An eerie whistling pierces the still air in the hilly jungles of southern Karnataka. In one fluid motion, some fifty-odd spotted deer raise their heads, sniffing the wind, ears twitching nervously. The whistling abruptly stops, and then takes up again, louder this time. The deer are spurred into motion, tails flashing up, eyes wide. They bound across the highlands, streaks of russet and white, apparently successful in their flight, when one of the last ones, an elderly doe who is struggling to keep up with the herd, stumbles, nearly crashing onto her knees.
A patch of red materialises on either side of her, heckling her, jaws snapping. Red paints the landscape - red for the blood that streams out of the dying doe, and red for the wild dogs that bring her finally to her knees.
South Asia's red dog, the dhole, is known by a plethora of names. The whistling dog. The Asian red dog. The Asiatic wild dog. The mountain wolf. A long-since deviated member of the canid family tree, the dhole is more closely related to the African painted dog than to the wolf. With a different dentition pattern and a different number of teats, the dhole is only a dog in name and in behaviour, not according to genetics.
Least popular
Perhaps the world's least-studied canid, the dhole faces heavy persecution from farmers and villagers in its range countries, where it is viewed as vermin. Although the dhole is rarely involved in cases of human-wildlife conflict, unlike wolves and big cats, it is immensely disliked and easily dismissed.
This wild dog is one of three canid species in the world specially adapted to hypercarnivory, a diet exclusively comprised of meat. Thus, sufficient ungulate prey is key to the dhole's ongoing persistence in its range countries, and to prevent cases of livestock depredation due to low natural prey numbers. Human disturbance, poisoning, disease from feral dogs, and habitat fragmentation pose great threats to the survival of this unique wild dog.
Historically, dholes ranged throughout South and Southeast Asia, but today, only scattered populations remain in forest pockets. India is the last remaining stronghold of the dhole, though more research is required to verify population sizes. The Western Ghats and Central India contain most of India's remaining wild dogs, although occasional dogs have been spotted in other parts of the country, such as Rajasthan’s Sariska Tiger Reserve.
The dhole's strength lies in its pack. Packs can range from as few as two individuals to an average of 15 dholes, although reports exist of packs as large as 100 animals. The dhole communicates with an eerie whistling call, more like that of a bird than of a dog, while hunting, and produces a range of vocalisations during other times.
Prey is surrounded and disembowelled while still alive, earning the dhole a bad name as an unethical sportsman. But, in the jungle, anything is permissible in the race to survive. However, it is to be noted that dholes, unlike wolves, are gentler and more expressive towards other pack members, even allowing pups to eat before the hunting adults, a unique trait among members of the dog family.
First sighting
I first made my acquaintance with the red dog in the dense evergreen forests of Nagarahole. It was barely five, and we were hungry for some wildlife sightings before beginning fieldwork. The forest road was a familiar one; we entered the tiger reserve through the Antharasanthe gate by the Kabini River and followed the winding road until we entered Kodagu district, landing up near Kutta gate.
The forest was at its most charming. Peacocks strutted by the sides of the road, warning us of impending rain showers (it was monsoon season, so rain was an expected visitor). Spotted deer browsed in the lush grass and the larger sambar eyed our jeep nervously. We paused to let a herd of elephants cross the forest road. Nothing is quite as terrifying as an early-morning encounter with an angry matriarch. Near the elephants, the landscape was dotted with gaur – Indian bison – and langurs. The booming call of the Hanuman langur is a common accompaniment to a forest drive.
Also read: On a wild dog chase
The forest gates are manned by capable guards who rap out a few questions and then let vehicles pass. Their job – to protect wildlife from undue harm due to traffic within forest habitat. One of the younger guards happened to know us well, and he nodded at us amicably as we passed the forest post on our way to Kutta gate. “You’ll find dogs near the gate at this time, probably a few hundred metres from it.”
We pulled closer to the gate, anticipation bubbling within our chests. I hung out of the window of the Thar as the dawn sky began to lighten more rapidly and streaks of pink and orange set the forest ablaze.
“There!”
Reddish shapes were popping up in the tall grass, a tail waving here, pricked ears there. Dogs. They melted out of the greenery like will-o-wisps, bounding lightly on padded paws. I counted seven dholes as they darted back and forth across the forest road, not caring a whit about our idling vehicle. Dholes are naturally curious animals, and they quickly dismissed us as no threat to their fun. One of the pack members, a smaller adult, nibbled on the ear of his sibling only to find himself flat on his back as the larger dhole snarled down at him. It was more of an irritable scolding, however, and the young dhole rolled to its feet, looking for all the world like a sheepish teenager after a scolding from his mother.
Halting vehicles is illegal within the forest, and we were inching forward at a snail’s pace. The Thar grumbled, unused to travelling in first gear for an extended period, and we stalled multiple times. Each time the vehicle shuddered to a halt, the dholes paused, sized us up, and then continued frisking about. We were mere distractions from their playtime, and they tolerated us amicably.
Suddenly, a lorry appeared from the other side of the road, entering the forest via Kutta gate. Seeing the dogs, the lorry driver honked twice, sharply. Honking is illegal in forest zones, but most people ignore this rule. The dogs started, and then melted into the forest like fragments of a beautiful sunrise dream.
(The author is a wetland ecologist with Ashoka Trust for Research in Ecology and the Environment, Bengaluru)