Like a drowned rat

There’s a fishpond at my new house. It’s not the style of pond I would put in, but it is there, complete with eleven goldfish of various sizes. It is raised and rectangular and blocky, with a fountain in the middle and a glass wall through which to watch the underwater goings-on. It’s a pond that demands attention – the glass wall would be best cleaned of algae; the bucketful of various pond amendments and accoutrements left by the previous owners is testament that work was previously done. I turn the fountain on most mornings and off in the evenings, throw a bit of fish food into the gaping mouths and generally wonder whether it should stay or not. I’m not sure I want to sign up for the job it requires.

I preferred my old frog pond, which was weedy and overgrown and had a trickle of water that fell from the top pond to the bottom pond with the help of a small ‘dirty-water’ pump. It housed no goldfish. A plethora of frogs lived in it, calling raucously and often. I sat in my office and watched them.

At this new house, the pond is once again outside my office window, but from my desk I can’t see the water, just the geometric surrounds of it. It feels like it blocks the view instead of augmenting it. For beyond the pond (once you get past the driveway and carport) is the creek, with its sentinel karris lining the banks and a wild tangle of undergrowth. The pond and the sound of its fountain are a distraction from this.

My old frog pond provided habitat for frogs and insects. I doubt this one is of much use to the local wildlife, although I do see scat on the edges some mornings. I wonder what critter is coming during the night and leaving the deposits. Fancifully, I think of the secretive wild creatures that I know must live around here – perhaps it’s a possum, its pink nose sniffing the night air for danger and food. Maybe a native water rat, a rikali – with its distinctive white tipped tail. Maybe it’s a chuditch, the native quoll – with its white spots and sharp teeth. Most likely, I tell myself, it’s a common old introduced rat. And yet… the scat isn’t really rat like. I Google scat and look at countless pictures of poo, examining the pointy ends and size and shape of these signs left during the night. I don’t get any closer to an answer.

Then one morning, as I pop the lid off the fish food to sprinkle some in the pond, I notice the fish are busy with something. There is something floating in the water, a dull grey shape, like a drowned rat. I fish it out with a little red plastic scoop. It smells. Bad. It’s very dead. Its body is bloated and hairless. It has a long rat like tail and at first I think it is a rat. Until I notice the teeth. Sharp pointed teeth line top and bottom jaws of a longish snout. This is no rodent. It’s a marsupial carnivore of some sort, of the dasyurid family. A young one, given its lack of hair. Almost embryonic.

With some research and by consulting friends, I work out that the drowned baby is a brush-tailed phascogale, also called a common wambenger, although they are not exactly common. Some references I consult give their conservation status as ‘near threatened’ and another as ‘vulnerable’; neither indicates they are in dire straits, but still, it is not common to see them. Even dead ones.

Years ago, when we lived on a different property on the south coast, we frequently saw a wambenger outside our kitchen window. She hunted the moths that fluttered in the spilling light. I say ‘she’ because the males don’t live long – in the wild, none live to be a year old. Like other dasyurids, they die after a frenzy of mating leaves them weakened.

I have mixed feelings about this little drowned baby I have found. I’m sad that it is dead. I imagine the scenario – the mother leaning over the pond, perhaps to drink or perhaps seeking food; some insect morsel or a frog for dinner perhaps, although there are no frogs in this pond. I can find no reference to wambengers eating fish, so it seems unlikely she was fishing. They tend to be insectivores.

Although marsupials, wambengers don’t have well-formed pouches. My hunch is that as the mother leant over the pond (or perhaps ran along beside it), the baby lost its grip and fell into the water. Anthropomorphically, I imagine the mother on the pond decking, worrying about her flailing baby. But perhaps she didn’t notice – wambengers may have up to eight young at a time, which seems a lot for a small animal to lug around the place. From what I can find out, it seems to be slightly out of season breeding, but then again, I can’t accurately tell how old this baby is. Or was.

And here’s the thing: I’m also delighted to have found this baby. Delighted to know that not only are there wambengers living around here, but they are breeding. I want to know more. I am going to buy a wildlife camera with a movement sensor and set it up so I can spy on my nocturnal visitors. The pond will have to stay, for now at least; perhaps if I rehome the goldfish, the frogs will move in and a little ecosystem flourish. There was scat around the pond again this morning. Signs of life.

Thanks for reading,

Jill

Inside

My book is about to go to print! I’m looking forward to being able to reveal the cover to you. Very soon! Suffice to say for now, that I love it. It’s a clever design that captures what I am saying about food, farming and environment. Stay tuned for the reveal. I’m excited! Publication is scheduled for June so the countdown is on. Strangely, that also means that for now I have nothing left to do on my book. It’s been so all-consuming for so long and now I’m in the lull before I start talking about it publicly. Probably a good time to have moved house, with all the busyness and upheaval that entails. We’re settling now, sinking into the embrace of this place. Catch you in a fortnight.