From friend to foe: The possum in my driveway has become a problem

The Age

3 days ago

At this point, I should've said something like, 'OK, the possum has gone to sleep now!' aware that to feed a possum once is to encourage it forever. Instead, I said: 'Should we go and get another carrot?' And so we did.
Night after night, this became a ritual. I would return from work with a bag of carrots, and we would wedge one in the tree for our new friend (a young male common brushtail possum, thank you, Google) and wait for him to surface – a wholesome exchange between man and marsupial.
According to the Reddit thread R/Possums, this was absolutely the wrong thing to do because possums are very territorial and shouldn't be tamed.
Admittedly, I had experienced this firsthand growing up: a family of wild, shrieking possums setting up shop inside our roof, much to the frustration of my parents, who spent thousands of dollars having them 'rehomed' (dumped miles away in a park).
But our possum wasn't like that, he seemed loveable and charming, cuddly even, the kind of possum Mem Fox had in mind when writing Possum Magic. And anyway, given the possum was already in his own home, there was nothing to worry about; we were dropping off groceries.
For a while, the system worked well. I felt confident that a strong bond had been established, and people in the building called me 'the possum guy', a nickname I quite enjoyed.
But things took a turn when my son decided to eat the carrot one night rather than share it. Have you ever seen a possum hiss and growl at a two-year-old? It's unpleasant, but not as unpleasant as being stalked down your own driveway by a possum you once considered a friend.
The following night, the possum returned, this time with two buddies. Word had clearly spread, and being outnumbered changed the whole dynamic of the agreement; it became less like a brush with nature and more like a debt to be paid.
On the advice of every person I spoke to and every possum forum I visited, I stopped feeding them immediately, which only appeared to anger the group. Leaving the house meant wondering if a gang of rightfully upset possums would be waiting for me, my Safe! Reliable! Predictable! suburb now a prison of my own making.
Eventually, the only option was to call WIRES and admit what I'd done, which led to a polite-but-firm lecture from a lady named Christine, who had clearly had this conversation too many times to count. 'Firstly, stop feeding them. Secondly, buy some floodlights and possum-repellent spray; that should do the trick. Are you close to a Bunnings?'
Of course, I am Christine; I live in the suburbs.