The Prodigal Possum

Mumma Poss Ink Sketch

Life rarely goes quite as planned, and dealing with wildlife is even less predictable.  Still, at least I’ve benefited in the past couple of weeks from added exercise, in getting up and down the ladder.

Having blocked up three sections between the rafters, I’d left Mumma Poss with only one way in and out of the studio ceiling.  At least that’s what I hoped.  The iron on the roof is none too secure in places, but without risking a severe case of vertigo by climbing up onto the roof, I had no way of checking the side that butts up to the neighbour’s property.

Fingers crossed and eyes drooping, I stayed up past my bedtime to close off Mumma Poss’s front door.  Shutting the dog inside, armed with new batteries in the torch, hammer, nails and board already prepared, and with as much stealth as I could muster while bashing nails into wood, I did the deed.  That night I slept the sleep of the righteous and relieved.

My relief was short lived.  The next morning there was another puddle of possum piddle on the studio floor.  Up the ladder again to  check the board.  Mumma Poss had either head butted or karate kicked her way out!

The next night, I left it until after one in the morning to repeat the process, with the same piddling result.  This time, the board was secure, but I’d closed the door before the possum had bolted, obviously.  Believe me, there is nothing worse than the pong of dead possum.  Besides, I’m a wildlifer, I rescue possums, I don’t starve them to death in a ceiling.  So, here I go again.  Up the ladder, wrenching out nails, I envied Mumma Poss’s muscles.

Two days later, I tried a different tack.  After shutting off the alarm before the neighbours lynched me for waking them at five in the morning, I dragged on clothes and boots and repeated the process.  The next day yet another puddle of piddle on the floor.  Fudge.  Possums are supposed to be nocturnal, so why wasn’t she nocturning?  Was the weather too cold?  Had she gorged herself on leavings in the compost heap, enough to last a week?  Up the ladder I went again, to remove the board, groaning at the thought of having to construct an apparatus with springs and hinges to fill a two-inch gap with a one-way door.

A few days away from home reduced stress levels – mine, and I’m sure, Mumma Poss’s.  It couldn’t have been pleasant for her, huddled in the ceiling with so much crashing and banging going on.  Home again to find fresh puddles soaking into the floor, I issued an eviction warning to the ceiling.

Possum cages are a marvel.  Primed with a juicy quarter of apple, it sat like some sort of boxy antenna on top of the carport roof.  Mumma Poss couldn’t miss it, surely.  She didn’t.  Though she did come close to falling off the roof, cage and all, in her agitated but futile attempts to escape.  No need for an alarm that morning!  Up the ladder in the pre-dawn light, I almost mistook Mumma Poss for a Tassie Devil.  Teeth bared, hissing and spitting, claws trying to shake apart the cage, she was not a happy girl.  Not that I blamed  her.  I’d be pissed off too, in the same situation.

There’s nothing like communing with nature.  Sure, it was a one-sided conversation, but I could tell she was listening, as I apologised and explained why she would have to find a new home.  With us both safely on the ground, I took her up the yard and opened the cage.  It took her a full half-second to disappear over the back fence.

Here in Oz, it’s illegal to release an evicted possum further than fifty metres from where it is caught.  I can only hope Mumma Poss has found herself a nice cosy hole in a tree, and not in the ceiling of neighbour’s house.  I also hope she hasn’t made nice with the possum that lives in the ceiling of my house, which is next in line for eviction.