‘Poss in Boots’

Walt Disney sold the idea that having animal housemates would bring joy and delight to any human’s otherwise monotonous life.

Cinderella had a dress knocked up by an array of talented rodents.

Snow White was ably assisted in the housework by a team made up of birds and squirrels. Miss White seemed untroubled by the obvious hygiene implications of a plate being wiped by a squirrel’s tail. I guess if you have had a long day, you’re just glad of the help.

(Even if the help’s cleaning implement is dangerously close to his backside and leave fleas on your crockery.)

With such a supportive collection of critters, you would be happy to share your ‘casa’, even if they are a bit quiet when it comes to chipping in with the rent.

The reality of sharing a home with a non-domestic animal is far from Walt’s vision of cute collaboration. Recent experience has revealed that furry interlopers are just that. Self-involved to the point of being discourteous is what they are!

Strong opinions are born from personal experience, and this is no different.

We had not long moved into our new rental property when we were woken by a loud thump. Living in an enlightened time of equal opportunities, I encouraged Mrs B to investigate.

She insisted on tradition, so I got out of bed to locate the source of the noise, arming myself with the closest thing to hand.

Seeking out a would-be intruder at 2am is a nerve-wracking affair and dressed in the non-heroic attire of my wife’s dressing gown whilst gripping a vase full of seasonal flowers, I did so with a lump in my throat.

Creeping from room to room, I would repeat the drill of switching the light on with one hand as I raised the vase above my head with the other. Element of surprise accompanied by a knock on the head with my flora filled weapon of choice was the plan.

If the troublesome trespasser suffered from hay fever, all the better!

All rooms examined, there was nobody to be found. Checking all doors and windows, no sign of a break-in.

It was at this point that I heard scratching coming from above. I angled my ear up to the ceiling and followed the sound back to our bedroom. The scratching paused.

THUMP!

There was ‘something’ crawling around in our loft space.

Rats have had a bad rep since all that ‘Black Death’ business

The scratching noise ruled out the possibility of the trundling trespasser being human. It was the thumping noise that was puzzling. It sounded like whatever it was had ceased from its scurrying, pulled on some Doc Martens boots and started practicing his or her back flips.

It bought to mind an old song from the sixties entitled, ‘A Windmill in Old Amsterdam.’ A novelty tune about a mouse wearing clogs. Yet more deceptive cute imagery. A mouse attired in clumpy wooden shoes is the epitome of anti-social behaviour.

Be you animal, vegetable or mineral, etiquette dictates that roaming around someone’s home uninvited is frowned upon. Doing so with your shoes on at 2am is unacceptable. When it comes to wearing footwear, an Englishman’s house is his bouncy castle – shoes off!

Deciding that we were not in any imminent danger of harm to person or property, I went to bed with the plan to explore the loft at a more reasonable hour. Social graces appeared beyond whatever was up there. It was clumping and scratching till dawn! I almost wished we were being burgled. At least a burglar is quiet!

The following morning, it was with puffy eyes and a rickety stepladder that I ventured cautiously into the loft. We had narrowed our guesses down as to what was up there to either a rat or a possum.

I am not a fan of either.

 Rats have had a bad rep since the 14^th Century with all that ‘Black Death’ business. They’ve never really managed to shake that one off. I’m all for forgive and forget, but being the indirect cause of 200 million- odd people carking it? That’s the kind of mud that’s really going to stick.

As for possums, I don’t believe they have ever been responsible for any mass pandemics. Nothing they’ve owned up to anyway. I just find them a bit sinister. They have these eyes that seem to see into your soul, and I find the way they move intimidating. All slow and deliberate.

With the very real possibility of encountering one of these furry fiends, it was with trepidation that I stepped precariously across wooden joists and peered through the darkness, torch in hand.

I moved the beam of light in all directions, trying to catch whatever it was by surprise. However, as I pointed it to the floor, it was me who received the shock.

Wedged between two beams was a perfectly positioned possum skeleton.

I let out a noise. I’d like to say it was a manly booming declaration of discovery, but it was more of a cowardly squeak.

From her safe location in the kitchen, Mrs B asked what was wrong.

I informed her of what I come across.

“Sometimes they play dead, as means of protection” she stated. My eyebrows raised. If this possum was ‘playing dead’, he deserved an Oscar. Talk about method acting.

“You don’t think it was that making the noise, do you?” she joked.

The finger of blame definitely couldn’t be pointed here. His scratching and thumping days were long gone. Other than this emaciated specimen, my search was fruitless.

Disposal of the ‘body’ was carried out with the use of gloves and a plastic bag. No spectacular display or ceremony, but I had a moment of reflection as I respectfully lowered the tied-up bag into the outside bin. This was followed by a shower and a great deal of scrubbing.

The decomposed distraction dealt with; we turned our attention back to the living.

Throughout my undertaking duties, Mrs B had been doing a spot of online research.

“Apparently,” she said, looking up from the computer “We need to leave an apple up there.”

