Possum Death Knell

The thing that’s surprised me most about Australia since I came to live here ten years ago is how easy it is to get used to the beasties. The stories I’d heard before coming out here weren’t enough to put me off, but they did make me wonder about how I’d react to my first huge spider incident, or to finding a scorpion in my boot or having a billion flies land on my Chicko roll. I was reasonably sure I’d cope okay, but a man never really knows until it happens. As it turns out, I was fine with all of the above. But one incident lives with me to this day as the singularly most gruesome thing I’ve ever seen in Australia. If you’re squeamish, better look away now...

Alison’s brother and his wife came out from Scotland to visit us in April one year, and brought their four-year-old twins, Ethan and Tamzin, with them. We had a great time visiting the theme parks down the Gold Coast, taking a trip over to Stradbroke Island and driving along the beach (which the kids loved), going to South Bank parklands to swim and generally enjoying each other’s company over too much rich food.

But the thing that brought the biggest smiles to the twins’ faces was when it grew dark outside and the possums came down from their beds in the palm fronds to feed on the bananas and nuts we treat them to on the patio every few nights. Tamzin stood at the lounge window, mesmerised by their fluffy tails and cute little cat-like faces, so much so that she named the cutest of them Hush – ‘...because that’s what you do when the possums come down to feed’ (she was only four, remember).

A few days from the end of their holiday, Adam, Michelle and the kids went off on a pre-planned trip to Sydney to visit some friends of theirs. While they were away, Alison and I kept up the routine of occasionally feeding the possums, partly so that they’d be there for the kids to gawp at when they got back from Sydney.

The night before our guests got back, Alison and I were snuggled up watching Monarch of the Glen on telly (which, twee as it is, always makes me homesick enough to pour myself a Scotch). Hush the possum was down on the patio, feeding on a banana, and when she’d had her fill she jumped onto the trunk of a palm tree and disappeared up into the shadows.

I turned my attention back to the telly, but a few minutes later Hush crashed to the ground. I’ve seen possums fall out of the trees before, and they’ve always taken a few seconds to compose themselves before running off or starting a fresh fight – they’re very territorial. But Hush was dead. Lying on her side with her eyes shut, not breathing, not even twitching.

Alison and I looked at each other – the last thing we wanted was for her brother and his family to come home and see a dead possum in amongst the bromeliads.

‘If she’s still there in the morning I’ll go out and bury her,’ I said.

‘What the hell’s wrong with her?’ Alison asked, but she’d no sooner finished speaking when a four-metre python clattered onto the pergola roof and fell to the ground beside Hush.

After a few minutes of lying absolutely still (during which time I was really confused – what was up the tree that would kill a possum and a python?) the snake started to flick his tongue in and out, then uncoiled himself and moved towards Hush.

Over the next hour or so, Alison and I stood hypnotised as the python unhinged his jaw and slowly enveloped Hush’s body, a mere two metres from our lounge window. When he was done, he just as slowly eased his belly up onto the edge of a flowerpot to push Hush just a little further down, then slithered off into the darkness.

Maybe one day I’ll log on to YouTube and post the video I took. Or maybe I won’t. That was the first time I’ve ever not finished a glass of whisky. Know what I’m saying?

Anyhoo, the next day we picked up our guests from the airport, took them home and pretended for the kids’ sakes that some imposter was Hush. And I prayed like mad that the python (who I later named Malfoy) had enough in his belly to see him through hibernation and wouldn’t be back for seconds before our house guests left for Scotland.

Yes, we resorted to a little white lie, and I see no reason why it can’t be...wait for it...Hushed up for all time to protect the innocents.

Who groaned?

Pop Goes the...Stick Insect

Warning: I still find this disturbing, in a Gawd, I'm an idiot kind of way.

A few weeks ago I wrote about how I arrived in Australia, green as grass and a committed scaredy-cat as far as the local wildlife is concerned. Have a look at Snakes Alive! if you feel you’ve missed something.

It didn’t take me long, however, to realise that even living in suburbia, as Alison and I did in the first few months after we arrived in Western Australia, the wildlife quite literally on our doorstep was magnificent to behold.

One evening we arrived home after working in Perth, and there, on the screen door, was the biggest stick insect I’ve ever seen. I swear the thing must have been at least nine inches long, maybe even a foot.

We stood gawping at it (he/she? Who can tell these things just by looking?) for a good five minutes and then gently eased the door open and slipped inside.

That stick insect was the instigator of much refreshed enthusiasm for our new homeland that night. Everything we spoke about centred on its mammoth proportions, its subtle colouring, its brazen refusal to budge even when we were standing just a few inches away (I got closer as I got bolder, as men do), and its surprising cuteness – it’s an insect; it shouldn’t be classed as cute, but this little (big) guy (guyess?) was cute as cute can be.

