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The habits of the dingo, or native dog, form an interesting study, and are frequently a source of argument, even among experienced bushmen. The true dingo is reddish yellow in color, with short, pricky ears, and a bushy tail. The ears are always erect. The tail hangs straight, in some cases having a slight upward curve. He has a good eye, and can discern objects at a great distance. He has also a sharp ear, and a keen sense of smell. In certain other respects, there is a difference in dingoes of different localities, particularly in the matter of taste.

On the upper part of the Richmond River, I have known them to eat anything in the line of flesh, even putrid meat and rotten hides; and this in the midst of an abundance of game, and when fresh meat could have been easily got. One evening in November, 1894, on Sandy Creek, near Casino, I saw a dingo eating of a beast that had been dead a considerable time. It tore off a strip of soft hide and flesh, gave it two or three gentle shakes to dislodge the maggots, and then ate it with gusto. Yet this dog would not touch the daintiest piece of fresh meat, if handled by man. In poisoning baits, it is necessary to take care, and not maul them. The strychnine is placed in small incisions with the point of a butcher's knife, and the bait wrapped in clean paper, and dropped into a tussock or bush at the side of a cattle pad. After taking such a bait, the dingo makes for water, and seldom gets out of sight of the hole before death supervenes. I have found them dead at the water's edge, and once in the water.

In the far west of New South Wales, in the neighborhood of the Paroo, the dingo is a perfect epicurean in comparison. Though I spent three years in this locality, and saw some thousands of dead sheep scattered about the runs, I never knew one to be touched by a dingo. That astute animal likes to kill his own meat, and, sheep being plentiful, he kills at least once a day, mostly about sunset. He returns to his quarry early next morning for his breakfast, after which he never touches it again. The boundary-rider, knowing this, carries a little bottle of strychnine in his pocket, and whenever he surprises a dingo at his prey, poisons the carcase, and returns for an almost certain scalp next day. This is the surest way of poisoning here. Another method, much used, is to poison a bone, and hang it to a fence or a low limb with tie-wire. Some drag a trail with the fresh paunch of a bullock, leaving it poisoned on a favorite beat. Aniseed is also employed at times for trailing, particularly over buried traps. An old-time device for trapping was a deep hole with a lid or door on top swinging on an axle. In places along the border fences, this trap is still used for catching rabbits. Though epicurean in their tastes, these dogs show no antipathy to the human aroma objected to by their eastern brethren. This, I consider, remarkable.

The dingo differs from all other dogs in that they are hostile to man even when reared among children from sightless pups. No matter how tame a dingo may become, he can never be trusted; and though the natural instinct may be long dormant in the dog, there is always a slight hankering after his native wilds. This is particularly noticeable at nightfall. When crossed with other breeds, there is an inborn tendency to kill for the mere sake of killing, which is not a characteristic of the true-bred dingo. In the daytime, except in the wilds of Queensland, and the far west of New South Wales, packs are seldom seen; but, if plentiful in the neighborhood, they collect and travel together at night. The signal call is a sharp, snappish yelp, and a short howl, that breaks suddenly on the night air, and dies away to nothing, having a far-away sound that lingers in the ear. It can be heard at a greater distance than the much noisier howl of the domestic dog. It is a lonely, dismal howl; yet with nothing of melancholy in it; it simply fills you with a sense of utter loneliness. When camping out with others, I rather like to hear that peculiar howl; but I can't bear it when alone. It sends my mind wandering at once to far-away places, and begets an unutterable yearning for the haunts of olden times. The curlew's cry has this same influence, tempered to a certain extent by time and locality. To a bushman there is in both that weird, unfathomable charm that one feels when standing alone on a wide plain, looking across the caps of distant hills, mellow-tinted with a red sunset, on a calm autumn eve.

The dingo is notable for his cunning and strategy. Though it will not fight, unless "cornered," and then only in a shuffling, half-hearted manner, it has often escaped by feigning death. It is also very tenacious of life, and has been known to recover after being dropped with a stirrup iron and scalped. While droving down the Maranoa in November, 1895, I had the good luck to witness a scene in which the cuteness and strategy of the dingo were well illustrated. A little off the Mitchell-St. George road was a cow with a young calf. Two dingoes were continually dodging round her, and nipping the calf whenever occasion offered. Presently one took up a position in front to draw the cow, and as soon as she charged, the other darted between and cut off the calf. Five other dogs, that had been laying low for the opportunity, now sprang up and surrounded it. They displayed all the skill of experienced stockmen in their endeavor to drive it away, blocking it promptly whenever it attempted to break in any but one particular direction. With frantic bellowing the cow came running back. Three dogs essayed to block her, whilst two others made desperate efforts to slay the calf. One had gripped it by the flank, and one by the throat; and had almost borne it to the ground, when the cow rushed through the triumvirate and rescued it. Five of the number now drew wide; and a pair, working steadily, recommenced their former tactics. It was a very hot day, and the cow was already tonguing. Out of pity for the poor animal I galloped up and drove off her assailants. I let her stand awhile in the shade of a tree, then drove her across to a mob of station cattle.

A similar case was witnessed by my brother and a man named Toohey, on Paradise Creek, near Nanango, Queensland. If I remember rightly, they were brumby hunting on Taromeo, and on riding to the bank of the creek beheld in the hollow below a cow and calf being attacked by two dingoes. Toohey cracked his whip, and immediately about twenty more dogs sprang up out of the long grass, forming a complete circle round the cow. They were a determined lot, and were chased about with whips for several minutes before they finally quitted the scene. In April, 1896, I was travelling from Thargomindah to Eromanga (Q.), and on several occasions met dingoes on the road. They were the boldest I have seen. Instead of running off into the bush, they simply make a circuit round me at a radius of thirty yards, and, coming up behind, follow my horse's track, sometimes for over a mile. One day at noon I was dining with some drovers near Mount Margaret, when three dingoes came close up to the waggonette. The cook threw a bone, and after a little beating about, one of the trio approached and picked it up. This is the only instance of the kind I have met with, though the drovers informed me it was common enough in that neighborhood.

