Kancil the mouse-deer

     

   

 Kancil the mouse-deer
By Wan Chwee Seng

They stand among the shrubs and flowers, silent sentinels of our small garden. Unperturbed by the scorching heat of the tropical sun or  the torrential downpour of the seasonal monsoon rain, they keep a timeless watch on the garden.
The two guards are just man-made mouse-deer _ the  creation of a retiree, perhaps during a moment of inspiration triggered by a childhood memory. 

They stand among the shrubs and flowers

 Now, as I look at the two weather-beaten ‘mouse-deer’ they bring back fond memories of another mouse-deer. A live mouse-deer which was our family pet.

Silent sentinels of our garden

It was the early 1950s and we were then living in Kuala Pilah , a small town in Malaysia. Father was  working as a chief clerk in the State Forest Department and our family stayed in one of the government quarters in the Residential Area. 

Government quarters in the Residential Area

Our house was a semi-detached wooden house which stood on concrete stilts with a detached kitchen connected to the main house by a covered corridor. A high plank walls with pointed tips enclosed the kitchen and a spacious air-well.

Our house at 246 B, Residential Area, Kuala Pilah

One evening, as we sat at the raised veranda of the house, we saw father cycling home on his old Raleigh bicycle followed closely by a uniformed forest guard. When they approached the house, we noticed the guard was carrying an open box in his arms. Curious, we took a peep. Inside the box was a strange-looking animal which was slightly larger than an adult’s palm. 

Father told us it was a baby mouse-deer and we could keep it for a pet. We did not take an instant liking to it, as unlike the cute, cuddly puppy or kitten we used to see, the baby mouse-deer had mouse-like face with big bulging eyes and spindly legs.  

According to father, some forest guards who was on duty in the jungle had stumbled upon the  baby mouse-deer. They assumed its mother must have been killed by poachers as it was nowhere in sight. Knowing that the baby mouse-deer would not be able to survive in the wild on its own, they brought it back to the office and handed it to the District Forest Officer. The latter persuaded father to get the help of our family to look after the mouse-deer until it was strong enough to be given to the zoo.

Father with some of the forest guards

With eight children to raise, mother was now entrusted with the additional task of caring for a baby mouse-deer.  It had to be  bottle-fed  with milk as it was still too small to feed on vegetables. With careful weaning and proper care, we discovered it had grown into quite an attractive animal with big, bright eyes and  a sleek, reddish brown coat with a triangular white pattern that ran from the chin to the throat.

Having heard and read many stories about Sang Kancil, the wily mouse-deer who used to outwit its  bigger predators like the tiger and crocodile, we decided to name it Kancil.

 Kancil soon outgrew its box. A fairly  large space under the house was fenced off with chicken wire and turned into an enclosure where Kancil could roam freely within the security of its confines. To enable us to feed Kancil, the front of the enclosure was fitted with a low fence which overlooked the air-well. Kancil was now able to feed on greens, usually the leaves of sweet potatoes which we would place in the enclosure together with a bowl of water. Whenever we went to the nearby market, we would  remember to buy sweet potato leaves for Kancil. We like to hold the leaves over the fence and watch it nibbled the leaves while eyeing us with its huge, captivating eyes. As Kancil grew in strength, so did our love for her.

One day when we went to feed Kancil, we found the enclosure was empty. Had it escape or fallen victim to a predator? Worried, we made a long and frantic search for it. We finally found it ensconced snugly among a clump of banana trees behind the kitchen. We tried to pick it up, but it  bounded from its hiding place and scurried away. Shouting and laughing we gave chase, but it raced along the wall, leaped over a drain and ran circle in the spacious air-well.  Breathless and exhausted, we finally gave up the chase. Then from the corner of our eyes we saw it standing at the air-well with a forlorn and dejected look, perhaps, wondering why we had decided to end the enjoyable game. Later, we were  surprised and puzzled to find it had sneaked back into its enclosure. Since we could not find any hole in the fencing, we assumed it must have jumped over the low fence. 

One morning when we went to feed Kancil, we discovered it had gone missing again. Then we spotted it at the air-well, among the pigeons and house sparrows. Mother had placed a piece of bread for the birds, but Kancil was laying claim to it. It was obviously relishing its newly discovered delicacy as it was busy keeping the birds at bay. We did not try to catch it, as we knew it would eventually return to its enclosure. The next morning and on subsequent mornings, we would find it eating and sharing its bread with its  feathered friends.

