162 On the trail of vanishing birds 



fragrant gardenia. And along with it a courtly bow, a verse of 

 poetry, or a few snatches of song. I never witnessed anything quite 

 so delightful in a public conveyance anywhere! And yet everyone 

 seemed to take it all more or less for granted. 



In the spring of 1951 I began a general survey of the status of 

 flamingos in key spots throughout the West Indies. In late July 

 I was in the Dominican Republic, arriving on the thirtieth on the 

 north coast. My first stop was the little town of Monte Cristi, and 

 there, with great good fortune, I met two young American ento- 

 mologists who were employed by the local United Fruit Company 

 establishment. One of them, Curt Bowling, had taken a course 

 in ornithology at the University of Miami and was familiar with 

 my spoonbill monograph. When I explained that I was looking 

 for flamingos he said that he was afraid most of the local "fla- 

 mingos" might turn out to be spoonbills. Nevertheless, I went 

 with them to Puerto Libertador where the manager very kindly 

 put me up at the handsome guesthouse. That afternoon I talked 

 with George Austin, who was in charge of docks and boats for 

 the company, and happened to be interested in birds. He assured 

 me that I would find flamingos, but a trip by boat would be 

 necessary and he would make the arrangements. 



Before breakfast the next morning I walked along Estero Balsa, 

 where Austin said flamingos sometimes came to a sandbar to 

 rest and preen. There were none in sight, however, so I strolled 

 back toward the highway along a path that ran through some 

 brush country near the shore. I noticed several thatch-roofed huts 

 on the bank, but some distance off, and saw a few natives squatting 

 about their early morning fires, from which smoke was rising 

 lazily. Then, directly in the path ahead of me, and barring my 

 passage, I saw a fair-sized brown cur dog. It is marvelous how a 

 definite and immediate understanding can be transmitted be- 

 tween a man and a dog. At the first glance I knew from his stance 

 and expression that this dog meant to make me pay tribute for 

 the use of that trail. If he could! And I knew with equal prompt- 

 ness that there was nothing I could do to stop him except retreat, 

 which for some idiotic reason I refused to consider. There seemed 

 to be neither stick nor stone at hand so I approached my adversary 



