Thanks to Elaine M. Texidor for the translation.
In the cold quiet days of winter, when chimneys are intensely burning, the dense pines and young oaks become a refuge for the wise and astute wild boar whose experience and courage have earned him the title of El Señor de la Noche.
He knows that in the fall, the fields on the mountain become saturated with human voices, accompanied by hounds, and alarm dogs with thunderous barking...
He knows that in the fall, the fields on the mountain become saturated with human voices, accompanied by hounds, and alarm dogs with thunderous barking...
He is aware, the others, because of their inexperience, lack of character and courage, will need a little push; they are not ready to act wisely. A hasty escape by them would bring the entire hunting pack of dogs on top of him. It’s better for him to take off like a fox, or disembowel any audacious boar that betrays his hideout, or that dares to challenge him.
He knows his footprints awaken admiration and interest among hunters, more so than those of other boars, as well as fear. They want to give him chase, but they don’t want to lose their best dogs.
Today he has not waited in his lair, as he has done many times before He detects something strange in his surroundings. He hears a slight noise and a squeal rather than bark, of a bloody Podenca hound; he jumps out of bed like the devil is at his heels. Not awake, with sleep still in his eyes, he tears down the mountain, to the Fontanal below.
He knows they are looking for him. He has Centella’s voice etched in his subconscious as well as those with the eyes of fire who hunt silently. These are the ones who have discovered his hideout and now chase him for the hunt; they need and indeed have, the valor and the courage to face his fearsome weapons. They are the grandchildren and great-grandchildren of Goiko and Curro. They are Alanos. He still wakes up tormented by the stare of that demon with the yellow eyes that held his childhood companion by the jaw.
Centuries have passed since their arrival to the peninsula with the alan tribes, and they continue to play the same role that has transformed them into a myth. Incredible strength controlled by a noble and balanced temperament, has endured the test of time and earned them a hardy constitution, which has served as the basis for the creation and regeneration of many foreign breeds.
The noise is startling. The throbbing is overwhelming; the hand goes instinctively towards the handle of the knife squeezing it; in spite of the fact that a sudden move would not augur well.
They wear collars 14 cm wide with slits in the chest area so as not to interfere with their agility. They have the body of an athlete, a retracted belly, good paws, strong and resistant legs, a high rump, a strong back, a powerful head and the spirit of an Alano. Those with the serious and penetrating look, go on the hunt for the Gray.
Running down to the Fontanal which is dense with scrub bushes, pines and some oaks, has given him a certain advantage. Upon reaching the Brañuela Brook, he crosses it in two leaps and heads up to the Gonzalin path. It seems his intention is to head through the Gallina’s Knoll via the Hill of Pozos.
Tango and the troop who accompanies him, Brisa, Nero, Troll, Centella and Canela, are guided by their noses, through the pines. This is not a difficult task since the Gray just woke up and the stench he leaves behind is considerable. At the edge of the Gonzalin, a heather field, the howls of the Podencas tell me they have him in sight. After a brief moment of panic, it seems he is too self confident and has committed two mistakes, which would not be a big deal, if it were not Alanos, who were pursuing him. Allowing himself to be seen, and then fleeing up the hillside have not been good choices.
Stuffing oneself with beechnuts and acorns in the Majadon and then going down to Lotario’s orchard, to follow with pears from San Antonio is a pleasure, and it is very suitable for putting on fat to combat the winter cold, but contraindicated for running swiftly. While he has been gaining weight his pursuers have been sculpting their bodies and sharpening their canines. Successive races in shade and in sun have given them speed and confidence, which makes them more dangerous every day. Tango, Brisa, and Nero have him in their sights while Centella is gaining ground above him. In the last steep slope, before getting to the Mount of Gallinas, Centella gets so close to him, he grizzles, turns on a dime and slams her a blow that launches her through the air. Exploding with anger, he turns to his right at a 45 degree angle and goes back toward his pursuers. At the peak of the stone ridge is Celso, the grandfather, who despite a long life as a hunter, hasn’t seen an Alano hunt for more than 20 years.
He heard the east wind from the Fontanal, and saw The Gray pass about 100 meters below him, closely followed by the dogs. Too great a distance for his inseparable hunting companion. Celso saw him embolden, shake himself off, and continue on the same path. He allows him passage, as he has with many others, even though he could have shot him with his own crafted work (the days of blizzard winds and snow are for making bullets and for loading cartridges he says.) and even though he has live bullets, he tightens the grip on the handle of his knife, and on the rear end of his old companion, reassuring her so she does not feel disappointed. After sleepless nights and days of waking up at the crack of dawn, just to meet up with the Gray, today he has him in his sights; he keeps very still, and remembers old times, and just looks on.