Then one evening  father  told us that Kancil was big and healthy enough to be handed to the zoo. One day we watched as a truck slowly rolled onto the grass compound of our house and we knew the dreaded day had finally arrived. We all felt sad at having to part with our pet mouse-deer, but the thought of Kancil bringing countless joy and thrill to kids and other visitors to the zoo gave us some consolation.

A squawk in the night

The Star







Lifestyle

Wednesday May 11, 2011
Story and illustration by
Wan Chwee Seng



The rooster’s crow which heralded the dawn of a new day, has long been replaced by the drone of traffic everywhere.



AT THE first light of dawn, the long crow of a lone rooster broke the silence of a village slowly stirring to life. Other roosters picked up the call and soon the undulating crow of roosters heralding the approach of daylight, echoed through the village.
The afternoons were filled with the raucous cackles of the egg-layers and the evenings with the clucks and chirps of chickens foraging for food. Night was a time of peace and quiet, broken occasionally by a sudden squawk.
In the small village of Batu Berendam, Malacca, where I grew up in the early 1950s, all the families in our neighbourhood kept kampung chickens or free-range chickens for their eggs and meat. The cacophony of chicken calls that permeated the air from morn to dusk had become an integral part of the village life.
Mother, too, kept a few hens for their eggs and most mornings we would have two half-boiled eggs for breakfast. We did not worry unduly about hypertension or high cholesterol then.
My cousin, Fook, had discovered a convenient and expedient method of consuming eggs. At the first sound of a cackle, he would rush to the chicken coop. The moment a hen laid an egg, he would pluck the egg from underneath the sitting hen, give it a gentle crack and gulp the warm content with relish. Sometimes the hen would sound a false alarm and sometimes when he was in a hurry, he would give the hen a helping hand or rather a finger. Today, he still vouches for the raw eggs’ exquisite taste and medicinal value.
Rearing chickens in those days had its attendant risks. Besides succumbing to diseases, the chickens would fall prey to civets or chicken thieves.
Back then, we did not have supermarkets where we could purchase dressed chicken and the nearest wet market was miles away. To buy or sell chickens, the villagers had to rely on the itinerant fowl-sellers who would go from village to village to hawk their wares. The chickens were packed in a woven bamboo basket strapped to the bicycle’s rear carrier.
Whenever there was a chicken theft, the fowl-sellers somehow became the prime suspects as it was said that they would visit houses during the day on the pretext of purchasing chickens and having studied the location of the chicken coop and getaway route, would return at night to steal the chickens.
In our village, the kampung folks relied on Mat, the affable fowl-seller from a neighbouring village, whenever they needed to buy or sell chickens. The squeak of pedals and the crunch of wheels on the pebble-strewn compound would send excited children scurrying out of their houses, while housewives with purses in hands strolled leisurely to greet his arrival.
“Eh! Mat, ni ayam curi atau beli?” (Mat, is this stolen or bought chicken?) someone would ask in jest.
He had become the butt of their jokes since the day he had unknowingly sold some stolen chickens to their former owner.
“Tentulah, ayam beli,” (Of course, they are bought chicken), he would reply with a faint chuckle.
While the children gawked at the chickens, the housewives busied themselves with selecting the choicest chickens. Long after the purchases had been made, continuous chatter followed by intermittent laughter could still be heard as the womenfolk lingered to gossip and listen to the latest local news.
One dark and rainy night, my teenage cousin, Swee, was awakened by the fluttering of wings and the squawking of chickens. Not daring to venture into the dark night, he called out in his best stentorian voice: “Mat, saya tahu awak ada di sana!” (“Mat,Iknow you’re there!”)L to R: The writer, Swee and Sunny

The poor guy, if he had been in the immediate vicinity of the coop, would have got the fright of his life, wondering how someone could recognise him in the pitch dark.
The next day, in the grey hour of morning, Swee was already making a head count of his chickens and he heaved a sigh of relief when he discovered that except for the few dislodged feathers, all the chickens were accounted for.
Now my cousins and I have all moved away from the village and settled in towns or cities.
One evening, my sister appeared unexpectedly at our doorstep with five cross-bred chickens in hand.
“Do you like to keep these chicks?” she asked.
One look at the cute and fuzzy chicks and I knew I could not resist the offer. The chicks were housed in a hastily built coop placed behind the house. It was not long before the chicks had transformed into four hens with dark brown feathers and a magnificent rooster with feathers of iridescent hues.
One evening when I went to check on the chickens, an empty coop met my eyes. Driven by their primeval instinct, the chickens had taken to roosting on the branches of a rambutan tree. A hen had also gone missing.
One night, we were awakened by a big squawk from the back of the house.
“Ah, most probably a nocturnal predator,” I thought as I rolled over and drifted into a deep slumber.
The next morning when we strolled into the kitchen, we noticed the kitchen’s window was wide open and a few cooking utensils lay scattered on the ground in the backyard.
We realised an attempted break-in had been foiled by the squawk of the chickens. Although we were proud they had become a substitute watch dog, we felt concern at the sight of them scratching and foraging for food in our flower beds. Chickens foraging for food