“What, feed it?” I queried. “Surely a gift like that would give the impression that it’s welcome?”

“No, it’s a test,” she said with an air of authority we all obtain when we’ve Googled something “if it leaves small bite marks it’s a rat. If the apple is gone it’s a possum.”

Bowing to her newly gained superior knowledge on the subject, I placed an apple by the loft hatch opening.

The next day, I ventured back up to inspect the status of the apple.

It had been moved from its original position, but it was still there. I leaned in to retrieve our experiment. Turning it in my hand I discovered one small bite mark-

We had a rat.

I showed the evidence to Mrs B, disposed of it, and proceeded to have another shower with yet more scrubbing.

In the meantime, she had come up with another idea. She had become quite the pest locating expert.

“We could put our backyard security camera up there,” she suggested “and when we see where it gets in, we can block the area up.”

Genius, I’m sure you’ll agree.

So, we forwent our personal security for the benefit of identifying where this heavy-footed rat was gaining access.

For the next few nights, the movement sensor did not go off. For a clamorous little creature, this rat was an expert at stealth. Then, at 4am one morning, I was awoken by my wife. The sensor had picked something up and she had seen the footage on her phone-

“It’s a possum!”

Passing the phone to me, I watched as the unmistakable bulbous eyes and small pink nose peered into the camera. The apple experiment had failed –

We had a possum.

It made me wonder whether she had overheard our planned experiment and had taken a small nibble out of the apple to mislead us?

“So,” she thought, as she rubbed her little claws together, “they think they can identify me with the old apple trick. FOOLS!! I’ll show them, Ill show them ALL!!”

I was probably giving her too much credit.

She was noisy and evasive, but I doubt she was an evil mastermind. The truth is she probably just didn’t fancy the apple. Many a time I’ve taken a bite of something and thought, “I don’t actually want this.” Why would a loft residing marsupial be any different?

Identification achieved; our next challenge was how to get her out. We initially thought we could live with it, but the constant staggering in and clattering about like a returning drunk was unbearable.

She had to go.

The camera was in a position so that we could see where she entered and exited of a night. It was decided that we would wait for her to head out and then block up the entrance.

We sat in our lounge in silent anticipation. It was like a stakeout. The motion alarm sounded, and we leapt into action. Watching her on the phone screen waddle toward her chosen way out, she disappeared from sight.

I made my way up, ready to stuff the hole with some old pillowcases. As my head rose through the hatch, I turned to the last location we had seen her. I nearly fell off the ladder –

She was still there.

It was honestly like she was onto us!

Looking at me as if to say, ‘I know what you’re doing. You think I can’t hear every word from up here?’

I pulled my head down and closed the hatch. What were we going to do? She WAS an evil mastermind!

After a minute or two, there was a scratch and a thump. This time it came from outside.

We made our way out and looked up. She was crawling over the roof. Reaching the edge of the guttering, she looked at us, turned away and then leapt into the darkness of the trees

This was our opportunity. I jumped up into the loft and filled the opening. Mission accomplished! We both whooped and cheered as we celebrated the eviction.

Watching television later that evening, we sat in silence. We were both thinking the same thing.

Mrs B was to be the one to broach the subject –

“Do you think she’ll be ok?” she asked quietly, not looking away from the TV.

“Of course she will be,” I replied with false confidence, “she’s a wild animal, a survivor!”

In truth, I was feeling more than a pang of guilt. That look that she gave before her leap into the night was one of sad rejection. As if she knew she wasn’t wanted.

Truth is, she wasn’t!

Even so, we had banished her from her home and strictly speaking, she was here first.

Mrs B looked at me, “I think I’m going to miss her.” she said. I nodded in agreement.

We went to bed with mixed emotions. Happy that we were going to get an undisturbed nights sleep, but sad that our antisocial constant fixture was now gone. She was a pain in the bum, but she was our pain in the bum.

Less than a week later, sat in our lounge room, we heard a familiar noise.

Scratching.

However, there was no thump. Just light scratching.

Experience motivated us to reposition the camera in the loft and, sure enough, she was back!

Somehow, she had found another way in, but this time it was different. Rather than set herself up in the area above our bedroom, she now quietly made her way to the other side of the house.

She was being considerate.

It was as though after a few days of walking the streets, sulking at the fact we had made it more than clear we didn’t want her in our home, she had returned with a different mindset.

 ‘If I keep a low profile and the noise down, they won’t try and sling me out again’

Our ‘pain in the bum’ was back, and she had matured. She continues to live above us to this day.

Humanisation of wild creatures is exactly what Walt Disney did, turning even the most unwanted vermin into charming characters that would delight people for generations. Even his trademark is a mouse!

It was mentioned earlier that the reality of sharing living quarters with bugs or rodents isn’t how it’s portrayed in the movies, but it happens, whether we like it or not. Humanising (or anthropomorphism to give the official definition), has been labeled as fantasist and strange by some.

After our experience, we just did what we thought was best –

We called her, ‘Kylie’.