Thus for pests, the urban migration is a masterstroke; living alongside humans offers protection. They can be targeted only piecemeal, not by population.
A feral feline is also a regular. Boasting at least three litters in the past two years, she currently boasts a picture-perfect fist-size tortoiseshell kitten.
During heavy rain last week the two took shelter under our cabbage tree with the kitten dry as a bone, nestled under its wet mother's chest and chin.
If I get too close, the tiny mother stands in front of her kitten, bares her teeth and hisses. The valour is something marvellous.
Wild things prevail without jellymeat, flea treatment, worm-pills, shelter, affection or the veterinarian.
Writer DH Lawrence, in his brief poem, Self-pity, said it best:
I never saw a wild thing
sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself.
While a native fauna purist, I'm warming to wild things. The possum has been caught, but the stoic mother-kitten scenario remains a dilemma.
Watching them endure from the dining room window I've been witness to too many admirable traits - the dearth of which we bemoan in our own species.
In spite of being hunted, in lieu of a skerrick of support from anyone, life finds a way.