We knew eventually they would invade our neighbour’s garden.
Early one morning as I looked out of the kitchen window, a slight movement among the tall grass caught my attention. In the dim light, a long murky shape was snaking its way towards the house.
“Sir Hiss,” the word instantly came to mind.
As the shape emerged from the grass, I saw it was our missing hen with 12 chicks in tow. I watched the home-coming with mixed feelings. Raising five chickens was already a problem. How were we going to cope with 12 additional chicks? We knew sooner or later, we had to let go of all the chickens.
One evening when our old friend, Awang, came to tend our garden, I asked him: “Awang, do you like to keep these chickens?”
“But encik, these chickens make tasty curry,” came the reply.
I could not imagine my pet chickens ending up in a cooking pot. After a long pause, I said to him: “Awang, can you help raise these chickens?”
Late that evening as the chickens came home to roost, they were quietly plucked from their roost and loaded into the front basket of his motorcycle. I watched sadly as the motorcycle roared down the narrow road and vanished into the gathering darkness.
I did not find out from Awang what became of the chickens and perhaps will never know as our friend, Awang, left us a few years ago.
Today, the once familiar chicken calls of my childhood days have been replaced by the incessant drone and hum of traffic and the occasional blaring of a horn.
In moments of solitude, I like to reflect on those good old days – of days filled with the bedlam of chicken noises, the boisterous voices of children welcoming the arrival of Mat, the fowl-seller, and the excitement of waking up to the sound of a squawk in the night

Lost Habitat

Startwo
Wednesday October 27, 2010

Lost habitat and disappearing wildlife

Story and illustration By WAN CHWEE SENG

Rapid development has forced the denizens of the wild into pockets of fragmented wood lots; others have to seek sanctuary in human homes.

AS twilight edges into night, a dark figure treads its way cautiously along the high wire stretched between two poles. The figure pauses. Wide, wary eyes scan the ground for onlookers. However, there is no appreciative audience to cheer it on and no thunderous applause to greet its daring act. 

