We live without air conditioning and, for the most part, I like it that way. When it gets really hot and muggy like it was last night, we can sleep in one of the upstairs guestrooms and turn on a small window air conditioner.
Seemed like a good plan, except . . .
I couldn’t sleep. The bed felt too small. The AC was too cold and blowing directly on my side of the bed. I grabbed my pillow and headed downstairs to take my chances with an empty king-sized mattress and whatever oppressive air the night decided to throw my way.
No sooner had I settled in when I felt a bit of breeze stirring over me. “Ahh, that’s nice,” I thought to myself. But, as I drifted off to sleep, an odd percussive sound was reverberating in the room. fwapp fwapp fwapp . . . um, make that flap, flap, flap!
“WTF?!?” Even without my contacts or glasses, I could make out the shadowy, fleeting image of A BAT in the room. A bat. In my bedroom. At 2:30 a.m.
Now, please understand. I like bats. I’m not afraid of bats. Bats eat insects and that’s a good thing. I actually think it’s pretty cool that in a city of half a million people, bats are finding a way to live in very urban surroundings. But, it’s easier to applaud the lowly bat when it’s outside one’s bedroom at 2:30 in the a.m. And, easier still to believe in the inherent goodness of bats before one has read the recent Scientific American article about bats and rabies and how their teeth are so darn sharp that they can lacerate you without your ever feeling or knowing it, and how rabies is so deadly and well, in the middle of the night, cornered in a bedroom, naked (I might add) the eek factor was running pretty high.
Then, I searched the house because, by now, said bat was no longer flapping around the bedroom. In fact, the bat had disappeared and it took me twenty minutes of searching and “maybe I just imagined all that in the dark” thinking before I discovered the poor thing cowering between a window molding and the ceiling of our sun room.
That’s when I knew I needed Greatest Husband.
Who, by the way, had been having a cool, peaceful night upstairs until I woke him with the preposterous phrase, “There’s a bat in the house and I think we have to kill it.” The preposterous part being the use of the pronoun, “we.”
So, the strategy went something like this. Us: nervously pacing around the sun room looking at the cowering bat. Bat: plastered against the wall in a most unreachable location, looking at us with one eye. Me: helpfully suggesting possible bat weapons GH: actually acquiring possible bat weapons
GH: in a flash of clear-headedness, closes all the doors to the sun room and grabs a broom. Me: helpfully suggesting that it might be better if I’m not in the sun room with GH and the bat Bat: helpfully, still not moving
GH: “So, where’s your weapon?” Me: “I don’t need a weapon. I have you.”
That’s right. I wussed out. But not totally. I did grab a second broom and enter the sun room to assist with a few lousy swings as the dislodged bat swooped around our heads in a panic. The deed, however, was accomplished with swift and certain blows administered by GH.
There really was no other solution as our windows are all fully screened and we couldn’t imagine how we could simply shoo the bat back outdoors. All of which begs the rather obvious question of how The Bat got into the house to begin with. A question for which we have no answer.
little brown bat on way to bat heaven