Dingos Don’t Bark at the Moon

“Wild Dingo” by Rowena Naylor

Beware my wandering friends, of the dingo that barks at the moon.

Not yip. Not yap. Not growl, or howl.

If you hear that short, sharp shout echoing up at the ever-changing moon, heed my warning… They are more than they seem.

I’ve seen it with my own eyes.

Sometimes wandering a sacred place; that hidden place. One you’ll know deep within, but may never see. Sometimes sifting through sands kissed by a burnt, setting sun. Bushels of spikey grass peppering the rolling dunes either side of me.

As a wanderer yourself, you may have come across my own meanderings, a time or two.

Maybe within those rolling dunes of red dust, or along the cracked, white plains of a vast salt lake. Having heard the pelicans were long gone, my curiosity urging me to see what was left behind.

I might be crowing. Certainly cackling. But searching. Sifting. Separating whatever sands and gravels my feet rest on that day. 

What a sight I’ll be to you. Sounding more animal than human.

If your gaze doesn’t flick away with fear, you might discern a purpose to all my snuffling.

Bones.

I am looking for bones.

Collecting. Admiring. Preserving. A keeper of what could be lost.

From the cunning raven, to the smallest of hopping mice; their ears long and wide – a lesson to listen. Snakes as well, master teachers of change. The odd red kangaroo, here and there. For what animal adapts better when the land turns harsh, and the river beds forget to run wet.    

But what bones do I covet the most? Well, that’s easy. The dingo.

For it is the dingo that can shine truth on one of our greatest fears.

After all... Dingoes don’t bark at the moon… Until they do.

I never start on two dingo skeletons at once. No, no, no. This is an art. A communion. Requiring innate focus.

For nothing will come from partial tending. And nothing will come to a hurried soul.

So patiently I sift. Patiently I search. First, usually the spine appears.

More sifting. Then the skull.

More sifting. A knuckle bone here and there. Followed by the creature’s long tail.

Soon though. Maybe days. Maybe weeks. But always before a full moon; that final, hard to find piece is found. Perhaps… wants to be found.

And there, finally laid bare before me, like an intricate, carved sculpture of marble white, the once fallen creature is pieced back together again.

But my work is not quite done yet. Wholeness does not form from bones alone.

Only now can I create my fire. Let the hot tongues rise and lick the dried wood I feed it. Giving the bones at my feet a soft, orange glow.

A subtle reminder. Of their pelt, their eyes, their soul.

It is here I sit and wait. My gaze affixed. My ears open. My heart listening.

For each dingo, once lost, and soon found, has a song that must be sung. A rhythm of their once beating heart, now lost deep within marrow, that must be remembered.

A rhythm the flickering flames begin mimicking.

Giving voice to the whispers from the dingo’s long past. To first their name. To second their purpose. Then to their love and many pups. Until a song rings and echoes. Scratching at my soul. Sniffing at my mind.

And when the fire dies, as we must die, and the full moon stands resolute above; I stand over the creature, hands out and sing.

It takes the first few seconds for the bones to hear their song. To shiver in delight. To realise they were once something more. Something whole.

But that is all it takes. Seconds. No matter how lost a soul is, it can never resist the song of its heart. The song that reminds. The song that binds.

Only with this knowing, the rib bones and leg bones vibrate in the sand. Calling to them their flesh and blood. Calling to them their claws and their teeth. Calling to them their throat for the howl, and perhaps something more…

Remember? Remember? Remember?

I never once stop singing. For it is within their song they gather themselves. A piece at a time. Soon, within a chorus or two, the skeleton is no more. Fully fleshed out, small strands of fur shoot forward like nourished seeds in spring.

Remember. Remember. Remember…

The song turns long, but my voice never waivers. A quick stomp of my feet mirrors the returning beat within the dingo’s chest. At the quick-step of life the small beasts’ tail curls upwards, bushy and strong.

Remember. Remember. Remember!

I’m singing deeper, my tone dropping until the very ground shakes under my feet. I feel sand shifting between my toes until they disappear. Sinking below the course surface. Still, I continue to sing. And as I do, finally the dingo’s eyes open.

Amber circling fierce coal blink up at me. Taking in my heavy form, realisation dawns in those shiny eyes, and the dingo leaps to its four paws. Running without restraint down the red sand dunes. Dipping and ducking around prickly spinifex.

I laugh, watching it go. Clapping my hands with glee. Curling my tongue, crying out to it.

Once lost, now found, the dingo rounds the crest of the next dune. Suddenly pausing to stare up at the white luminescent orb in the sky.

Looking back at me I see a gleam in its eye. A smile to its panting muzzle.

Slowly its snout points back to the moon. And there!

A dingo’s bark to the moon.

Once. Twice. Running again on the third.

And for a second, whether by the speed the dingo runs, or by the sand shooting up at each paw print, maybe even by the way the moonlight hits its short-haired pelt just right; the dingo transforms into a laughing woman.

A woman found. A woman free. Running with only the horizon in sight.

To those who wander, who travel, and seek, if you hear a dingo bark at the moon, I warn you; they are more than they seem.

But let that be a reminder my dear lost soul.

So are you.

*Inspired by ‘Women Who Run With Wolves’ by Clarissa Pinkola Estes, and her telling of the story of La Loba, the wolf woman who collects and sings over the bones of the dead. Australia is an old, magical land, and I wanted La Loba to visit here.