From the front porch I am the sole, silent spectator of the drama unfolding before my eyes.
High above me a civet is edging its way along a telephone wire, its brilliant eyes gleaming in the dim light. Suddenly, it disappears among the thick canopy of a rambutan tree. Rapid development and the absence of a safe corridor may have forced the civet to take to the high wire.
Alone in the stillness and silence of the gathering darkness, I am left to ponder its fate and those of its kind. Today, as I drive along the busy highway leading to our housing estate, the grisly remains of run over creatures such as civets, monitor lizards, snakes and night-jars, often greet my eyes. Will the civet, too, suffer the same fate?
My mind drifts back to the early 1970s when we first moved into the housing estate. The housing estate was then fringed by trees and shrubs and the nearby hill was clad in dense verdant vegetation. The thickly wooded area on the hill was a haven for the many denizens of the wild.
I remember that evening, long ago, when I was driving home alone along the narrow and deserted stretch of road leading to our housing estate. In the deepening dusk, I caught sight of a long, murky shape creeping slowly across the road.
Python! The word flashed across my mind. I slowed down the car, eased it to the road shoulder and peered through the windscreen into the gloom. The scene that lay before me came as a pleasant surprise. A mother civet with five babies following closely in single file were heading towards a clump of wild cherry trees on the other side of the road.
I watched enthralled at the slow-moving procession. Long after they had melted into the darkness, I sat in the solitude of the car and tried to capture the magic moment to be stored as precious snapshots in my memory.
Today, 40 years on, the place where our children grew up is sadly different. The once narrow and quiet road is now a bustling highway. Gone, too, are the trees and shrubs that once fringed the neighbourhood and clad the nearby hill in verdant splendour.
In their places stand stark, massive concrete buildings. All that remain are fragmented patches of wood lots behind the few rows of houses. Here the few displaced wild animals have made them their home; others have to seek sanctuary in human homes.
There were nights when the fragrance of pandanus leaves drifted into our bedroom and we knew that a common palm civet was in the immediate vicinity of the house.
One night I heard a faint thud on the roof and the familiar musky fragrance assailed my nostrils. I tip-toed to the bedroom window and peered through the half-drawn curtains.
In a corner of the balcony, a pair of eyes gleamed bright in the darkness and I could make out the indistinct outline of a civet. It glided down a pillar and was soon on its way to forage for food from the neighbouring gardens. In the morning we would find evidence of its night’s meal. Mango peels, half-eaten custard apples and ciku often litter our driveway or lawn.
Early one morning after a night filled with thunder claps, forked lightning and slashing rain, I strolled over to open the bedroom window. I grabbed the edge of the heavy curtain and was about to draw back the curtain when I was taken aback by the sight of a furry grey ball that was lodged between the window panes and the mosquito screen.
I peered intently at the object and in the pre-dawn light saw a baby civet snugly curled up in its cosy corner. I gave a half-hearted clap to scare it away. Startled from its slumber, it gave me a doleful, innocent look and reluctantly crawled out from the warmth of its sanctuary to seek refuge under the eaves of the house.
The patch of wooded area behind our house has become home to a number of wild animals. One morning as I gazed out of the kitchen window, the branch of a nearby cempedak tree started to shake violently, as if it had been hit by a sudden gust of wind.
A pair of monkeys appeared from within its thick foliage. They swung from an overhanging branch to a papaya tree and were soon feasting on the young shoots. At that moment our next-door maid emerged from the kitchen door and sauntered to the other side of the house.
At the sight of the wide-opened door, one of the monkeys darted into the house and in a flash dashed out with a plastic container in its hand. With deft fingers, it opened the container and was soon relishing its unseen content.
Occasionally, it would stand erect on its hind legs, eyes straining into the distance for signs of any approaching intruder. The sound of muffled voices and intermittent chuckles wafted across the morning air from the other side of the house.
Assured of its relative safety by the sound of distant voices and laughter, it resumed its feast. Having satiated its appetite, the monkey finally climbed over the fence and scurried into the dense undergrowth.
A few days after the incident, two uniformed men brandishing shotguns could be seen scanning the nearby tree tops for the monkeys. A slight movement among the branches of a tree caught their attention and they headed for the direction. A gunshot shattered the morning air. I hoped and prayed it was just a shot to scare away the monkeys. A second shot rang out and then another. A long eerie silence ensued. All hopes were dashed.
“They are back!” an excited voice called out. I rushed to join my wife at the kitchen window. The sight that met our eyes filled us with joy. Under the dappled shadow of a durian tree, a female jungle fowl was busy scratching and uncovering food for her clutch of fuzzy chicks. Head bobbing in the morning air, she kept a wary eye for lurking predators.
“There should be three chicks, but I can only see two of them.”
“What happened to the other chick?” my wife inquired, an edge of anxiety creeping into her voice.
A large monitor lizard, tongue flicking, waddled languidly near the unsuspecting group. We feared for the worst. Suddenly, a chick darted out from the undergrowth to join its mother and we heaved a sigh of relief.
Sometimes we would hear the crow of a male jungle fowl and catch glimpses of it among the half-obscure mass of vegetation. Occasionally, it would perch on a nearby boulder and this provided us with the opportunity to study and admire this magnificent rooster with its resplendent plumage.
The rooster had a rich, red comb and wattles, and sported a cape of iridescent hues, while its streaming tail feathers of red, green, yellow and blue shimmered in the morning sunlight. The jungle fowl would vanish for days, weeks and even months and then reappear unexpectedly. Until then, two retirees will wait patiently for the home-coming.

‘’They are back!”

My eyes flash open at the magic words. With sleepy eyes from my interrupted afternoon nap, I peer though the half-open window.

"Po-po!"

A little girl comes running up the driveway and jumps into the waiting arms of her grandmother. My heart warms at the sight and sound. I know my children and grandchildren are here on a short visit, but at least I know they can always come back to a place which they can call home. Then I think about the wild animals in the woodlots behind our houses. I wonder how long it will be before they are driven out of their homes.
Somewhere behind the house I hear a rooster crows. It is a long and poignant crow that lingers in the still, slumberous afternoon air. Wildlife experts may say it is a mating call, but to me it sounds more like a lone rooster lamenting the loss of its natural habitat – their lost habitat.

kolo the pup

The Star
Lifestyle
Wednesday December 9, 2009

Story and illustration by WAN CHWEE SENG

About a stray that came to stay.


THEY moved in, unnoticed. Then early one morning through the half-obscured mass of vegetation we saw them – a young couple and a little boy of about four playing happily in the garden. It was only then that my wife and I realised a family had move into the vacant house next door. The sound of their muffled voices and spontaneous laughter wafted across the balmy morning air.

