I share my shed with a possum, at least, I used to.
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Fingers crossed she's moved out because those stuck with this mother-in-law of the marsupial world know a brushtail packing up and leaving on its own volition is nothing short of miraculous.
Persuading one of these barnacles to surrender their lodgings without the aid of a trap (for the possum, not the mother-in-law ... although ...) requires the mind-jacking abilities of a character from a tiresomely abstruse Christopher Nolan film. The trick is to convince the animal it's making all the decisions for itself.
Yes, I shall swap this warm, dry sanctuary for a wet hole filled with another creature's poo out in the dangerous bush somewhere. What an excellent idea of mine and mine alone.
If my possum is indeed gone, it's because I installed a couple of corrugated sheets of expensive plastic on the eastern wall of our sagging structure. What was once a dank and dark gallimaufry of timber and tin is now incrementally brighter and the introduction of a few meagre shards of natural light, coupled with the regrettable but necessary removal of a fairy tale-size potato vine, might just have been enough to prompt my territorial tenant to seek alternative accommodation.
Much is being reported about the homo sapien housing crisis out here in the regions but for our nocturnal fauna, the lack of a suitable roof over their heads during the day is a constant worry and walking away from a good home is like cashing out of a semi-detached in Annandale; a decision not to be taken lightly.
Operating in a real estate market only slightly less brutal than our own, displaced possums will often be killed by established members of their own species, but I'm pretty sure my erstwhile companion is still alive because she appears to be keeping up her self-appointed duties as the yard's nightly town crier/blood-curdler.
It's nine o'clock ... hggaaaaaaaeeeeaaaggghhhh ...
Ever since I decided to convert the wood storage facility into something more ambitious, the possum and I have observed an uneasy truce over the disputed territory.
I've no doubt I occupied the joint at least a few months before her but she's been arguing the claim for years via a steady stream of passive-aggressive urine over my mower and garden implements.
Her sticky emissions only worsen when she's baking up a fresh joey, creating quite the ethical dilemma for a landlord.
What sort of a scumbag evicts a pregnant, single mother?
Not wanting a foot in the door from A Current Affair, I've allowed her to stay up in the rafters of the hut built by some long-dead, former owner of our property and she's maintained a few different spots around the leaky cavity according to the weather, even dragging in supple willow branches to bolster her bedding.
But for all the liberties and comfort breaks taken by our possum, I've always sort of enjoyed having her around.
Exhausted from hours of sex, running, climbing and looking left and right an awful lot each night, she'd return to the shed in the mornings and lay limp above my head as I sharpened chains or mixed two-stroke. Her black, hooked tail would hang down like a bristly commuter strap in a train carriage and sometimes the kids and I would caress it mischievously until a single, unamused eye would open, signalling it's time to stop that now before I wee on you (and just to be crystal clear, we are definitely no longer talking about the mother-in-law).
It was even lovelier when we'd spot a miniature set of ears or the exquisite pads of soft little paws newly emerged from a pouch and, soon, I'd be sharing the shed with two possums.
Clinging to their mother's fur, the joeys would grow rapidly but just when they seemed to be getting all teenagery, entitled and overly comfortable with their digs, mum would turf them out with admirable objectivity; an example of tough love baby boomers saddled with grown-up kids could be well advised to follow.
In the hot summers, when the possum would be withering under the post-war-gauge iron, I'd populate the higher shelves with dishes of water, which she'd duly knock over, along with tins of Sikkens and bottles of Seasol. In the autumns, I'd hold slices of locally grown apples under her nose, hoping she'd eat from my hand. She never did but would scoff them down greedily after I'd left a pile on her preferred dinner box.
MORE B. R. DOHERTY:
Everyone knows how men gravitate to sheds and I'm no different. I caught the bug as a six-year-old when I began spending hours alone in my grandfather's garage, fondling its vast collection of satisfying hand tools, opening drawers heaving with nails and screws and pretending to use the drill press (I'm still pretending).
It didn't hurt that my grandparents kept a fridge next to the workbench stocked with cans of Passiona, but the reason for my marathon stints down the back garden were more to do with some primal longing to be amid lubricated metallic things in a poorly ventilated room of my own than the primal quest for sugar. More than 40 years later, I still experience that same tug; the urge particularly acute as the weekends roll around this time of year because the shortening days seem to limit quality Monday-to-Friday man cave time. It's when pining for such an environment, you realise how cruel - albeit incomparable to what's happening overseas - it was when the pandemic forbade all those fellows from finding solace and important conversation in their community Men's Shed.
It seems a little impolite to be eulogising a sacred space for blokes on Mother's Day but I've always associated my own shed with that maternal possum of ours, anyway.
Amid all the very male bangings and clangings and apothecarial blendings, the muscular area has been softened by a certain female equanimity generated by that licentious lady dozing up in the roof.
Those rafters have been empty for several weeks now and I suppose that's how they'll remain because it really does look like my possum has left the building.
I'll certainly miss her but I'm also looking forward to a future of tinkering about in a galvanised cocoon almost completely free of urine (I make no guarantees).
And let's face it, there are some places women just don't need to be.
Especially mothers-in-law.
OK, just kidding.
Happy Mother's Day, Sandra ... and possum, wherever you are.
- B. R. Doherty is a regular columnist.