On 3 August (in OZ), Sue tells us:

Had a long chat with Porscha this afternoon, as I had visited her a couple of weeks ago but nobody was at home . . . well, LF was, but he was sound asleep in his 'burrow' in the stable, so I didn't wake him.

He now weighs a hefty ten kilograms, and Porscha is beginning to wean him, much to his disgruntlement. He still loves his bottle but she has reduced his feeds to about two or three a day, instead of the ten or more that he was having. He now has to learn to enjoy his 'hard tucker', like grass, hay, pellets and digging for roots & grass in his paddock areas.

I hope to see him in a day or two; will take the camera of course.

On 9 August (in OZ), Sue sends the exciting news:

BTW, so much to tell about Porscha & LFW . . . he has a SISTER as of last night. The most adorable silver-grey, eight-inch-long, bundle of baby wombatgirl. Sigh . . . I am in love all over again. (not to mention bruised black & blue by LFW, who used me as a punching bag while we were sitting on the hay-covered floor of his stable last night, after he had his bottle. 'Fanging' is taking on a whole new meaning!.

"TURN OFF THAT BL**DY LIGHT AND LET ME SLEEP!"
Her mother was killed by a speeding car (grrrrr . . . as usual . . . ) and a couple of bushwalkers found the baby beside the body. Porscha drove to meet them and collect the baby on Sunday evening . . . about six hours after they had found her, but she is okay, not injured, and SO pretty. The first task is to get her feeding properly. And then Porscha's sleepless nights begin all over again.	Baby Zima arrives and sleepless nights begin again
"I am a tiny tiny tiny baby" So trusting
Such a neat little end(ing)	In two hands

We have decided to call her Zima . . . it's the Polish word for 'winter'. Her silver-grey fur is just lovely, and because it's winter here (still) it suits her. Pronounced with a soft ' j ' as in JEEMAHHH.

Pretty ears	They won't be living together of course . . . baby wombats are solitary, just like their parents, which is a bit sad, I think . . . they never have anyone to play with. Hence the need to bash up their foster mother(s)!!
Now to get Zima to feed

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