For the second time in a few weeks, I have found evidence that a quoll is back on the block.
I’ve been bemoaning the disappearance of the quoll who lived and bred in my shed for years, mainly for her own sake, but also because possums stay away when she’s in residence.
Quolls eat possums.
I’m no expert on droppings or scats — there are whole books on the subject, none of which I have —but I think, after years of nightly gifts left by the quoll on my verandah, that I can say with some confidence that this dropping was dropped by a quoll.
The reluctant exit twist at the end, the hairiness, the connected bulges — all say ‘quoll’. Sometime an offering is more curved, crescent-shaped, or the colour is lighter and the texture more furry; naturally it all depends on what she had for dinner.
But it gives me hope. ‘Shed to let’: check us out, move back in, Mrs Quoll — please?