The war with my possums

Possums are cute, with a capital K… if you get what I mean – there are two sides to every story. We’ve had semi-tame possums at our house for one and a half decades now. As the crow flies we’re only a few kilometres from the CBD, but we’ve had possums so tame that we could even pat some of them.

We didn’t always feed the wildlife – they’ve been on the roof at night since the day we moved in. Feeding them didn’t start the avalanche of possum chaos we now have.

We used to put any out-of-date food (mainly bread, fruit and vegetables, but no meat) on top of our bespoke bird-feeding platform which is bolted to the pool fence. We’ve seen multiple generations come and go, and we’ve seen some rude and/or shy beasties, with the occasional truly dazzling personality.

It’s always been an occasion to remember when one of our girls showed off her newborn. Gabby is the tamest possum to date and completely ignores the humans patting her while she stuffs those lovely brown bananas down her throat. Her first baby was typically shy, but number two – Dobby – was just plain terrified of humans…and other possums, and sounds and lights…and, well, the darkness. He’s more chicken than possum.

Photo above: Young mum Gabriella with new-born Dobby (think Harry Potter’s elf)

Speaking of personality, BargeArse, our largest-ever resident, slides down our many golden cane palms head-first, butt-first or sideways – it was all the same to him – he obviously has no pain sensors. One night he slipped off the roof and landed on his head on the slate tiles around our outdoor spa. After a minute being semi-conscious, he sat up and swore in cartoon language (almost exactly like Elmer Fudd on the Bugs Bunny Show) for the next 10 minutes. He then ate the banana I proffered him, climbed up the spa wall and resumed his beautiful rendition of River Dance on the roof.

We’ve always had two or three, but over the last few months they’ve started to run their own condo in a large Canary Island palm next to the house. Now, about half a dozen of them practise clog dancing on our roof nightly, starting at dusk. They’re also all entrants in the nightly Who Can Hiss the Loudest talent program on PosTV. They’ve chewed the thermostat off our solar hot water system and started their own fertiliser factory on the roof, the side path, around the pool – anywhere EXCEPT on the garden!

Coincidentally, did you know that possum scat, poo, crap – or whatever the appropriate term is – is most inappropriately dumped where us dopey humans are most likely to stand on it. The pellets are sticky even when they’re dry. It’s just not very pleasant under bare feet, and it eats into the concrete paving if it’s not hosed off daily (like that’s going to happen!). I’m sure it really is Nature’s own fertiliser, but Mother Nature could do with a little more potty training of its progeny.

It looks like the time for action is now (well, a few months ago to be honest), so I plan source a possum trap from the local university, city council or wildlife group, trap the offenders, and relocate them to bushland a few kilometres away. I had to do this a few houses ago and it was easy – but I used to work in the university vet clinic back then, and I’m not sure about sourcing a trap now that the clinic is closed.

I could pay the local possum man to evict them, but I refuse to fork out about $500 per hairy tail when I could do it myself. Poisoning them is both illegal and wrong. I’d be happy to pay the Mafia to ‘look after the problem’, but I am something of a softie/greenie. Hell, I personally escort all the little snakes our giant cat (really!) brings inside and all the ridiculously large carpet snakes that I catch around our yard (a normal suburban block, near the banks of a river) and then I drive them to bushland to give them the best chance of a good, natural life (which is far better than my neighbours killing them if they come across them).

It really has been great hosting a few possums, especially those with nice personalities. All of our human guests love to feed them – especially the international guests. We have billions of photos (allow me SOME artistic licence here).

On the plus side, we’ve never had any biters…but I copped my first hiss last week – excuse me for breathing and feeding you, you little freak! Sorry, but I’m losing sleep because of the Brushtail version of So You Think You Can Dance…While Wearing Jack Boots, and I’m not doing my sparkling-best word smithing right now.

Next week we’ll be featuring some delightful dishes sourced at Chez Possum, our new wildlife kitchen here in the inner city. Try some tasty ‘Large Hissing Bugger on a Stick’, or the ever-popular ‘Flambéd Fillet of Urinating, Crapping, Hairy Denizen of the ‘Burbs’. I know I will!

Tell us of your native nemesis/nemeses – how did you go about solving the problem.