching against my legs with his tail between his own as I fired again. Immediately afterwards I heard a smashing of bushes behind me and turned to see a big bull with trunk curled for action, storming towards me. This beast had remained hidden and was now following the herd, but with an obvious intention to wreak vengeance on anything between him and them.

To my anxious surprise, my little pal who had seemed so badly scared rushed to meet the monster, with what intention only he could tell! But as he came within ten paces of the bull, the great trunk uncoiled to strike him. That was too much for even his stout heart, and with a pathetic growl of defiance he fled. Yet by his action he probably saved me. For the bull heard his growl and stopped, detected the dog and swerved after him. He thus presented his side to me and gave me an easy brain shot which I took advantage of. The bull collapsed within a few yards of Mike, but when I called the dog he crept into cover and refused to come to me. Thinking him scared, I repeated my calls and went towards him, until at last he crept to my feet and lay with head on paws.

He bore no resemblance to the dog which had stalked so proudly round the leopard’s body and, gradually, I realized that shame-and not fear-possessed him. No brave man-yielding to a sudden impulse of fear-could have exhibited more certainly the shame such men feel at a momentary lapse of courage, save in actual words.

To encourage Mike, I praised him and gave him to understand that I was pleased with his behavior. Yet he remained very subdued all that day, and several times that night he awoke with a frightened yelp-no doubt dreaming of those colossal legs racing towards him. But Stephen was elated with the courage of his “little brother.” “Mike will fight anything,” he said. “In him lives the spirit of a mighty hunter and warrior of my people. Do not ask me how I know. You will see that I am right!”

Within fifty miles of the home camp, I was walking ahead of the wagon with the dog, when Mike caught the scent of a lion. Growling a soft challenge, he stepped behind me and stared down the path we followed, so that I was not surprised to find further on, where the path took a sharp bend, a lion and two lionesses feeding on a kudu cow.

My rifle was ready and I dropped the big lion with a clean shot. While the lionesses stood irresolute, I shot one of them, and the other disappeared in a mighty bound for the bush. But the fallen lioness was up in an instant and making for a patch of bush about thirty yards distant, although she was obviously badly hurt. When I found that the lion was dead, I very unwisely followed the lioness.

I proceeded cautiously, but she must have been watching from cover, for before had gone fifteen yards she charged at surprising speed, plainly determined to kill. I fired swiftly, but at that moment her broken shoulder caused her to lurch and the bullet only scored a furrow down her back. I think it would have gone hard with me then, but for the love little Mike bore me.

Seeing the lioness menacing me at thirty yards’ distance he shot forward with a fury which almost matched that of his terrible foe. She checked to strike at his small body, but the vigilance he had learned in past encounters made him leap aside just in time. As the beast rushed past him towards me he jumped in again, to fix his teeth in her off quarter. Roaring with fury, she turned like an acrobat to destroy him and, as she did so, I made use of the time he had gained for me and fired again.

My bullet smashed through her heart and shoulders from a distance of only twenty feet, as Mike relaxed his grip and sprang clear. Then, for a few seconds, she tore up the earth convulsively with her talons before she died. Those same talons would assuredly have been tearing at my body, but for the respite Mike’s intervention had given me.

So I took him in my arms and thanked him, and he licked my face understandingly. Then he went to the dead lioness and sniffed her slowly and warily, as though still unconvinced that she was really harmless. We reached the Zambesi a few days later, to find that the story of Mike’s attack on the lioness was already known to the natives, and that he was a hero in the kraals. For to the natives, accustomed to mongrel lurchers educated from puppyhood in the “safety first” principle, Mike’s gallantry was more than amazing.

During the next two years he helped Stephen and me out of many a tight corner and, once or twice, we were able to repay him part of our debt when he got in a tight spot. But space does not permit a description of those events, and I can only relate here the story of his gallant end. This occurred when I was on the way to the diamond mines at Dundo, in Angola, with a herd of traded cattle. I crossed the cattle over the source of the Quando river and decided to rest them on the green vleis from which the river took its rise. I had learned from a Portuguese trader that game was scarce in the country ahead so, while the cattle rested, I turned back to the border of the Lomba forest, to kill and dry enough meat for the rest of the journey.

Knowing how bold the lions were in this uninhabited country I built large fires each evening and ordered the carriers to keep them going all night. But after a full feed of meat the natives preferred to sleep, and three nights of immunity increased their natural carelessness.

