Ours

Our wombat died. It was alive when I walked to the village salon for an eyebrow appointment. I didn't actually see it, but it wasn't lying on its back at the side of the road. That's what Gemma-Rose saw when she returned home from work at the end of the day.

I've seen a lot of dead wombats recently. On Sunday, there were more lifeless wombats on the side of the motorway leading to the monastery than there were dead kangaroos, which was unusual.

Dead wombats are part of life. It’s not surprising. Wombats are obstinate creatures, continuing to cross the road even as vehicles approach. It’s as if they say, “I have started, so I will continue.” This attitude leads to death. It also damages cars. We sometimes count dead wombats as we’re travelling without a hint of sympathy. Usually, the wombats feel remote. We’re not emotionally connected to them. To us, they’re just a danger we must watch out for. They appear out of the dark to trip us up.

But the wombat - our wombat - the one that lived on our street is different. We'd seen it a few times eating the grass in front of our houses. We got to know it, appreciate and take delight in it. We claimed it as our own.

Our wombat was one of Nora's last delights. While she waited in the car to go to the vet for the last time, she watched the wombat eating the grass by our mailbox. I’m sure she grinned.

For the past few weeks, I've said, "Watch out for the wombat!" as my family has gone out the front door to their cars. Unfortunately, someone unknown didn't hear that warning. They didn't see the wombat until it was too late. Unfortunately, I’ll no longer be saying, “Watch out for the wombat!” Unless, of course, there is another wombat living on our street.

"It's okay,” says Gemma-Rose, realising I was distressed by her news. “I saw another wombat down the road. A live one.”

I haven't seen it yet, but maybe when I go for a walk with Quinn, her nose will rise and twitch as she inhales the scent of something exciting. She might pull on her lead, straining to see ahead. And as we get nearer, we’ll see a wombat, just like the last one, feasting on the grass outside our homes. It could become 'our wombat'. Perhaps I should keep saying, “Watch out for the wombat!" just in case.

Our wombat died. So did Nora. It hurts terribly because she wasn’t just any dog. She was ours.