The Roo.

If you have a pet dog or cat, you would know that with the joy and companionship there is also the responsibility of ownership.

This takes the form of the expensive (vet bills, constantly buying food, treats and bedding), the time-consuming (walking can sometimes be a chore, washing bedding etc) and the icky, such as picking up poop, treating fleas or goopy eyes and ears, grass seeds stuck in paws…..

Hosting wildlife doesn’t usually carry the same burdens.

Parrots, rainbow bee-eaters, magpies and finches grace our garden, flying in to nab bugs from the windows and eaves, raising their own noisy chicks in neighboring trees without bothering us.

I watch the occasional sole hare or fox lope through long grass, probably on their way back to a hungry brood after a night of hunting. They often take their time, unaware that I’m gleefully spying on them, until the sun is well-risen and the safety of the den draws them away.

We’ve also seen goannas and echidnas go about their business nearby, doing as evolution dictates. We’re honoured by their presence.

So too, we often enjoy the peaceful presence at dusk of a mob of twenty kangaroos in the land near our house, grazing and playing, until they will eventually move on up into the safe cover of the hills.

Until they don’t.

That is, until one of them decides to die in our backyard.

Now, I am fond of nearly all animals, particularly the native Australian varieties (snakes, I’m sorry, I’ve tried. I cannot love you. I will, however, forever respect you. But please stay away). And the passing of any animal is sad.

But there is no love to be found in being confronting by an extremely large, extremely dead marsupial at your backdoor before you’ve had time to have your cornflakes.

My husband, born and bred in the suburban slopes of the Mornington Peninsula, confronted the slain beast. In pajamas and workboots, with a stiff morning zephyr at his back, he walked slowly around it and thought. He scratched his head. He scratched other parts. He stood in his customary Pondering Pose; weight on one leg, arms crossed, staring but not seeing. Thinking.

I became concerned.

The sun was rising and the carcass not getting any fresher. It appeared to have died of natural causes but the insects and birds of prey had already begun their work. Time would be of the essence.

I felt myself laboring this point to him. Perhaps more than necessary, but the anticipation of being able to smell something which hadn’t yet actualised, but promised to if we didn’t act soon, was front of my mind and olfactory region.

I rang the local council, who offered empathy but a distinct absence of assistance or any useful advice. They suggested digging a big hole with a tractor. I asked if they were offering the use of a tractor, since we don’t have one. No, they weren’t. But good luck.

So I called my Dad, who’s had years of experience dealing with deceased farm animals and wildlife, many at his own hands. He would know what to do.

First, he chuckled. Then, after I fully described my city-born husband’s examination of the scene, he had a good belly laugh. He asked a few loaded questions but my increasingly terse responses only fueled his mirth.

Finally, he offered his frank advice. It wasn’t entirely legal. But needs must. Plus we didn’t have a tractor and the bloat was getting on.

Here I must give my husband credit. He devised a cunning plan whereby execution, timing and physics would be crucial.

This time more appropriately attired, my betrothed cautiously approached the decaying ‘roo. Given the pitiful thing had been thoughtful enough to expire on a decent slope, there was a chance that gravity could play into my husband’s hands, or at least, into the strategically-placed wheelbarrow on the downside of the body.

With little experience and great hesitation, he decided to try to roll the kangaroo, which probably weighed more than him, by grabbing one stiff hindleg which was inelegantly pointing to the sky, and using it to lever it towards him. He gave it a pull and the roo suddenly rolled and thunked heavily into the waiting receptacle.

At the same time, the growing volume of gases which had be brewing and fermenting in the dead animal’s gut all day, violently escaped in a loud, pungent and fetid fart, right at my startled hero. It took all his might to not let go of the wheelbarrow or his lunch as he recoiled from the stench. But he held steadfast as his slowly negotiated his load of dead kangaroo off the hill and down to the waiting trailer.

He pushed the barrow up onto the trailer, which was hitched to the car, and strapped it down tightly. And waited until nightfall.

At about 10pm, my husband and the kangaroo departed for parts unknown. I didn’t want to know. My thought was that the less I knew, the less likely I was to incriminate myself if I was questioned by certain authorities about the sudden appearance of a large rotting kangaroo carcass by the side of a lonely dirt road somewhere nearby.

He soon returned and showered, using quite a bit of soap. We briefly discussed the incident and to this day, thanks to the fact that he didn’t really know where he went, I never fully understood where our friend found his final resting place.

We continue to enjoy the kangaroos in the early mornings and late evenings. I still get a thrill watching them and coming across patches in the long grass where they’ve been reclining,  taking in the view and the rising sun.

But I’m not sure I want the unexpected responsibility of having to dispose of them once they depart this life. If they could just be courteous enough to move to the other side of the fence…..but we’ll keep the wheelbarrow handy just in case...and stand upwind next time.