I Am Not Sure Which Felt The Heat Most, Poor Little Val Or The Buck.
He,
curiously enough, seemed more affected by it than we were.
At night he
drank more than we did, and then was not satisfied. Sometimes when
waiting on ahead he used to squat down and scoop out a hole in the ground
to reach the cool sand beneath; with this he would anoint himself.
Sometimes he would make a mixture of sand and urine, with which he would
smear his head or body. Poor Val was in a pitiable state; the soles of
her paws were worn off by the hot sand; it was worse or as bad for her to
be knocked about on the top of one of the loads, and although by careful
judgment she could often trot along in the shade of one of the camels,
she was as near going mad as I imagine it possible for a dog to go. Poor
little thing! She used to yell and howl most agonisingly, with her eyes
staring and tongue hanging. We had, of course, to pack her on a camel
when her feet gave out, and by applying vaseline alleviated her pain.
Our guide took us to two dry wells and watched our disgust with evident
satisfaction, and I had to resort to the unfailing argument of allowing
him no water at all. He pleaded hard by sounds and gesture and no doubt
suffered to some extent, but all was treated as if unnoticed by us.
Thirst is a terrible thing; it is also a great quickener of the wits, and
the result of this harsh treatment, which reduced the poor buck to tears
(a most uncommon thing amongst natives), was that before very long we
were enabled to unload and make camp in one of the most charming little
spots I have ever seen.
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