Just before dawn on the fifth morning, Mike’s deep growl aroused me. I was sleeping on the ground with the dog beside me and seized my rifle as I sat up. At the same moment an anguished scream was followed by a pandemonium of yells as firebrands hurtled through the air. Mike was growling fiercely, but his nose had warned him belatedly on this occasion. Two natives had been carried off from beside the dying fires and, when dawn came, I determined to avenge them.

The whole camp sallied forth on the spoor, and within a mile of the camp we found the skulls and feet of the victims. Some distance farther on we crossed a small stream, and a mile or two beyond that the great tracks led into an isolated kopje, well covered with bush. While I halted halfway up the hill, I sent the natives to climb in two parties to the top. There they were to close in and descend in an unbroken line towards me and Stephen, until their advance forced the lions to break cover. Mike stood just behind me, staring up the kopje, when a soft whistle sounded.

Two Natives above us were pointing to a mass of loose boulders about twenty yards above our heads, and I saw a yellow form creeping to my right. I moved a few yards to get a clear shot, when the head of a lioness rose from behind the rocks and looked straight down at us. I fired at the lion with steady aim, but the shot was hardly heard above the mighty roar which the lioness charged. The next moment Mike rushed to meet her, but with her eyes fixed on me she leapt clean over him.

Blind and deaf to all but necessity of stopping that daily rush, I sighted between the yellow eyes coming towards me. I fired almost as her weight hurled me downhill, away from those deadly claws. She died as she fell, although she still struck spasmodically as she slithered downhill. Then Stephen drove his assegai through her heart and Mike flew at her neck and hung there, neither realizing that they attacked a dead beast.

My bullet through lungs and spine had brought the lion slithering down, mortally wounded, on the very spot I had occupied when I fired at the lioness; but his furious eyes had seen Mike attack his dead mate. His paw struck out as his body came to rest against the boulder and ripped the dog’s side from thigh to shoulder. Knowing that the blow meant death to Mike, Stephen uttered a roar which matched the lion’s tones in fury, raised his dripping assegai and rove it through the struggling beast, as he stood above it, with a force which carried the spearhead clear though the tawny body.

Prevented from rising by his broken spine, the lion still struck savagely with all the force of the death agony, and the terrible claws tore all the sinews of the Zulu’s muscular thigh. He staggered and fell as I sent a bullet through the lion’s head, standing very close-because I was shaking like an aspen myself!
I turned hastily to Stephen, not knowing then whether his wound was mortal or not, but he muttered as he bit back a groan, “Little brother has gone, master, but I have sent his slayer to join him in the world of shadows. Bring the dog close that I may tell him so!”

Then I found that Mike was not quite dead. My voice reached his failing senses, and the amber eyes opened and looked straight at me, while the pink tongue slid out as though to caress once more the hand which patted his head. I lifted him carefully and laid him close beside the Zulu, and Stephen raised his right arm in salute and uttered a sonorous “Bayete” Mike’s eyes flickered for a moment as though he recognized the royal salute, then closed in death.

Stephan insisted on being carried down the kopje at once and after I had attended to his injury, he talked long and earnestly to the natives. Afterwards he said to me: “I have ordered a grave for Mike, master, where he can sleep in peace and no evil beasts can disturb him. It will take one day to make. But as I cannot walk, I ask you to rest for that day.” By the next afternoon a mighty cairn of rocks had been raised above Mike’s grave.

I have owned many dogs since then, but none ever stirred my admiration as that one did although many were as brave and loyal as Mike. In a way Stephen was right in his idea that within Mike’s rough hide dwelt the spirit which had once been that of a human warrior as brave and loyal as he. For in understanding Mike outshone any dog I have known.

THE END

Illustration: The striking paws drove the dog back, and as he jumped out of danger, the leopard leaped for the tree trunk. c. 1950’s – Sam Savitt (Illustrator). Enhanced by The Vintage Airedale

William Sydney Chadwick (1882-?) Author was born in England and emigrated to South Africa in the 1920s. He was a transport rider in Rhodesia, one time member of the Bechuanaland Protectorate Police and professional hunter in that he earned a living selling the ivory and lions skins from his trophies.

Sam Savitt (1917 – 2000) was an equine artist, author, and teacher, as well as an illustrator of over 130 books, in addition to 16 that he wrote.