The Wombat

Today we sent a wombat to heaven.
He stumbled blindly in the harsh daylight.
His nocturnal clock out of whack.
This a clear sign.
The scourge?
Mange from a now fox-less burrow.

I have been guilty of verbally abusing wombats.
They make night drives a heart stopping event.
Their choice of home often inconvenient,
And their aerial ablutions on farm equipment irritating.
( How can such a stubby legged animal defecate at such heights?)

Suburbites have no idea of the challenges of wombats.
Yet when you are surprised by one out grazing at night.
It's jaunty jog, digging and snuffling about, are endearing.
Supine baby wombats with their soft leathery pads and chubby bellies melt your heart.

Today was this wombat's last day.
He was huge and powerful,
But so fragile.
Bothered by our yapping foxie,
He barely moved away.
His thick winter coat encrusted and scabby.
We would not let him suffer the indignity of a slow death.
Damn mangy foxes.