Keyser

We named him Keyser because his lumbering gait belied his wily nature.⠀
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He was waiting at the dam the day we arrived at the farm. A welcoming committee of one. But when we tried to follow him into the brush he was suddenly gone.⠀
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Every day at 4 pm he’d follow a well-worn track down the hill to drink. And we'd hear him under the house at night, shuffling in the dirt and bumping into the floorboards. No matter how hard we tried to track his movements he’d always find a way to evade us.⠀
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We kept at a distance, wary of each other until one day I saw he was being followed by something else. A swarm of fat black flies hovered in the air around his brownish-grey rump. Keyser was sick.
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Quick Google work revealed Keyser was most likely suffering from mange, a common affliction for wombats everywhere. A call to the mange management group confirmed the course of action, daily doses of moxidectin to be administered between his shoulder blades.⠀
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I picked up the moxi from our local vet, jerry-rigged up an old mop handle and scoop and staked out the dam at 4 pm. ⠀
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Every day for two weeks I waited for Keyser to appear through the undergrowth. After three days I took to wearing green and brown so I would blend into the bush. I peered through binoculars up the hill and waited, crouched and ready. But Keyser never came back.⠀
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The roadsides around our neck of the woods are littered with the bodies of animals, wombats chiefly among them. But I refuse to believe Keyser is anything but safe, healthy, happy and wily as ever. Having evaded us for good.