Another day dawned and our routine – alarmingly, very like the routine we followed back home in Scotland – kicked off again. After a quick breakfast we headed to the front door, but I stopped myself from barging out with my usual bluster. I wanted to see if Twiggy was still there (yes, because of her stubborn refusal to move from the door we decided that she must be female and we named her accordingly - sad, isn’t it, how grown adults with university degrees will regress to the level of five-year-olds when cuteness is introduced to a situation. Actually, there is a pattern to observe here, as I'll demonstrate in a later post.)

There was no sign of her. Not on the screen door, not on the bricks of the wall, and not on the inner door, although why I was checking there I have no idea.

“Musta buggered off last night,” I called over my shoulder to Alison as I stepped out onto the porch...

WeeeeeeeePOP!

I looked at my feet, and there was Twiggy. All nine or so inches of her. Flat as a flounder, and very, very dead.

I’ve never felt so low. I’m still not over it. But it’s only been ten years.

Snakes Alive! (by Jack Ramsay)

One tub of lard and I'm anyone's.

I'm no stranger to snakes. I come from Scotland, after all, where the adder still rules the moors. Nah, that's crap - I walked the hills of Perthshire and beyond for years and years and years, and never once saw an adder. I think they're related to the pond-dredging haggii - they're certainly just as rare. Still, a few of my friends claim to have seen one, and that's good enough for me.

Yes, I'm from Scotland, where snakes rule.

Then I came to Australia. But I didn't just rack up here and expect to fit in. I did my homework. I found out what could sting, bite, nip, paralyse, hypnotise or even kill me. I'd list them here for you - from ants to ticks, to wasps, spiders, caterpillars (that's just taking it too far!!!), dingoes, kangaroos (they fight dirty...gouging little so-and-so's), crocs and of course snakes - but it'd take too long and I've got tea brewing. Oh, there are more. And all are in the 'most dangerous in the world' category, or 'the most poisonous...' or 'just one bite can kill a million elephants...'. You get the picture.

So, when I arrived in Australia in April 2000 with my dear lady Alison, I was alert. I was prepared. Nothing would sneak up on me and bite my bahoochie (bum). No red-backed critter would nip my cheek while I contemplated the state of the Chinese economy in the dunny at the end of the garden. Nuh-huh.

We rented a place in Perth in Western Australia, moved in, and after the removalists had gone we sat outside with a 'coldie' or three and breathed a big sigh of relief - we'd arrived in Australia at long last. The sun went down, the cloudless sky turned purple and eventually we clambered over boxes and cartons to get to the bed, exhausted from the stress of moving home from one side of the planet to the other.

I didn't get much sleep. All those documentaries I'd watched; all those natural history museums I'd visited (and all their gift-shop books I'd bought) came back to haunt me. I'd visions of huntsmen - like the one I found in my new garden shed a few minutes after picking up the keys - marauding over us as we slumbered with our mouths agape (I've seen Alison sleep like that all night - all night!) I tried to relax, thought of haggis hunting on the Perthshire moors, and was soon drifting off...

And that's when the hissing started.

It wasn't even one of those 'is it, isn't it?' moments - it was loud, unmistakable hissing. A bloody snake was in the house! Already!! I knew it sometimes happened in Australia, if screen doors had been left open. We'd had the removalists at work all day, and every door had been wide open. And I knew that snakes here are viscious, deadly, pure evil and nasty for the sake of it...

I sat up, straining for some indication that I was imagining the noise (hoping I was imagining it.) But no. It was clear as clear can be; so I poked Alison in the ribs and she confirmed I wasn't hearing things.

"Go get rid of it," she said.

I can't tell you what I said in reply - I have a reputation to uphold - but after about twenty minutes of lying there (no, I wasn't quaking, even if Alison says I was...pfft!) the noise stopped. No hissing.

Only dripping.

Well, I had to get up and have a look, didn't I? Snakes don't 'drip', do they?

Ah, it's wonderful moving to a new country. See, in Scotland we never once had to water our garden. Installing a bore water irrigation system was a home improvement project that had never crossed my mind.

The thought of killing my land lord did cross my mind, however. I mean, who the **** (thanks to Anonymous for the correct spelling of **** there) sets an irrigation system timer to come on at 4am? Eh? Who?!

Yes, I come from Scotland where snakes rule the moors, and men never have to dodge those invisible, pop-up-when-you-least-expect-it watering heads when walking on someone's lawn. Pfft. 4am.

It's been almost ten years since we arrived in Australia, and it's true what some people say - you do become used to the heat, and the mozzies...and the snakes. In fact, it's snake season now and the slithering from the rafters tells me that Malfoy the python (it's so handy having a name for each snake, I find) will be out sunning himself in a few minutes. I might just go get that tub of lard, grease myself up and see if he fancies a wee wrestle.

Here he comes now...

Published in The Irregular newspaper, Kingfield, Maine, USA - November 2009