Possum (with thanks to Val for the inspiration)

Jen drove carefully along the dirt drive and stopped beside the front veranda steps.  She peeled her clammy thighs off the hot seat and went to check on her passenger in the back of the ute.  “You OK, Possum?” No voice, no movement.  Possum was living up to his name.

“Tommo!”  she bawled.  A large bear of a man emerged from the house with a bulging joey bag slung round his neck, a brace of bandicoots in his left hand and a feed bottle in the other.

“Can you give me a hand please, Hon.  I want to get him out of the sun and settled”.

“Be right there, Darl”.  Tommo went back into the house, hung up the joey on a convenient hook, popped the bandicoots into another bag and trotted down the steps to assist his beloved.

Jen handed him a pair of gauntlet gloves.  “I thought he was friendly”, said Tommo, warily.

“Oh, he’s a sweetie. He doesn’t know you very well though, and he’s had a bit of a rough trot what with ….”  Jen’s eyes welled up and Tommo patted her ineffectually in the hope of averting a major flood.  God, the girl could weep!

Between them they manoeuvred the huge cage into the sitting room of the sprawling Queenslander and removed the tarpaulin.  The occupant, hunched over a thick, gnarled perch, showed no interest in his new carers or surroundings.  He plucked unhappily at a few lustreless black feathers and let them drift to the floor of the cage.  His beautiful crest remained glued to his head.  Possum was grieving.

They exchanged worried glances.  They knew how fast birds could go down.

“Don’t worry, Darl, she’ll be right”, said Tommo, slipping into positive mode to counter her innate negativity.  “I’ll go and find some nice treats while you get him out of that bloody awful cage.”

Jen opened the cage door; the bird stayed put. “Come on Possum”, she coaxed.  “You’ll like it here.  There’s heaps of room, masses of parrots and all your favourite gum trees; black cockies too, just like you. Come on out for your Auntie Jen.”   Possum’s head came up at the word ‘Auntie’; his crest lifted marginally and a hopeful gleam lightened his dull eyes.  He shuffled slowly along the perch, lowered himself to the floor, stepped over the threshold, stomped across the polished timber floor towards the sofa and climbed, beak over foot, until he reached the summit, which happened to be Tommo’s Akubra.  He examined the room with a vague air of expectation (paying particular attention to the doors), opened his beak in a wide yawn, crapped on the Akubra, tucked his head under a wing and retreated into melancholia.

The following week was fraught with anxiety.  Possum turned up his beak at all the temping parrot morsels.  Finally, Tommo couldn’t stand it any longer. “Look, Darl, we’ve tried everything, but he’s just not pulling out of this.  It’s not kind to let him go on like this, is it?  I think we might have to consider …”

“Nooooo!! Possum’s family, we can’t just do away with him!  We signed a Cockatoo Contract, but Angie can’t keep him and Mikey is just … just  hopeless!  It was always going to be down to us to look after him, but we haven’t, have we? Oh, poor Possum!” The tears started in earnest then; all the weeks of worry about Auntie and now this.  Dear Possum, Auntie’s pride and joy, the love of her life and her comfort in old age.  It was inconceivable that she could fail Auntie and destroy the last link to the dear old lady.

“Sweetie”, said Tommo gently,  “I know it’s hard, but look at the poor little bugger”.  She looked, through a veil of tears, and saw that Possum was indeed a  shadow of his former self and going rapidly downhill.

Tommo knew he should have stopped right there, but he had other concerns.  “Look, Sweets, everything’s gone to pot since Possum arrived.  I know you have a lot on your plate, but we’ve got other animals to think about.  I have to work, so I can’t cope with everything. He noticed her heaving chest and thought, in a distracted way, what a gorgeous girl she was, even with snot running down her face. “Sorry, Jen, but Possum’s had enough. It’s cruel to keep trying.  D’you want me to make the call?”

“Don’t you bloody dare!” she shouted. “If you give up on Possum, I’ll never forgive you!”  She watched him shrink into himself as though she’d punched him in the gut.

“That’s not like you, Jen”, said Tommo quietly. “I’m surprised at you, putting your own feelings above the suffering of an animal.”  He turned towards the door.  “Think about it. I’ll be down at the creek.”

Jen sank to her knees in front of Possum.  She stayed there for a long time, watching him, tucked up and listless on the parrot stand. His breastbone was prominent and his eyes lifeless.  They’d tried crop feeding, but Possum regurgitated everything.  Water stayed down so he wasn’t seriously dehydrated, but  if he wouldn’t start eating, what was the point?  She remembered the time, years ago, when Uncle had arrived to take Bazza on their Sunday bush walk to the pub and back.  Bazza loved Uncle, all animals and kids loved him, and usually he raced to the door, rump wriggling madly.  On that occasion though, he looked pleadingly at Uncle and rolled onto his back in submission.  He was old and crook and just couldn’t face walkies, not even for Uncle.  He’d given up, just like Possum. Jen never forgot the look in Bazza’s eyes.  Shortly after that she accompanied Dad to the vets to have the old dog put down.  It was the first time she’d seen Dad cry.

Jen sighed.  Tommo was right.  She would go to the creek and apologise before she made the dreaded phone call.

Tommo was already on his way back, at a fast jog along the wallaby track, despite the heat.  Before Jen could open her mouth, he grabbed her by the hand and dragged her back to the house.

“Darl”, said Tommo, “where are my old CDs?”

“In the wardrobe, spare bedroom, but what …?”

He was already half-way there and didn’t answer.

Tommo inserted the CD into the player.  A ghastly Christmas song intro, jingly and nauseating, emanated from the speakers,  so why was he grinning like a maniac?  Jen gazed at him in bewilderment.  He’s lost it, she thought,  but then the Voice kicked in.  She was awash in memory. How could she have forgotten?

“Look, Jen.”  She turned in the direction of his pointing finger.  Possum was nibbling delicately at a chopped egg entree and eyeing the bowl of parrot mix.

Tommo explained.  He was sitting gazing at the water, in his favourite spot, when he experienced a sudden and startling aural vision of Auntie singing to Possum. Auntie was a dead ringer for Dame Edna Everage, which led his thoughts to the long buried CD.

Jen’s face shone with a mystical light.  I love you, Tommo. Your blood’s worth bottling.”  Possum didn’t say a word, but he heard the familiar saying and was comforted.