File photo
Where are the wild things?
Suburbia.
For six months last year our household was dogged by an errant possum in our chimney pot. It would rise at midnight, then tango across the iron roof before descending to feed.
The eradication needed for the rise in suburban pestilence, including the exploding rabbit population at Frimley Park, is problematic.
DoC can't dump 1080 in the middle of town - nor are firearms and kill-traps welcomed in residential areas.
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.
Paunovic moved to Havelock North with her family from Croatia seven years ago.