Now it is Troll, who was left a little behind, and is preparing to cut off the boar’s retreat. Troll stands near him, and throws himself over his side and digs his canines onto his ear. Hunting wild boars is always a tough job, but if it's a beast as savage as The Gray, it becomes a task of the highest risk. However, despite receiving strong blows, and tusk slashings, an Alano never runs from a battle. Troll is now concentrating on holding his grip, throwing him down, and staying to his side. He is putting up with the savage jerking which is about to produce the release of his grip on the boar. 42 kilograms (92.5 pounds) anchored to the ground by strong paws has injured Gray’s pride, so he stands up to fight. He feels anger, indignation and bad blood for being caught, he unleashes an overwhelming series of blows, slashings, and snorts that make one’s hair stand on end. I understand now how Sidoro felt that day when he said to me: “shoot him or we’re screwed!”
One day when we were 15 years old, there was a heavy snowfall, and we told our parents that the school bus had not come because the road was icy, which meant we could not go to school. What really happened was that half way down the 3 km walk to catch the bus we found the tracks of a large boar, we turned around, and told our parents this whopper about the bus, so that I could ask my father for his shotgun and for permission to follow the tracks. We were lucky, I think they believed us. We found the boar and I fired one shot, it hit his rear. He spun around and started coming at us with a vengeance. And Sidoro yelled “shoot him or we’re screwed!”
With fierce expressions the Alanos arrive. In the onslaught, Brisa is left with nothing to grab because Tango, on the left, has already grabbed the ear, Nero is on the jaw and now Brisa is left with the snout. He had so much confidence in his strength that he failed to assess those of his enemies. His mouth was open and foaming. Time stops, and his mind is confused, he hears grunts, it seems he sees the eyes of fire. He tries to escape but he has no strength left. He wants to fight, but it is too late. Now he has to endure the humiliation of feeling Centella and Canela climb onto his loins and claim him as their own.
A brave beast this Gray, he does not utter even a quiet grunt. A heroic and tragic fight.
-And you ask me if you can finish him off?
-Please, the boar is yours.
- No, it’s not mine. It belongs to the dogs, and it’s not just any wild boar it’s The Gray.
The knife is at his elbow, he lets it happen, and abandons the fight; he feels as if he is floating.
The implacable jaws soften their pressure slowly.
The imposing silence after the struggle is broken only by the panting of dogs, and words of encouragement for them and their brave opponent.
It was a sunny day and suddenly it darkened.
P S. Arriving home, Brisa tells, her grandfather, with her hair standing on end, and other gestures, that it was her first great hunt. Paco, my father, says he saw Goiko drool as he sniffed her mouth.
Paquito ©
He knows his footprints awaken admiration and interest among hunters, more so than those of other boars, as well as fear. They want to give him chase, but they don’t want to lose their best dogs.
Today he has not waited in his lair, as he has done many times before He detects something strange in his surroundings. He hears a slight noise and a squeal rather than bark, of a bloody Podenca hound; he jumps out of bed like the devil is at his heels. Not awake, with sleep still in his eyes, he tears down the mountain, to the Fontanal below.
He knows they are looking for him. He has Centella’s voice etched in his subconscious as well as those with the eyes of fire who hunt silently. These are the ones who have discovered his hideout and now chase him for the hunt; they need and indeed have, the valor and the courage to face his fearsome weapons. They are the grandchildren and great-grandchildren of Goiko and Curro. They are Alanos. He still wakes up tormented by the stare of that demon with the yellow eyes that held his childhood companion by the jaw.
Centuries have passed since their arrival to the peninsula with the alan tribes, and they continue to play the same role that has transformed them into a myth. Incredible strength controlled by a noble and balanced temperament, has endured the test of time and earned them a hardy constitution, which has served as the basis for the creation and regeneration of many foreign breeds.
The noise is startling. The throbbing is overwhelming; the hand goes instinctively towards the handle of the knife squeezing it; in spite of the fact that a sudden move would not augur well.
They wear collars 14 cm wide with slits in the chest area so as not to interfere with their agility. They have the body of an athlete, a retracted belly, good paws, strong and resistant legs, a high rump, a strong back, a powerful head and the spirit of an Alano. Those with the serious and penetrating look, go on the hunt for the Gray.
Running down to the Fontanal which is dense with scrub bushes, pines and some oaks, has given him a certain advantage. Upon reaching the Brañuela Brook, he crosses it in two leaps and heads up to the Gonzalin path. It seems his intention is to head through the Gallina’s Knoll via the Hill of Pozos.
