A few days after the day tripper possum had been so bold as to pee on my verandah table, I spotted it again in daylight. It was in the yard, eating something in the grass at various places, but I couldn’t see just what. I watched for a while but it came no closer.
This was odd behaviour and reminded me of another daytime possum long ago, apparently blind. And yet this one seemed healthy.
But the day after, it became clear that I was wrong. On the track near my shed, a splash of yellowish orange caught my eye. Fungi? No.
A possum, the right size for my day tripper, now stiff and unmoving, its thick greyish fur rain-spotted, its undersides far more vivid in colour that I had realised before. Its prehensile tail tip would no longer be needed to hang on to anything.
The trip had ended. I would never know why.
I am not very good at moving dead bodies, but I managed this little one, while silently apologising that I had once thought it bold.