Watch My Wombat

“Watch my wombat.”

“Your womwhat?” I asked, confused.

“Wombat, it’s a big oval of fur. They like to burrow.”

“I live in an apartment,” I protested down the phone.

“Fluffball will be fine. Just give him some grass.”

“Grass?” I once again sounded like an idiot, but my question was too late. My friend had hung up. The phone pinged with the fact that she’d be by on her way to the airport at 5am the next day.

If 5am was during my typical day, things might have gone better. But, instead, I’d accepted the litter box, a cuddle toy and the wombat.

In hindsight, I should have asked some questions, like whether it was legal to have a pet wombat. The police at my door at midnight that night informed me it was not.

I should have also asked what type of grass. That would have saved me a few hours on the phone hunting down a marijuana supplier, a few dollars for special delivery, and a high wombat.

Wombats, it turns out, are loud, and this one obviously enjoyed falling off the lounge. However, the downstairs neighbours did not enjoy the sounds of a wombat repeatedly thumping onto the ground. Thus, the visit from the police and the new exhibit at the local zoo.