Thor the Wombat

Thor is a very unusual wombat. In spite of his hypermasculine name and his size, he loves a cuddle!

This wombat is lucky to be alive. When he was tiny and nestled within a pouch, his mother was killed by a car. He managed to survive, and was fortunately discovered not long afterwards. The poor little joey was cut from his mother’s teat, and then taken to a wildlife carer to be fed every three hours. Eventually he was big enough to move into an outside enclosure, and he lived happily alongside another rescue wombat.

However tragedy struck again, with the death of his little wombat friend. Thor was shattered, heartbroken. His volunteer wildlife carers tried to console him the best they could by giving him lots of cuddles. Yet always when they left the enclosure, he would race frantically around, desperate for more attention. He simply could not bear to be left alone. Thor was no tough, mighty warrior-type; he was just one lonely, anxious wombat who needed reassurance and to be cuddled.

So I confess that I was worried when Thor was delivered to my bushland property last Saturday, for his “soft release”. It was time for him to start his journey to become a wild, self-sufficient wombat . . . but was he ready? The plan was that he would get used to his new location and then, eventually, he would dig his way out to freedom. The wildlife carers who carried him into the enclosure gave me strict instructions: don’t cuddle him, just feed him, and if he doesn’t want to leave after three weeks, open the gate for him. Clearly, they weren’t sure how he was going to adapt.

After his carers had left, I stayed on the outside of his metal enclosure and watched Thor minutely inspected every detail of his new area. He came up to where I was standing and pressed his nose through a little gap in the fence, greeting me with little friendly huffs. I talked to him, telling him that I would take good care of him.

The next morning I raced outside to check on him. I stopped dead in my tracks. There was a tunnel under the fence. Thor had gone. At first, I admit, I was devastated. But then I realised he had made a choice to go. He was ready.

Thor owes his life to the person who rescued him from his dead mother’s pouch, and to the team of wonderful volunteer wildlife carers who have fed, cuddled and cared for him. It’s time now for Thor to live his life, as a wild wombat.