The Night of the Possum

This blog is just that – a simple blog. It is not a celebration of any sort, nor a victory tale. It contains no sadness, but it has elements of compassion. It should be considered a local news report – nothing more and nothing less.

Unlike Night of the Iguana, our Night of the Possum does not star Ava Gardner, nor Deborah Kerr, nor Richard Burton, and unlike Night of the Iguana, the theme of our night’s events do not revolve around a priest and three woman, but rather around two Labradors and a common brushtail possum (Trichosurus vulpecula).

It was a time of beginnings and of ends, a time of joy and of sadness, a time of defeat and of victory, a time of cacaphonic sounds and noises and of deathly silence. It was neither good, nor was it bad, but it will always remain the Night of the Possum in my memory.

On this day Sunday 20 April sixty-seven years ago, I was born in East London, a harbour town in the eastern Cape Province of the then Union of South Africa. Therefore this day is the anniversary of the day of my birth. A birthday is not necessarily  an over-joyous occasion at my stage in life, as one appreciates that you have already celebrated more such days than you are likely to witness in the future.

The family had been watching a television series collection, and as the episodes played, midnight loomed closer. Tomorrow is Easter Monday and Clayton and Bianca are due to leave on a 3-day river boating break in the morning, so at 11:25pm the DVD player is switched off.

Clayton was immediately outside the kitchen door with the two Labradors Bennie and Sophie in tow, for the late-night toilet run. As per usual, the dogs immediately melted into the stark blackness, whilst the rest of us did what we do before going to bed.

The relative silence in the house was broken by Clayton exploding breathlessly  into the kitchen en route to the walking stick stand in the entrance hall.

“There’s something up with the dogs! I think they’ve cornered the possum!”

With that he grabbed the wooden truncheon in the stand, snatched a torch and made off into the darkness of the night, the silver beam of the torch heading in the direction of the Secret Garden.

“Please switch on the front security light!”

As usual, I was a bit slow on the uptake, but managed to squeeze in to my gumboots and armed myself with a high-beam torch, following on the pack-leader’s heels.

It was dark in every direction.

No dogs in sight. No possum in sight. Just darkness.

Darkness and silence.

Clayton, with Tyler and me in tow, systematically checked the lawn and garden in an anti-clockwise direction. As we reached the 75% mark just past the veggie patch, we could here Jeanette’s screaming voice from near the front door and the parked cars.

Clayton, quite obviously with the welfare of his precious Bennie and Sophie uppermost in his mind, like a Usain Bolt, left us standing and bolted (if you’ll excuse the pun) up the gradient and to the parking area.

Apparently, the dogs had chased the possum, which was clearly no match for the two sturdy high-speed and muscular Labs on the muddy ground, and had pounced for the bloodless and instantaneous kill, amid the blood-curling squeals and shrieks of the defeated rodent pest.

This was the possum’s last day on planet earth, 20 April 2014

This was my first opportunity of being able to inspect the little pest up close and personal. It was obvious from the high quality of his fur why they were sought after for their pelts. In  New Zealand the destruction caused by their sheer nuts.umbers put them on the Public Enemy Number One List without question, while the very same critters are kept as pets across the pond in Australia. This was the very same creature who’d been visiting our Walnut tree every evening and helping himself to our crop.

I have carefully inspected all the branches as best I could, but cannot trace any more nuts. It is rather ironic that he met his untimely end, whilst coming to gather nuts which no longer exist.