The sight and sound were a welcome change in this relatively quiet neighbourhood where children played within high walls or within the confines of their houses. Our hearts warmed as we recalled those days long ago when our own children, now grown-ups, used to play freely in the garden.

Siew Leng with our children, Anita, Lenny and Andrew

Andeww and Lenny

Their shouts and laughter would ring and resonate across the neighbourhood and occasionally we would be startled by a sonic boom as a soccer ball went crashing against the side of our new Mazda.

We were glad and hoped that the silence of the neighbourhood would once again be filled with a child’s voice. Our wish was soon granted.

“Hai, hai,” the voice of a mother reprimanding her child would often break the silence of the day.
Early one morning while weeding in the garden, a flurry of hands attracted my attention. I caught sight of my neighbour’s son motioning to me and pointing excitedly at some unseen object in the drain.
I walked over and craned my neck to find out the cause of the excitement. The boy was soon talking rapidly to me in a language which was alien to my ears.
“Snail,” the mother said with a coy smile. I nodded and smiled.
“I’m Masayo and this is my son Taka. We just come from Kyoto, Japan,” she introduced herself haltingly in English.
Then it suddenly dawned on me that the litany of reprimands I used to hear was in reality the mother responding “Yes, yes” in Japanese to her inquisitive child’s endless questions.
One evening the faint barking of a dog caught my attention. Across the hedge I could see little Taka walking unsteadily down the driveway with a scrawny puppy following closely at his heels. Kolo, the puppy, was a stray which was found wandering at a factory site.
Taka’s father brought it home as a playmate for Taka. The pair could often be seen playing happily in the garden. Kolo, however, had the habit of finding his way into our garden. Taka’s father had taken meticulous pain to patch the holes in the hedge. However, Kolo had the uncanny ability to search for hidden holes and find his way into our garden. Masayo would often apologetically get permission to fetch Kolo from our garden and sometimes my wife and I would help to fetch Kolo and hand it to her over the hedge.
When the family went on short vacations to Japan, a caretaker would feed Kolo, but we would often find the puppy resting comfortably on our front patio and so we helped to care for the puppy. Masayo’s family was appreciative of our concern for their puppy and never failed to bring small gifts when they returned from Japan.
With proper care and nourishment, Kolo grew into a plump puppy, with a sleek brown coat, bright brown eyes and long, floppy ears. As he matured and grew in strength, so did our friendship. Ours was a friendship born out of the mutual concern and care for a stray.

The writer, Taka, and Siew Leng with Kolo

Kolo with Masayo and Taka

One day when we were relaxing on the patio, we saw Masayo, little Taka and their dog, Kolo, at our front gate. After the usual exchange of pleasantries, Masayo informed us that they were going back to Japan.
“You don’t like to stay here?” I inquired.
“We like here, very much, but Taka has to go to school in Japan,” she replied in a voice tinged with sadness.
“Would you like to keep Kolo?” she asked. “If not we have to put him to sleep,” she said in an emotion-choked voice. Behind her thick glasses I noticed sheen of moisture in her eyes.
We agreed to take in Kolo as we could not imagine having him put away. A few days before their departure, I took snapshots of Kolo with little Taka and Masayo.

Taka with Kolo, his playmate

Kolo took instantly to us. In fact, he had always been part of the family. Whenever we came back from work, he was always there to greet us at the front gate. However, there were times when I would find him sleeping on the patio with a faraway look in his eyes and I wondered if he was thinking about Taka, his playmate.

One day when we came back from work, Kolo was not there to greet us. Instead we found him sprawled on the patio. His slow, laboured breathing and the doleful look in his eyes told us there was something seriously wrong with him. We bundled him into the car and rushed him to the vet.

The young cempedak tree

After examining him, the vet informed us that Kolo had been poisoned. The vet tried his best to save Kolo, but he could not be saved. We all felt sad at his passing, but felt sadder at the thought of a stray who had been saved by someone from a distant land only to see its life snuffed out by a heartless person from within our own community. Kolo was put to rest under the cool shade of a spreading cempedak tree.

The cempedak tree is now gnarled and its bare branches throw grid shadows on an unmarked grave.

The gnarled cempedak tree with bare branches

A car toots. Tiny feet patter down the driveway towards a waiting SUV.

“Bye, ma!” Yes, another family has moved into the vacant house next door. The voice triggers a memory and I recall the day when another kid had walked down the same driveway with a stray, a stray who found its way into our homes and right into our hearts.

How much is that doggie in the window _ Patti Page