Friday, 1 November 2013
So there I was, walking down the drive way with a possum in rigor mortis on the end of a rusty shovel, scattering bush stone-curlews and hoping that the neighbours weren't enjoying breakfast in their garden. This is how I started November. I don't normally start the new month in that way. I usually kick it off with a cup of tea.
Possums had been running up and down the roof all night. I think it was possums. Last night being Halloween, it could have been something else. Then it was quiet until 2 a.m., when I was woken by a rustling noise below my window. Not the sound of ghouls, but of a small carpet python, which had killed a large coppery brushtail possum. I admired the python's ambition, but it was clear that no matter how elastic its jaws, the snake was not going to be able to swallow its prey.
The python tried three times, but each time only managed to get the possum's head into its mouth. After an hour, it gave up and climbed up onto the carport roof. To sulk, probably. It had that sort of look on its face.
Some time later, I steeled myself to relocate the dead possum. My hope that it might have turned into a zombie and relocated itself ended when I went outside. Most of it was in good condition, apart from being dead and stiff. But the head — the part that had been enclosed by the snake's not quite sufficiently capacious maw — was a mess. Take my advice, people: don't get attacked by a hungry python.