Dick Houston - Bulu. African Wonder Dog

To Anna and Steve Tolan, champions of Zambias
endangered wildlife and guardians of its wild orphans.

And to Saint Francis of Assisi, the patron saint
of animals, who was the first to give animals a voice,
and their dignity.

I first met Bulu several years ago in Zambias Luangwa Valley. I was at the anti-poaching headquarters of the South Luangwa Conservation Society (SLCS). As president of Elefence International (an elephant conservation group), I was meeting with Rachel McRobb, the head of the SLCS, and its ranger force. While we were discussing plans to build the rangers an anti-poaching base, the two-way radio crackled to life. It was Anna Tolan of the Chipembele Wildlife Education Center, calling with an emergency from a nearby village. A hyena was caught in a snare. The animal was alive, but the wire had cut deep into its neck. She was using the radio of a Zambia Wildlife Authority (ZAWA) officer on the scene.

We drove to the scene and Rachel got out of the vehicle. Within minutes, she had calculated the drug dosage required, prepared the darting syringe, and loaded it into a carbon dioxide air rifle. Then she walked within several feet of the hyena, knelt down, aimed her rifle, and fired. Pop. The dart found its mark in the animals left hip. Five minutes later, the hyena was out cold. Using large wire cutters, Rachel removed the snare.

The ZAWA officer gave us permission to move the hyena to Chipembele for treatment. An hour later, we drove up to the wildlife center. A man stepped off the porch of a long cement building to greet us. It was Annas husband, Steve. We then carried the unconscious hyena into an open-air shed. It had a three-foot-high stone wall base, with chicken wire walls encircling support poles. We set the hapless animal on the floor. Rachel examined the hyenas neck and saw that the injury was not life-threatening. She cleaned the wound and injected antibiotics. After its full recovery, the hyena would be released back into the wild.

As I turned to leave the shed, I saw something peering through the chicken wire. It was a white dog with brown markings and a pointy face. It was standing on tiptoe against the stone wall, watching the hyena. Then the dog cocked its head to study me. Thats Bulu. Steve chuckled, noticing my surprise. Let me introduce you.

And from that moment on, I was in love with Bulu. As Steve and Anna and I became close friends, I learned of his incredible story. Over the years, Ive been privileged to see him in action in the bush. As you will read in these pages, Bulu is one of the most extraordinary dogs who ever lived.

Dick Houston
May 2010

D ont get a dog if youre going to live in the African bush, Mitch warned Steve and Anna as they sat in the shade of their gazebo overlooking the Luangwa River. Several years ago, some friends of mine lost a dog to a leopard. Snatched him right off the porch. Mitch looked to the river, where a crocodile was crawling onto a sandbar. Ive run safaris for nearly forty years in the Luangwa Valley. Ive never seen a pet survive here beyond a few months. He gestured at the hippo pod midriver, grumbling in the steam-bath heat. Need I remind you? He grinned his crooked smile. Theres tons of risks for a dog in the Zambian bush.

Anna and I know a few things about risks, Steve said with a wink at Anna as she poured tea into tin cups. The two smiled as they glanced over at their African-style house, fifty yards from the gazebo. It was a one-room circular rondavel, made of wood and straw with a thatched roof. It rested like a huge dried-up cupcake under a wild mango tree. Inside, a kerosene refrigerator sweated to keep perishable food cold, an old propane stove smoked their meals, and a shower rained river water behind a wicker screen. Cobras slithered inside when they forgot to close the door. Scorpions dropped onto the mosquito net over their bed. Lions roars rattled the reed walls. But despite the risks, Steve and Anna loved life in Zambias untamed South Luangwa Valley. They were living their dream.

Nevertheless, Mitch continued, this is no place for a dog.

Oh now, Mitch, Anna persisted. Didnt you just say that there were puppies for sale at the old crocodile farm?

You really are determined, arent you? Mitch shook his head and brushed back his long white hair.

When Anna makes up her mind, theres no turning back. Steve laughed. Why else do you think we left England to live here?

Okay, if you must know. Yesterday I saw Hank at the croc farm. There were five pups in the litter. Four are sold, but nobody wants the last one. His father was a Jack Russell. Terriers are usually full of energy and bouncing off the walls. But this one is unresponsive. Too quiet. Its legs are too long and it has a pointy face. You should look around for a different dog.

Anna thought for a moment. Why should we look further? She sat back in her canvas chair, folded her arms, and narrowed her eyes at Mitch. Sounds to me like this dog is different.

Well, I guess in a way he is. Mitch shrugged. Look, if you get the dog, you must know this. Owning one will bring you nothing but heartache. Sooner or later he will get bitten by a tsetse fly and be infected with the trypanosome parasite. It causes sleeping sickness. Most wild animals are immune. But the disease is the number one killer of domestic animals in Africa. He reached for the teapot. And keep your eye on him. After all, hes part terrier. If he goes chasing after something in the bush he may get eaten.

Like a drunken rhino, the Land Rover swayed between holes and ruts on the muddy road. It was November, the beginning of the rainy season. Steve and Anna turned onto a narrow track lined with a carpet of sprouting grass. A faded CROCODILE FARM sign peeked through the green brush. The old cement pools and tanks that once held crocodiles were now cracked with weeds and roots. The creatures had been raised there for their skins until the business, like the crocs, went belly up. The grounds were now being converted into lodging facilities for tourists. African workers on ladders were thatching new roofs for the cottages.

Steve parked the Land Rover beside a single-story house with a red tin roof. Hank, a stocky man in baggy shorts, stepped off the porch to greet them. Sorry, my friends. Were fresh out of flat dogs! he joked, flat dogs