A favorite breeding ground is among the sandhills on the Diamantina, far west Queensland. Some of the hills are actually honeycombed with holes, for the dingo burrows in the sand here in a somewhat similar manner to the wombat. These dingo hills are as dangerous to a horseman as the rabbit-riddled country to the west of the Darling. Frequently the roof of these burrows is a mere shell of compressed sand, and a horse stepping on it falls through with a sudden plunge. But where the burrowed ground is indicated, no horse bred in the country can be forced to cross it. The same applies to horses with respect to rabbit warrens. Between August and November pups are dug up in hundreds, and as many as forty scalps have been obtained in a single day by a couple of scalpers. Though not so plentiful, as a few years ago, they are still in great numbers in the neighborhood of Boulia, and thicker still as you travel towards Winton, or in the direction of the Northern Territory.

On the eastern rivers they mostly breed in hollow logs and dark mountain caverns. I have frequently cut litters out of logs on Myrtle Creek, between Casino and Grafton, N.S.W. The most I got from one log was five, and the least two. I never once knew the bitch to make any attempt to defend her young. At the first blow of the axe, unless the opening is blocked, she will rush out and bolt into the bush, leaving her progeny to take care of themselves. In some instances, when thus hunted, she goes right away, and never returns for tidings of her pups. In and about these logs and caverns there is always a great quantity of bones and feathers. The great sandbanks to the north of Sturt's Stony Desert is one of the principal whelping places of Western N.S.W. In drought time they gather at the flood waters of the Bulloo and Paroo Rivers, and from here diverge in all directions after heavy rains. They mostly follow a watercourse, and occupy for a fortnight to a month in passing through each sheep run. Odd ones remain on the different runs until forced by the next drought to retreat to the "flood water." This is mostly open country, and consequently they are seldom molested there.

After the breaking-up of the big drought of 1896, dingoes appeared in great numbers on the border runs, north and west of Tibooburra and Milparinka. They came up Whittabranah Creek from the open country, and down it from the South Australian side, and in from the Cooper, and the mountain scrubs and lignum holes of the Wilson, on the Queensland side. Along this creek the country was well grassed, and, being soft and green, it was easy to pick out the places where dingoes had been at work. I particularly noticed two patches, one on each side of the boundary fence of Whittabranah and Olive Downs, and each about an acre in extent, that were trodden as bare as a claypan by ringing sheep. It appeared as though two flocks had been held on the fence all night while the ground was yet soft and mucky. On riding round these patches I found several dead sheep outside the trodden ring. They were all partly eaten, and in all stages of decomposition, showing that the flocks had been bailed up here a number of times, and one or two killed on each occasion. As these paddocks are from sixty to one hundred square miles in area, it is safe to presume that the sheep did not feed each time into the vicinity of this trap; but having once—accidentally, perhaps—been run on to the fence and caught, they were subsequently driven there by dingoes in a systematic and business-like manner. I am all the more convinced of this from the fact that the boundary-rider actually saw a flock being quietly driven by two dogs.

It might be argued that a dog would not go to such trouble in voluntarily working a flock when he could rush in and make a kill at almost any moment. But the real dingo does not kill for killing's sake; and, unlike the half-breed, that will tear and mangle a score for mere-sport, though he may play with a flock if his appetite is not very keen, he will leave no torn ones behind him if he can help it. Put a hungry dingo into the midst of a penned flock, and he'll harm but one, and that one he'll kill outright. It will not be the first he comes to either. He may beat about for some time before he finds a hogget fat and tempting to suit him. He is extremely partial to lambs and hoggets. As the sheep give him little chance to make a good pick in the open, long experience has taught him to follow or drive them to a corner, where he can pick.

In February, 1898, in the same locality, I saw a dingo approach a poverty-stricken ewe that was standing alone on a flat. He trotted round her twice, stopping and sniffing at her occasionally, then gave a low howl, and trotted off. I gave chase, and, after a short run, secured him by knocking him over with the stirrup-iron. In these parts many of the old horses are trained to gallop on to a dingo, and strike him down with their forefeet. Another day, on a flat in the same paddock, I found two dingoes quietly shepherding a mob of sheep, whilst a third was dodging about trying to get a lamb on the outside. This occurred at midday, a favorite time for running down the dingo; but I had the misfortune to lose both in the interminable tangle of billabongs and blind gullies which characterise these far-back creeks and rivers. In June, 1899, we were lamb-marking at the Twelve-Mile yards at Whitttabranah, and every morning found the half of a freshly-killed lamb in the middle of the yard, and the spoor of a dingo outside. Though we watched, and set traps about the yard, we failed to catch him. He came regularly every night, killed his one lamb, and decamped, without hunting another hoof.

In running down a kangaroo, the dingo exhibits great patience and perseverance. Though the former is much fleeter, the latter has more stamina; and, if he is a mile behind at an early stage of the long chase, his steady swinging gallop will ultimately wear down the speedier animal. Just watch him pelting along on the scent, his nose down, and his tongue lolling out, perhaps several minutes in the rear of his quarry, but determined and confident of success, and you will admit that he is a hunter of no mean calibre. In fact, the dingo is a wonderfully sagacious animal.