Tango and the troop who accompanies him, Brisa, Nero, Troll, Centella and Canela, are guided by their noses, through the pines. This is not a difficult task since the Gray just woke up and the stench he leaves behind is considerable. At the edge of the Gonzalin, a heather field, the howls of the Podencas tell me they have him in sight. After a brief moment of panic, it seems he is too self confident and has committed two mistakes, which would not be a big deal, if it were not Alanos, who were pursuing him. Allowing himself to be seen, and then fleeing up the hillside have not been good choices.
Stuffing oneself with beechnuts and acorns in the Majadon and then going down to Lotario’s orchard, to follow with pears from San Antonio is a pleasure, and it is very suitable for putting on fat to combat the winter cold, but contraindicated for running swiftly. While he has been gaining weight his pursuers have been sculpting their bodies and sharpening their canines. Successive races in shade and in sun have given them speed and confidence, which makes them more dangerous every day. Tango, Brisa, and Nero have him in their sights while Centella is gaining ground above him. In the last steep slope, before getting to the Mount of Gallinas, Centella gets so close to him, he grizzles, turns on a dime and slams her a blow that launches her through the air. Exploding with anger, he turns to his right at a 45 degree angle and goes back toward his pursuers. At the peak of the stone ridge is Celso, the grandfather, who despite a long life as a hunter, hasn’t seen an Alano hunt for more than 20 years.
He heard the east wind from the Fontanal, and saw The Gray pass about 100 meters below him, closely followed by the dogs. Too great a distance for his inseparable hunting companion. Celso saw him embolden, shake himself off, and continue on the same path. He allows him passage, as he has with many others, even though he could have shot him with his own crafted work (the days of blizzard winds and snow are for making bullets and for loading cartridges he says.) and even though he has live bullets, he tightens the grip on the handle of his knife, and on the rear end of his old companion, reassuring her so she does not feel disappointed. After sleepless nights and days of waking up at the crack of dawn, just to meet up with the Gray, today he has him in his sights; he keeps very still, and remembers old times, and just looks on.
Now it is Troll, who was left a little behind, and is preparing to cut off the boar’s retreat. Troll stands near him, and throws himself over his side and digs his canines onto his ear. Hunting wild boars is always a tough job, but if it's a beast as savage as The Gray, it becomes a task of the highest risk. However, despite receiving strong blows, and tusk slashings, an Alano never runs from a battle. Troll is now concentrating on holding his grip, throwing him down, and staying to his side. He is putting up with the savage jerking which is about to produce the release of his grip on the boar. 42 kilograms (92.5 pounds) anchored to the ground by strong paws has injured Gray’s pride, so he stands up to fight. He feels anger, indignation and bad blood for being caught, he unleashes an overwhelming series of blows, slashings, and snorts that make one’s hair stand on end. I understand now how Sidoro felt that day when he said to me: “shoot him or we’re screwed!”
One day when we were 15 years old, there was a heavy snowfall, and we told our parents that the school bus had not come because the road was icy, which meant we could not go to school. What really happened was that half way down the 3 km walk to catch the bus we found the tracks of a large boar, we turned around, and told our parents this whopper about the bus, so that I could ask my father for his shotgun and for permission to follow the tracks. We were lucky, I think they believed us. We found the boar and I fired one shot, it hit his rear. He spun around and started coming at us with a vengeance. And Sidoro yelled “shoot him or we’re screwed!”
With fierce expressions the Alanos arrive. In the onslaught, Brisa is left with nothing to grab because Tango, on the left, has already grabbed the ear, Nero is on the jaw and now Brisa is left with the snout. He had so much confidence in his strength that he failed to assess those of his enemies. His mouth was open and foaming. Time stops, and his mind is confused, he hears grunts, it seems he sees the eyes of fire. He tries to escape but he has no strength left. He wants to fight, but it is too late. Now he has to endure the humiliation of feeling Centella and Canela climb onto his loins and claim him as their own.
A brave beast this Gray, he does not utter even a quiet grunt. A heroic and tragic fight.
-And you ask me if you can finish him off?
-Please, the boar is yours.
- No, it’s not mine. It belongs to the dogs, and it’s not just any wild boar it’s The Gray.
The knife is at his elbow, he lets it happen, and abandons the fight; he feels as if he is floating.
The implacable jaws soften their pressure slowly.
The imposing silence after the struggle is broken only by the panting of dogs, and words of encouragement for them and their brave opponent.
It was a sunny day and suddenly it darkened.
P S. Arriving home, Brisa tells, her grandfather, with her hair standing on end, and other gestures, that it was her first great hunt. Paco, my father, says he saw Goiko drool as he sniffed her mouth.
Paquito ©
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