From Pup to Wolf

Bit of a different take on a crazy sighting from the Luangwa from a few weeks ago! Those who know me know my love for classical myths and texts. Bear with me aha… sighting is narrated further below :))

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The Metamorphoses, by Ovid, is a long poem published circa 1 A.D. narrating short stories of physical transformations undergone by gods or inflicted upon humans as punishment. It was an innovative text for its era: for the first time, a literary piece conveyed a vision of the world through metaphorical transformations, rather than simply documenting the relationships between gods and mortals. The overlaps between classical Greek/ Roman texts, their signification, their role and symbols, and modern day events, be they in nature or in culture, are fascinating and numerous. An example below with the Metamorphoses Book 1, verses 169-239, a chapter dubbed “Jupiter and Lycaon”. 

In Ovid, Lycaon, King of Arcadia, committed what the Greeks considered a terrible crime - an act of hubris or hybris (what we translate as unmeasurable excessiveness and arrogance). The Greeks feared excess above all as they believed it led to tragedy - see texts by Euripides, Sophocles, Aeschylus, or Aristotle’s Poetic).

The myth goes as follows. Lycaon hosted a dinner one evening, and a foreigner presented himself to the table, announcing himself as Zeus, God of Gods. The king did not believe this to be true, and tested him to see if he really was an omniscient being. Lycaon served him human flesh (in some versions of the myth…he had murdered his own son) for dinner. Now this was considered as a big - very big- offence. Cannibalism would send you straight to the depths of Tartarus, aka Hell. And this was even before Lycaon tried to murder the god. Zeus, of course unleashed his fury on the King, turning him and his fifty sons into bloodthirsty wolves, inspiring terror for generations to come. This also happens to be the first evocation of werewolves in classical literature. 

The semantic overlaps here are fascinating. The wild dogs’ latin name, Lycaon pictus, directly translates as « Painted wolf ». Similarly, the French name for wild dog (« Lycaon ») conserved its scientific term, itself derived from the greek word «λυκαων » (wolf). Today though, painted wolves are the only extant species from the genus Lycaon. And… in the eyes of San Bushman tribes, wild dogs have been tied to humanity’s mortality, sentenced to avenge an act of hubris for eternity:

It is said that, in the days when the earth was inhabited by the 'early race', Moon declared that, just as he was dying and being reborn repeatedly in the cycle of his phases, so too would people die and be reborn. But Hare refused to believe this possible. So Moon offered to demonstrate his own cycle of death and rebirth, yet Hare refused to watch. Enraged, Moon struck Hare in the face and split his lip. Hare retaliated by scratching Moon's face, leaving permanent scars. Moon withdrew the offer of immortality and declared that Hare was no longer a person but an animal, to be hunted, savaged and eaten by wild dogs. Henceforth, said Moon, all men would die and not return. Source

Side note: the accounts of man’s loss of access to immortality are multiple across cultures. From Biblical Adam and Eve to Demophon and Demeter, to Moon and Hare, hubris has always been tied to our mortality, linked to arrogance and interference with forces men did / do not understand nor acknowledge.

Man’s ability and desire to romanticise Nature is far from new, often negating its inherent cycle of life and death, and seeking to dominate its course - as is the case with exotic pets or radical landscape transformation, fragmenting territories and artificially creating novel ecosystems. For a lot of first time travellers to Africa, a sighting high on their list is a kill - usually, this desire stems from the romanticised scenes produced by beautiful wildlife documentaries. The senses are artistically stimulated though slow motion sequences and accelerated processes, violins and cellos, an absence of unpleasant smellsi…kills are shown to be quick and clean, a mixture of poetic ideal and spleen.

(Thank youuu for sticking with me till here aha)

Wild dog sightings are always very rewarding. Endangered creatures, cute little round ears, wagging tail, seemingly always playing and bouncing around. Gorgeous fiery pelts. And yet, watching them hunting is by no means pleasant: their kills are…gruesome, to say the least. 

(No lies, I wasn’t too sure myself if I was prepared for it, especially for my first kill. A baptism of fire!)

All the elements were in place for a really beautiful game drive. Just something about the dry river beds, the dark soil, the Luangwa light, and the birds singing to send away the day. The sun was starting to set, golden rays filtering through the few fluffy clouds that had come in, and the pups were clearly on discovery mode. They were sniffing at little pools of water left by yesterday’s rains, cautiously inspecting the puddles for crocodiles, guided by the adults. Before bouncing away when they saw their reflection in the water. 

Following wild dogs is tricky business, and our guide Bertram deserves a medal for it. Leaving the water, they shot out like rockets towards the nearest thickets, crossing a dry river bed to the other side. Following them like we could, we reached the point where they had inquisitively halted: a few dozens of meters away, silently dining, were a Tower of Thornycroft giraffe, endemic to the SL. 

Now picture this. A youngish wild dog puppy, discovering the world around it, tail wagging back and forth, occasionally jumping on its siblings’ backs and biting their ears. Mischievous. The pup sees a very, very tall (one would even say high) gangly thing minding its own business. It has to go and inspect. 

By then the light was gorgeous. Orange rays set the soil ablaze, the sky had turned pink, and the giraffes’ golden colour had taken on a warmer hue. The four pups just casually trotted up as close as they dared, sizing them up. Initially, the Tower ignored them, but as the alpha dogs were running around them gathering their young, the long-necks started staring them down, glaring a little oi you wot m8 here, a little don’t @ me bruv there - occasionally stamping a hoof.  (NB: I really, really wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of a giraffe’s kick.) 

It was one of those sightings. The ones where you feel privileged to be let in the intimacy of an animal’s life. The curiosity of a puppy, as it submissively lowers its back and lifts its head and ears to take a sniff, the giraffe’s slightly annoyed stare down, the parents trotting around, soft yelps and calls echoing across the bush. 

And then once more, by some sort of telepathic communication, they suddenly all run off in the distance. Again, we follow. 

Dogs running all over the place, methodically disorganised, when suddenly, out of nowhere, an impala flies past, going straight for the pack, as if it hadn’t seen them. A pregnant mother (only figured this out when the foetus was ripped out of her belly…); in a flash, that was it.

Three sprinted to corner it, each grabbing a leg, one at the stomach. And they pulled. Wild Dogs tend to tear their prey apart - picture the Roman punishment of quartering - and eating the prey inside out…as it is still alive. Eyes rolling, terrified bleating, blood red jaws sinking already digging into the warm meat. And then finished. The rest of the pack ran in, tails wagging, snouts low, ready to dine. “And then Lycaon transformed into Wolf”, to quote Ovid.

The sweet little inquisitive pups had turned into Ovid’s monster  - such is life. In 10 minutes, the carcass was polished - just as the Hyenas started to arrive.