We'd seen them when we arrived the day before, lounging around the campground in a way that suggested they'd grown accustomed to human intrusion and particularly human food. It had to be the Dingo - what else would crawl under the fly and steal shoes?

I took a walk around the campground and, within minutes, spotted my left Teva and yesterday's hiking socks. They were strewn about the area in a way that suggested "canine" in a big way. The sandal's velcro straps were all twisted around themselves and the socks were crumpled and sitting at least 10 feet apart. It appeared that the Dingo had dropped some of his prizes while running away from the scene of the crime. That Dingo was toast.

I stopped for a moment to assess the situation. I was 3 months into an eight-month tour of Australia and the South Pacific. I had two pairs of shoes to get me through this jaunt - the aforementioned Tevas and a pair of very expensive leather hiking boots. Except now I had Tevas and one lonely hiking boot. To make matters worse, we were camping on a mostly uninhabited island for an entire week. Being a national park with no real roads, there was certainly nowhere I could stop by and pick up a boot or two. I had to find that damn shoe. I cursed the Dingo for the second time that day.

Despite the existing evidence, I vacillated - maybe it wasn't the Dingo? (The critters had by now come to assume the omniscient power of "the" - they were one and they were bad.) I scanned the sand along one of the old logging roads used by 4WD trucks - the only kind of vehicle that can navigate the slogging byways on the largest sand island in the world.

Along the road came an enormous, incredibly loud machine that was apparently leveling the rutted track. The gap-toothed driver spotted me in my jog bra and American flag boxer shorts - no shoes, mind you - and, smiling broadly, turned off his cacophonous hulking contraption to inquire about my health.

"Nice day, eh, mate?"

"Yeah, a nice day for shoes. It seems that one of mine has disappeared from underneath the fly of my tent," I replied, irritated.

"Oh!" remarked the Aussie, obviously perking up at the mention of a common plague, "It's the Dingo, mate! Dingoes love shoes! Never leave shoes outside your tent - everyone knows that!"

My blood was beginning to rise. Everyone knows that? Why don't people tell you these things? Why aren't there signs posted? We'd seen 50 signs admonishing us not to feed the Dingoes, not to climb the Bunya pines, not to despoil our campground, but nothing about the Dingo's peculiar fondness for footwear, my footwear.

"Think about it, mate!" my helpful road-leveler offered with an even broader grin. He obviously found the whole situation quite humorous, which rankled me to no end. "They're dogs - and dogs just like to play with shoes."

"Yeah, well, it sucks to be a hiker with only one boot."

"A leather boot? Oh, they especially love leather."

Fabulous.

I left the highly amused road-leveler and continued to rummage about in the underbrush near our picnic table when Peter surprised me.

"Just what are you up to, Missy?" he inquired, with aggravating cheerfulness. "Searching for Ostrich eggs in preparation for the omelets you're making us for breakfast? Don't you know Ostriches only live in the Outback, not off the coast of Queensland in the rainforest? And why, may I ask, are you foraging about in the thorn-ridden bracken without any shoes on?"

It was only then that I noticed the cuts and scrapes all over my lower legs and feet. Insult added to injury. The Dingo was cursed for the third time that day.

"It seems that the Dingo has stolen my shoes," I moaned. "I found the Teva, but I'm still missing my left Merrill."

"You're kidding me! Oh my God!" Laughing loudly, holding his stomach. "That's the funniest thing I've ever heard in my life!"

"Yeah, real funny for me - 6 days of hiking with a 50-pound pack and one boot. Oh, am I going to be a pleasant hiking companion."

Peter considered that notion for a few seconds and started to get serious.

"So where haven't you looked?"

We surveyed the area and split up in an effort to cover more ground efficiently. Within fifteen minutes or so, I ran into a Park Ranger. My hopes dimmed when he seemed to know even less about the Dingo than I did. But he did answer my question about how far the beasts typically run before they drop their prey.

Oh! They can go for miles.