So – Aussie wildlife. What is it and how does it stack up?

Well, I have to say, having grown up in Africa, initial impressions of what Aus has to offer might appear a tad underwhelming. But that’s because not only does Africa boast extremely impressive beasts like the ‘big five’ (lion, leopard, elephant, buffalo and rhino), but there’s also a multitude of lesser species of so many shapes and sizes you’re you’d be hard pressed to put a name to many of them. It’s even better than The Lion King, if you can believe that.

But despite some pretty bizarre creatures – pangolins, say, or dung beetles, or even hippos – there’s nothing quite like the sheer weirdness of Aussie wildlife. It’s not just me saying that, either – early naturalists were baffled when they tried to account for these species according to their existing classification structures.

For example, the duck-billed platypus: bird-like bill, lays eggs, tail like a beaver – and the males sport a stinging spur on their ankles to round things off. What were the poor European scientists to do with that? I mean, you don’t get marsupials anywhere else, so this was entirely new to them. 

And they didn’t get help from the continent’s original inhabitants: the story goes that when they were asked by baffled members of James Cook’s landing party what that funny hopping animal was called, local Aboriginal people replied, “Kangaroo” – which actually means “I don’t know.” Not sure if that’s true, but a great fable about the very early cultural contretemps arising from colonialism.

Then there are wombats with their armour-plated buttocks, and of course koalas — which early taxonomists mistook for a kind of bear, forsooth. The first undomesticated animal I encountered in the environs of Braidwood was an echidna:

A good start on the weirdness scale, but hardly inspiring of awe. Then, quite often during my runs in the Jerrabomberra Wetlands Reserve in Canberra, I’d cross paths with a few roos – but nothing too threatening. During the drought the poor things were just hanging where there was water.

All this was brought on by the sighting of a possum in one of our trees the other night. I’d heard very little about possums – as a term of endearment used by national treasure and female impersonator Dame Edna, and as an explanation for the odd thumps emanating from the ceiling in the night when we stayed at a relative’s place.

There I was, in the garden at night, minding my own business, when I heard the definite movement of something of size up in the tree. On shining a torch up there, a crouching possum was revealed. It didn’t like the sudden exposure – in fact, it looked terrified, so I desisted.

But while it’s no apex predator (because Australia has none), the common or garden brush-tailed possum is an agent of some quite respectable destruction. Not only are they partial to the tender shoots of your veggie garden, they’ll also raid your bins and nick fruit off your trees. They’ll also take up residence in your nice warm roof and chew on anything they find up there – not to mention their less than modest toilet habits.

The humble brushtail possum does have some fascinating foibles – like the fact that the tip of its tail is prehensile, enabling it to hang on to branches and the like, and even to carry nesting materials. And this helps them carry out some pretty acrobatic stunts in search of food, including tightrope walking on telephone lines and taking spectacular leaps from branch to branch. I can’t wait to see this.

Oh, and get this – a female is called a ‘Jill,’ a male is called a ‘Jack,’ and their offspring are called ‘Joeys’. Even better, the collective noun for possums is a passel. A passel of possums – pretty apt right?

If our garden visitor makes a habit of hanging out here, we may be compelled to take measures to discourage it. The emphasis is on humane methods – it’s quite heartwarming how much care is taken to rehome these beasties rather than blasting them. Respect for the surviving wildlife of our respective locations is a key consideration if the planet we manage to save from climate change has any interest or excitement to it.

It’s not just the big beasts with the wonder they inspire that make the natural world so fascinating. Don’t get me wrong: there is nothing so wondrous as seeing a clan of African elephants approach a waterhole at sunset; but even possums have their particular fascination. I’m looking forward to observing ours further – as long as it keeps off my veggie patch.