Well, there WAS a devil under my floor, but I’ve moved on.  And so, presumably, has she.  I’m talking about an actual Tasmanian Devil, not a virtual devil, or a Disney devil, or a Hellfire and Damnation devil.  Okay, there may have been a touch of that last bit in it, as it was while she was under the bedroom floor where I was staying at my son’s house in Wilmot that I fell over and broke the femur that was (is) supporting my brand new hip prosthesis.  I don’t know the relationship between devils and Karma–but it is suspicious, I’ll grant you.

For those of you who aren’t acquainted with the nature and habits of Tasmanian devils, I’ll merely point out that they are carnivores.  They eat carrion, including all the bones (they have amazing jaws and teeth) and sometimes will kill smaller prey.  Having one choose to locate its den–or lair, or whatever their place is called–is, in a word: extremely undesirable.  Two words, then.

http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=v2AU7AtY-js&desktop_uri=%2Fwatch%3Fv%3Dv2AU7AtY-js

You can’t move them; you have to get someone from Parks and Wildlife, or Animal Rescue to do it. They are protected, as are all of our native animals.  In the case of the devils, they are in grave danger due to a deadly facial tumour that has been spreading rapidly amongst the devil population.  Devils exist only in Tasmania, and millions of dollars are being spent on research to find the cause, and cure, for the facial tumour. So, ugly as they are, they are quite precious.

There are two main reasons for not wanting these precious animals under your house:  they smell like nothing else on the planet, and they sound like nothing else on the planet.  They like to bring rotting carcasses to their lair…  And, presumably they like to boast, or sing about it…All Night Long.  I think you get the picture.   Anyway, I did have trouble convincing Adam that the fall wasn’t deliberate. While being airlifted down to Hobart for emergency surgery had some benefits–e.g. No devils–it wasn’t altogether the best time of my life.  In fact, I’d describe it more like 5 1/2 weeks of my life I’ll never get back.  But that’s all history.  As I said, I’ve moved on.

I’ve moved to a different place after the hospital: to the home of a lady who is away in Thailand for four weeks–just the length of time I needed to recuperate and keep weight off my leg until my new abode, and shop, are available.  It worked out perfectly.  More or less.  Indeed, I could be forgiven for thinking the Karma had shifted. Until the first night…

It turned out that the quoll under the house didn’t make a lot of noise, nor did it smell. But it kept the dog barking continuously for hours.             MM